In the back, with the loons and the fourth Rheinmaiden for the last Walküre

We arrived too late to get on the rail, so Isabella and I headed up to the biergarten and waited until it was time to take our place with the other lunatics in the back of the orchestra (at this point "lunatic" meaning people insane enough to do standing room for an almost five-hour long opera- the definition changes quickly). Well, she waited and I tried to eat something that was billed as a sausage but had the texture of a personal gratification tool commonly bought at Good Vibrations. As I was practicing, a man standing near us let loose a fart which sounded like one the trumpets in Hunding’s hunting party.


“Really?” I asked- query met with complete silence. It wasn’t the last of its kind I heard last night.

Why do all of the crazy people always end up in my orbit, like I possess some cosmic gravitational pull, which silently emits a signal stating “lunatics- he’s over here!” Around three months ago- eleven weeks now that I think about it, a man started following me as I walked toward the Hilton on O’Farrell on my way home after work. It didn’t take me long to realize this and soon he was coming up right behind.

“I know who you are, motherfucker,” he hissed at me.

I kept walking- to a certain extent I'm used to this kind of stuff.

“Come on- let’s settle this. Right now. I’m going to fucking kill you so let’s just do it right now. Step into the alley motherfucker.Turn left and let's go.”

Now I was becoming unnerved- this was no longer the usual kind of stuff. I looked over my shoulder to see where his hands were and I looked ahead to see if there were any cops around. There were no cruisers in the street, but I saw one standing in front of the Hilton- if I could just make it there before this guy lost it completely.

“You don’t fool me- I know who you are!” he said, his voice starting to rise.

Realizing at this point I was running out of time and still had too much sidewalk left between me and the cop, I turned to face him and said “I have no idea who you think I am, but I don’t know you.”

He called me by a name which isn’t mine and then accused me of turning his wife into a whore and junkie. She was now dead and he was going to kill me since I was responsible for it all.

I said, “That’s not my name.”

“Bullshit! I know you, you fucking piece of shit!”

“Look, I’m not the man you’re looking for. I can prove it to you.” I told him my name, and walking again, now as fast as I could, I suggested we take a walk straight up to that cop and there, I’d present my ID to the cop and we could verify that I was indeed not the man he wanted to kill. If I failed the test, he could follow me and then stick his knife in my neck.

I kept yammering for time and finally reached the cop. My hands shaking, I handed the surprised cop my driver’s license, turned to the dead woman’s husband and said, “Okay- what’s my name?”

He said it.

I turned to the cop and asked,“Is that right?”

The cop looked at me, then at my license, at me again, turned to my would-be assassin and said, “That’s not his name. What’s going on with you two?”

“Nothing,” I said, though the cop could see I was shaking, “This guy just thinks I’m someone else.”

“It is you- I know it is”

“No man, I’m not him. And now I’m leaving- and you’re going to walk away in the opposite direction. Are we clear? Because otherwise I have more to say to this guy,” nodding toward the cop as we stepped away from him.

The man said, “You have no idea how much you look like him. I’m gonna find him and I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

“Good luck with that," I replied, and with that, he turned and walked in the direction from which we came. I waited until he was a block away and watched him disappear into the crowd before I continued on my way home.

What the hell has this got to do with opera?

Sorry- the crazy people standing next to us last night in the back of standing room on the orchestra level reminded me of this story and I meant to write about it at the time but shortly after it actually happened, all hell broke loose in my life and I had forgotten about it until now. So there you have it.

As I was saying, Isabella and I went to catch the last performance of Die Walküre in San Francisco Opera’s Ring cycle. Though I had just seen this production last week, I did want to hear Heidi Melton take over from Anja Kampe as Sieglinde and Isabella is enthusiastically discovering that though Italian opera runs through her veins, there are pleasures of a different sort to be found in German. For the first two acts we stood next to these lunatics who kept arguing- and belching- and breaking wind- and breathing like they’d left their respirators at home. Thankfully, Isabella submitted to me to turning her out as an opera whore and she procured some Dress Circle seats from an elderly couple who were leaving early.

Runnicles had the orchestra under control from the start and though the pacing of the first two acts still felt slow to me, the orchestra was in tight focus all night long and the third act was nothing else but beautifully performed from start to finish. The cast, the same from last week except for Melton, was stronger, giving off a sense that they were happy to be crossing the finish line with this final Walküre. Brandon Jovanovich and Elizabeth Bishop were even stronger than they were last week. For me though, this was really about seeing Melton justly take a turn in a major role in a house that’s been formative in her career.

During the first act she sang well, though I was expecting more. She and Jovanovich didn’t seem to have a lot of chemistry, but who knows who much rehearsal time they had to get the blocking down. What they lacked in chemistry however, was definitely made up for in vocal power.

During the second act she found her comfort zone and simply put, Melton then soared as Sieglinde. The huge, clear voice locals have now appreciated for years filled the house and Melton laid claim to the role with conviction. "Du hehrstes Wunder, herrliche Maid!"- for me the signifier distinguishing those who can and should sing it and those who shouldn’t- was glorious coming from her.

Nina Stemme started off slightly weaker than on previous nights, but by the time the third act came, she was back to her usual, now-setting-the-standard-for-contemporary-Brunnhildes excellence, matched note for note in what may have been his strongest performance yet by Mark Delevan as Wotan.

What I had earlier found problematic or annoying about the production didn’t really bother me too much this time around, in no small part due to the fact that last night it was really all about hearing the voices- and not the ones in my head.

It’s the sign of a good cycle when each night makes you want to go back for more, and though I wasn’t originally planning on it because this has been a very busy week filled with ridiculously long nights followed by work the next morning, at this point I can’t see myself skipping Siegfried this Friday unless I collapse from exhaustion. The momentum builds, as does the anticipation for more.

Hopefully the lunatics will have other plans.

At the rail with the fourth Rheinmaiden

Das Rheingold is my favorite opera. That's not to say I would claim it to be the best- that would be foolish, but it is my personal favorite. I just thought you ought to know.

Standing at the rail in the balcony, I leaned into it and could feel the low hum coming up through the house. It started louder than it should have, as if the orchestra skipped a couple of bars of the beginning, the low E flat lost somewhere beneath the surface. The elements didn't all come together until well into the second scene, when Elizabeth Bishop's Fricka helped kick it into gear and what was threatening to be a mediocre Das Rheingold turned into something extraordinary and remained so until the conclusion. I wasn't the only one to notice this odd change- Isabella noticed it too, called it even better than I did, despite this being her first Rheingold.

The first scene lacked cohesion in the pit and on the stage- Renée Tatum was the only Rheinmaiden who seemed fully present and Gordon Hawkins' Alberich lacked the focus he would later bring with devastating effect during the third and fourth scenes. The brass, problematic in every other evening I've attended in this cycle, were again off- cutting notes short, making late entrances. The only upside so far was the improved video projection which brought us into the river- this time it made a lot more sense than it did three years ago- thank you Jan Hartley for getting rid of the ridiculous Star Trek intro.

Transitioning into the second scene brought lots of noise from the stagehands, though not as bad as I've read in earlier reports. When the scrim rose, there remained the lack of energy onstage and emanating from the pit that had made the first scene somewhat flat and then about ten minutes in, I can't recall exactly what lines Bishop was singing at the moment (for it certainly happened while she was singing), or if the change actually started with her or from the pit, but there was a distinct shift- something I've never witnessed before- and suddenly the orchestra transformed into what it used to be under Runnicles- the magnificence which has been almost wholly absent during the performances I've seen in these cycles had suddenly and without warning returned in full bloom and for the rest of the performance the orchestra sounded as good as it did on the opening night of Die Walküre last June.

But the resurrected orchestra was only half the story of what made this Rheingold so good. The other was the high quality of singing throughout the cast. Odd as it may seem since this is the one Stemme-less opera in the cycle, it's the best of the four as far as the singers are cast- there isn't a weak link. Bishop was fantastic- fully inhabiting the role, she brought not only the vocal chops but she gave Fricka a real presence onstage- a vulnerability not usually associated with the character.

Stefan Margita injected Loge with a lyricism and warmth I have never heard in any performance of a Wagner opera before- he was superb. Sadly, director Zambello misses a huge opportunity to create some real dramatic interest by not creating more interaction and conflict between Loge and Mark Delevan's Wotan- they seem to be performing in different operas. Yes, they exist in different spheres of influence as characters, but some better blocking and direction could have created something really special that unfortunately isn't realized. Delevan's not doing interesting things dramatically in this role, but he sounds most comfortable with the Wotan of Rheingold and he had a strong night.

Brandon Jovanovich was great as Froh, as was to be be expected- a case of luxury casting, he looked like he was enjoying himself. Gerd Grochowski's Donner had the same impact on me as his Gunther did in Gotterdammerung- serviceable, nothing to complain about, but not setting anything on fire either. Poor guy- he's stuck in two of the most thankless roles in the whole cycle which need extraordinary turns to make memorable. David Canglelosi seemed to rely heavily on the prompter last night, giving little hint of his excellent Mime in Siegfried. Melissa Citro's Stockholm syndrome-struck Freia jiggles and minces a bit much for my liking, but I like her as Freia more than as Gutrune and her interactions with Andrea Silvestrelli's Fasolt were always fun to watch. Silvestrelli's Italianate tone and booming voice are a perfect fit for the lovestruck giant. Daniel Sumegi's Fafner left little impression one way or the other and the murder of his brother was another dramatic moment that Zambello left on a table somewhere else. Ronnita Miller's Erda was impressive- she has a presence that's undeniable and it will be interesting to see her in other roles. Thankfully her character's costume has been toned from the previous staging- in fact almost all of the "American" touches in this cycle have been toned down to the point they really no longer exist- which makes it a stronger production overall than when it first debuted.

Gordon Hawkin's Alberich was the most fascinating performance of the night. As I said, the first scene was a bit of an unfocused hash, but in the 3rd and 4th scenes Hawkins gave a tremendously nuanced performance rivaling that of Eric Owens' in the current Met Ring for giving the character a depth not typically seen, Hawkins' Alberich is conflicted and riddled with uncertainty- you can see it playing over his face as he calculates the cost of everything he does, of every choice he has to make- and his sagging shoulders telegraph that he knows he's going to be beaten in this game. There's a weariness in his performance, as if to illustrate an unwritten law of dashed expectations- the oppressed and marginalized who know any gains are temporary and will eventually be usurped, pried from their fingers, by those more powerful then they, leaving them in the same place they started, or worse, and more bruised than the last time.

Later Isabella asked why I had turned my face from the stage during the transition to Scene 3. It was because I wanted to hear it as clearly as I could without the distracting visuals of the video projections and I wasn't disappointed- the trip down into the Nibelung mine is one of the most thrilling parts of the entire Ring for me and it certainly was beautifully played last night. The anvils- what can one say about the anvils? Genius.

When I turned to face the stage again, the scrim came up revealing the best work of set designer Michael Yeargan- the mine is almost a work of art and the lighting by Michael McCullough is superb. Casting children to be Alberich's minions was a great choice on Zambello's part, not only for the underlying political message it sends, but it also creates a powerful visual statement and their screams were terrifying (and loud). This scene, the tightest among the entire cycle in my opinion, was fantastic, even though it includes the one part of the opera I typically loathe- Alberich's losing game Loge and Wotan. If only everything about this cycle were of the same quality and level of execution! Still, having now seen it all in its current state, the San Francisco Opera's Ring cycle is undeniably a success for the company.

We'll be back tonight to see the last Walkure.

10 1/2 weeks: the Fadista and the Femme Fatale

Ana Moura- the fadista

Knowing it was inevitable didn't make it any easier to see her face and in the back of my mind I often wondered during these last 10 1/2 weeks how I would react when it was finally in front of me. My imaginings of the moment lurked in the darker part of my consciousness like a beast in a jungle, waiting to devour me once I came upon it if only given a half chance. Though I certainly wasn't ready for it, I felt- no, I knew- it would happen at this performance. Some things you just know, and as she once told me, I possess a "Gypsy-like" way of knowing certain things. This prescience (for what else can you can call it?), saved my life on more than one occasion, the most memorable being when it kept me from sitting in the front seat of a car for no apparent reason (and much to my mother's protestations), only to avoid being there 10 minutes later when the entire passenger side was creamed by a car running a red light.  In retrospect it's more than odd I possess this "gift" yet there are so many things I willfully turned a blind eye toward for months on end- the things we choose to ignore, because the fantasy has much more appeal than the reality. Yet there we were, to hear music that was centered in the reality of matters of the heart, of life, the reality of what is- not the fantasies of people who pursue an illusion. Fado is a Portuguese version of the blues- or Greek rembetika- music which reflects life,  giving it a universal, indestructible appeal.


Scanning the orchestra section of the Herbst Theater, I didn't see them, which didn't surprise me because I know he likes to buy the cheap seats, so they were probably sitting upstairs in the balcony. It was only after the show, when I noticed the table in the lobby for the fadista to sign CDs that I knew that's where they would be. And then, as if on cue, there they were.

It was the first time I've ever seen them together, though I have seen him before. As a couple, they resembled a lemur and a panther placed in the same cage- as if proximity would erase the incongruity. It doesn't. She went off to do something (check her make-up, I presume, but perhaps to text her newest victim), while he dutifully took his place in line for an autograph, waiting for her to come join him. I knew she was the one who wanted the CD and the autograph. The things he's done for her astound me- he knows most of it, if not all, and yet he's still there.

Do you remember the Joe Jackson song "Is She Really Going Out With Him?" It's not quite the song I would use to describe how I felt at that moment, but it comes pretty close. If the song were to really mirror the reality it would have been called "Did She Really Go Back to Him?" When she returned to the line he took leave of her, most likely headed to the restroom, and there stood the Femme Fatale, alone in the queue with her back to me. I approached her from behind and touched her neck. Not a gentle touch, but certainly without the force with which not long ago I used to use at her request. She spun around. Our eyes met for a brief moment, less than a second it seemed, before I turned away from her and made my way into the night.

It was one of those moments you replay in your head, endlessly considering the myriad alternatives of what could have happened at that moment, now irretrievable.

Before all of this, the fadista- Ana Moura- closed out SFJazz's Spring Season with what was essentially a masterclass in the "less is more" school of divadom, from which Beyonce and Gaga might well take some lessons. Taking the stage under a single spotlight in the Fado tradition, dressed in a gown which stated in no uncertain terms she was unapologetic to show off a real woman's figure, Moura proceeded to entrance the assembled for a brief set (less than an hour and a 1/2) that covered a lot of ground and yet at the same time left us feeling as if we had just watched, been witness to, something unique and special.

Moving little more than her left shoulder in what could only be described as a half-shimmy and sometimes moving her hips to rhythm, Ana Moura simply owned the stage. Talent and presence trump flash every time, and she has enough of both to burn. Yet she never more than smoldered, and that was enough- her stage persona is warm and inviting, not distant nor aloof. She knows she's sexy. She knows she talented. She knows that's enough and the rest is just unnecessary when one possesses these gifts. Women like that can make any audience succumb, whether the audience constists of one or a thousand- and collectively, we did. Speaking in Portuguese, and sometimes in English, she led her three accomplished accompanists through a set that left me feeling like I was standing in a gentle rain on a beach during a warm evening. That's probably not what one associates with fado- more commonly found in dark clubs, preferably late at night, but Moura's voice and demeanor transport the listener to a gentler, sultrier place. It's no wonder both Prince and the Stones have wanted to work with her.


For me there was a distinct irony when she performed the Stones' "No Expectations," with its refrain "I got no expectations, to pass through here again" - toward the end the Femme and I were on a Stones jag, writing back and forth the songs we thought most appropriate to our situation like two kids in high school. I left the exchange with "Stupid Girl."

"Fado de Procura," from the album Para Além Da Saudade turned out to be another highlight- a lighter touch giving the musicians a chance to shine with some extra fancy fretwork. Moura's was a graceful, elegant performance. I wish I could say the same about the  myself and the Femme Fatale, but this was fado- the blues, and you and I know it sometimes just doesn't work out that way.


Leaving the Femme Fatale behind, without a word said between us, I made my way into the night, heightened in its usual craziness because it was Pink Saturday in San Francisco- a night when the air surges with electricity as gay people congregate from all over to celebrate in one of their few Meccas. Thankfully I had plans for afterward, so for awhile at least, the encounter I'd left behind was just that- behind me as I went to meet out Isabella. But some things leave a trace long after they've been left behind or abandoned.

To be continued- without a doubt.

With a capital "B," and that rhymes with "P" and that stands for...

"The Music Man? Really?" asked Isabella.

"Yes, why? Do you not like The Music Man?"

"No," she replied, "I do like it. I just didn't expect you to like it- it's just another facet I have to take in."

"What's not to like?" I replied.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather see Midnight in Paris?"

"No, I'd rather see The Music Man- we have a few more weeks to see Midnight in Paris."

Later last night, during the "Marion the Librarian" scene I said, "Watch- I think the way she gets handed off to each man is simply brilliant, and I love when she tosses off her glasses." I do love it when a woman succumbs to the pleasure right in front of her- whether it's in a library or a parking lot.

When it was over she said, "You're right- this is brilliant. I've forgotten."

She reminded me of how popular Buddy Hackett was at the time, the only excuse for the one bit of miscasting in the entire film.

When it ended, we made our way back from Oakland to the City.

On the BART ride home I explained why I once had the desire to perform a one-man Macbeth or Richard II in Union Square (I never did do such a thing- I only wanted to). She found this amusing in the extreme- and inquired about how I would have killed myself. "Oh that part would have been easy," I tossed back.

Forty-five minutes later, standing on Cyril Magnin, I called the police so they could help the girl whose date couldn't get her to stand up out of her own vomit, despite what appeared to be a continuous, strenuous effort on his part. She had on unusually unflattering underwear for a woman in her twenties, as if she hadn't intended to expose them later, but now they were plainly visible to anyone passing by, as her short dress was now riding upon her substantial midriff. Another date gone horribly awry- one of thousands undoubtedly unravelling at that moment all across the West Coast after midnight. I've been there, though not exactly in the same way.

One day I may write about how I took a woman back to her apartment one night- a jazz singer I was dating at the time who had been performing earlier in the evening. Back at her apartment, she took off her shoes, her dress, and much of everything else, then excused herself to go to the bathroom. Five, maybe ten minutes later, I heard a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass. I spent the next three hours talking with the police and paramedics, trying to explain that I really had no idea why she had tried to commit suicide. I guess now I don't have to write about that- you now have the details. She survived, and currently lives with a man she calls "the world's greatest husband," though I suspect he is ignorant about some things, not the least of which is that night I'm sure, which allows him to retain the moniker.

Isabella and I stopped to order some Thai food to go, then headed to the liquor store for further provisions. Along the way we discussed drugs- how and how not to use them. Their appropriateness and the opposite. I told her about how when I was under the influence of a certain substance it took me three nights to watch "Far From Heaven" because I kept getting sidetracked by the use of color in the film to signify the emotional state of the characters and I kept rewinding certain scenes over and over again. I may have done this even if I didn't have a thing for Julianne Moore, but certainly an altered state of mind was a contributing factor.

Thankfully, because it was already late, we never made it to discussing In the Cut- another movie it took me many evenings to fully absorb.. I'll save that for another time. But have you ever wondered what it takes to go there? I think about that all the time.

Whispering in public places

After the "Kyrie" ended, Rosine Stoltz leaned over and slyly whispered into my ear "It doesn't sound like Beethoven." She was right of course, and though I was already dissecting my own thoughts regarding what was puzzling me about the performance so early into it, it wasn't that it didn't sound sound like Beethoven so much as it didn't sound like what I expected to hear. Expectations are tricky threads to unravel, and when it comes to Beethoven, Michael Tilson Thomas and the San Francisco Symphony, I have a long, knotty history of them- at times they've been exceeded beyond measure, others left them cruelly frayed.

It wasn't until last night I realized this was due to the baggage which I bring to any performance of Beethoven specifically, which MTT seems to be particularly, refreshingly free of and it's only as I write this I see what a compliment that is to the conductor and how it confines me as a listener.

Thankfully I don't approach all composers this way- there are only two others which I can think of with whom I have the same constriction of expectations- Wagner and Rachmaninoff- and they arise from my own personal history of listening to and experiencing classical music in performance, which in essence boils down to the highly unreasonable expectation that these three should sound a particular way, and when they don't I come away with a sense of disappointment. Ridiculous, yes, but probably understandable- and I doubt I'm only the only one.

Beethoven's Missa Solemnis hasn't been performed by the Symphony in over fifteen years and I've never experienced it live before. Add to that I only own, and am familiar with, one recording of it: a particularly lush, romantic live recording conducted by James Levine leading the Vienna Phil with Domingo, Jessye Norman, Cheryl Studer and Kurt Moll- a recording whose absence on the list of those recommended in the concert program is perhaps telling, especially since the list favors approaches that I can tell without even knowing them first-hand will sound noticeably lighter in approach (Gardiner conducting the English Baroque Soloists and Monteverdi Choir heads the list with Bernstein and the Royal Concertgebouw bringing up the rear- there has to be a deliberation in such decisions, I'm sure).

On top of all this baggage, the work itself stands off to the side as a unique thing in Beethoven's oeuvre- written late, of the same period as the Ninth Symphony, but a different beast altogether and not something one typically hears without deliberately seeking it out. My main question after last night, which may require attending another performance to resolve, is where the focus of the work really rests- is it in the chorus and soloists or in the orchestra? Ideally, my expectations clamor it should be balanced equally between the two (which is what one hears in the Levine recording), but that's not what we heard last night, where the vocal elements of the work were clearly placed in the forefront for most of the performance.

What further puzzles me is that the orchestra's music supports this imbalance for the first three of the five (six?) sections, though of course there are exceptions in each section- especially for the winds in the first two, and it's really not until the Sanctus and Agnus Dei sections, that for me at least, the music rises to the foreground for significant stretches. There are no sections containing a development nor anything else musically one would "expect" hear in a late-period Beethoven work - at least as far as the instrumentation goes, which leads me back to the question of balance because those late-period elements are certainly there in the parts for the soloists and chorus- in fact there's an abundance of them, and the chorus under director Ragnar Bohlin sounded magnificent. They were accompanied by four extremely talented soloists- the marvelous soprano Christine Brewer (which is a case of luxury casting as far as I'm concerned), mezzo Katarina Karneus, tenor Gregory Kunde, and bass Ain Anger. This was my first time hearing Karneus and Anger, and I'd like to see all four of these soloists across Grove street in the near future, please.

Going to back to MTT and Beethoven for a moment, I have to also weigh whether this was a deliberate choice on his part because you can never tell what he's going to deliver when it comes to Beethoven. I only now realize he's completely free from interpreting Beethoven as if he should be performed "in this way or that" and it's like a light bulb has gone on in my mind.  I've heard MTT lead "Eroica"s and Ninths of astonishing fleetness and transparency and others weighted with gravitas from the opening chords which never found their way into the light (for the record, in case you couldn't figure it out, I usually preferred the latter approach, which now I'll have to reconsider). What I used to think of as an annoying inconsistency has been revealed to be something much more interesting and enlightening.

After the "Credo" I leaned over and whispered in Rosine's ear, "Do you hate it?"

She whispered back, "I'm now in the mood to listen to Rossini!"

We leaned back into our seats to absorb the remainder, which included an absolutely rhapsodic solo by concertmaster Alexander Barantschik. I appreciated the tone of his violin more than Rosine did. When it was over I was still puzzled by it all, unable to sort it within in my mind, still feeling the impressions of the soloists and the chorus pressing somewhere into my consciousness with vague deliberation.

After the final note faded Rosine said, "I liked it more than you think I did," though I had implied no such opinion. In fact, I had said nothing at all to elicit the remark. So like her to say such a thing- exposing all while providing nothing corporeal in the exchange- a thread laid down to be picked up- or not.

We picked ourselves up and strode over to Sauce, where I did indeed pick up the thread, wound it loosely around it my finger, and twisted into a small knot with deliberation. And there you are.

There are three more performances Friday- Sunday.

Who's yer Daddy? SFO's Die Walküre revisited

When San Francisco Opera unveiled Die Walküre a year ago I had a lot of complaints about the production but like everyone else who attended the opening night, I was captivated by the musical performance of the orchestra under Runnicles and by the quality of the singing, both of which were fantastic. A year later I'm still not a huge fan of the production, but it annoys me less now and the strong sense of disappointment I had upon leaving the opera house Wednesday night after the Walkure for Cycle 2 came from the most unlikely of sources. Director Francesca Zambello has made some small adjustments to the tighten drama and the supporting is cast different, which add up to pluses as far as what's happening onstage, but what was happening in the pit last night under Runnicles was another thing altogether- and it wasn't good.

Last year Runnicles tore into the score from the first note and never let up, conducting an illuminating, completely thrilling performance. Last night the first and second acts were performed so slowly it felt like we were hearing an entirely different conductor and orchestra. At times the music seemed to disappear altogether and in the first act there were moments when the brass caused more than one head to turn in response to some serious flubs, as if the gathered Wagnerites in the house collectively went "what the ....?"

The music only came together in the third act after the "Ride of the Valkyries" and while I know the City is currently engulfed in Runnicles-mania, after hearing Siegfried and Gotterdammerung earlier this month I can only conclude he doesn't have the grip on this orchestra he used to when he was music director of the company. It's over.

Who's yer Daddy? Photo by Cory Weaver

The other talk of the town is Nina Stemme's Brunnhilde and understandably so, though I think it's a tad over-heated. Once again she gave a gleaming performance and if her low notes were inaudible at times, the verve of her performance and the clarity and volume of her top notes makes everyone a believer. Mark Delevan's Wotan possesses an extraordinarily warm voice, best at the top as well, though when placed at the rear of the stage it loses its power. Still, Delevan was vocally convincing and if his interpretation of Wotan isn't exactly compelling I'd say that's more Zambello's fault than his. Together, Delevan and Stemme are the only pair in the cycle who match up well together vocally - a problem when so much of the fifteen hours of music is a series of one-on-one confrontations.

Brandon Jovanovich's Siegmund was definitely a highlight of the evening. His tone is beautiful and he projected easily to the back of the house with clarity and emotional intensity. It's hard to believe this is his debut in the role- he already appears to completely own it. It's also a fortuitous bit of casting that Jovanovich bears a similar physical appearance and vocal tone with Jay Hunter Morris' Siegfried, so when we see Siegmund's offspring in the next part there's a definite family resemblance being seen and heard onstage, which is continued in Gotterdammerung with Ian Storey in the same role, looking and sounding like an older version of what we've seen before.

Anja Kampe's Sieglinde was better in this production than when I heard her sing the role in LA a couple of years ago, but she looks too dowdy to be convincing as Siegmund's twin and destined lover. In the early part of the first act, when there is little competition for her against the orchestra she sounded fine, but as things progressed a shrillness found its way into her voice. In the third act she seemed spent.

Elizabeth Bishop's Fricka unfortunately has to compete against Stephanie Blythe's recent turn in the role in the Met production- a game-changer as far as interpretation goes that probably no singer would want to face and while Bishop was fine, coming on the heels of Blythe's tremendous performance seen around the world, Bishop's fine day glows a little paler. Zambello's direction again plays a large part in this, and I'll get to that in just a moment.

Last year's Hunding was a disappointment and this year's model is disappointing in a different way. Daniel Sumegi's great physical presence onstage is ideal for the part, but his voice lacks the necessary menace and malice to sell it. Groping your wife doesn't make you threatening to anyone but your wife, though it does make you look like a first-class ass when you do it front of the guests. In this production the future cuckold seems destined for it, and not a ferociously mean man whose angry claim for revenge forms one of the main plot points of the entire story.

As Valkyries, Sara Gartland, Daveda Karanas and Maya Lahyani stood out among the eight talented sisters of Brunnhilde.

However, the fact (well, my opinion actually) that Runnicles and Co. had a seriously off night wasn't my only problem with this particular night at the opera. Thankfully, Zambello has toned down the weirdness between Wotan and Brunnhilde so that it doesn't hint at yet another incestuous relationship in a story that already has two others (don't forget- Brunnhilde's daddy is also Siegfried's grandaddy)- still, the piggyback ride has got to go- seriously, ditch it. But at least the first act ended right in this reboot, with the lovers rolling on the floor in heat instead skipping off into the moonlight, but the positive changes, while appreciated, are small compared to the negatives which become magnified upon a second viewing.

What grates about this production is twofold.

First, no one in this Walküre is angry- they just come across as conflicted at best and more often simply weak or confused. That the gods have the same weaknesses as humans, often in much greater degree, is already obvious so it doesn't need any further explication in the direction. Everyone in Walküre has good reason to be seriously pissed off during at least one moment and real drama comes from confrontation and conflict, verbalized or shown, and there is very little to be seen in this production, though the story rests on a series of escalating confrontations- in fact, one could make the case the entire cycle is built on those escalations, resulting in a point where there is simply nowhere left to go but straight into the pyre. Delevan's performance could be easily acknowledged to have been brilliant if only he were allowed to be an angry Wotan turned weak instead of a weak one with nowhere to turn. On a side note- Die Walküre is. not. a. comedy. It has no funny moments. Cheap chuckles during Act 2 takes the audience out of the story and adds nothing illuminating to it.

The other thing about this which grates on me is related to the lack of anger. As Zambello's ring progresses a feminist undercurrent emerges and while she's not the first to take this route, it's still an interesting approach which can be explored in numerous ways. But in re-watching Walküre and knowing what's to come in the next two operas, I think she's overplaying the concept by making the male characters too buffoonish, thus reducing the impact of what she's trying to convey. There is no nuance here. The men in her Ring have vast reserves of mistrust, justified by the text, but with the exception of David Cangelosi's Mime in Siegfried (I have yet to see Stefan Margita's Loge), none of the male characters have been seen in a new light, say in the way that Eric Owens' Alberich in the recent Met Rheingold gave the character a devastating new interpretation. While I love the Stockholm syndrome idea Zambello attached to Freia in Rheingold,  the ferocious anger of Brunnhilde in Gotterdammerung, and Gutrune's metamorphosis from bimbo to supplicant in the same, can't we have these interesting takes spread between the genders just a little bit? Just a little? I'm not saying the guys deserve a fair shake, but it would make it all that much more interesting if they weren't a hair shy of being representative caricatures of the worst qualities of the typical American male. After all, that guy probably isn't a large percentage of the audience in the house.

Still, you'll likely see me back for more next week, hoping Runnicles gets it together, and he just may because Heidi Melton takes over as Sieglinde, which is something I don't want to miss.

Yuja's dress

Updated 08/08/11:

This picture of Yuja Wang was published in the LA Times from a recent Hollywood Bowl concert. She's wearing the same dress I've been yammering on about. Photo by Lawrence Ho of the LA Times.

Since almost every reviewer of Tuesday night's chamber music concert featuring Yuja Wang and members of the San Francisco Symphony has mentioned "the dress" (granted, not with the same enthusiasm of yours truly) I thought it a public service to direct you to the best picture I've been able to find of it

I also shared it on the Facebook page for this blog. Go ahead, "like" it- you know you want to.

People, get ready...

A comment posted last week by SFO General Director David Gockley on this article in the Huffington Post:

“Michael Kaiser should be granted honorary membership in all the performing arts unions!

To say that raising more contributi­ons is the cure for ailing performing arts organizati­ons is like telling mayors and governors across the country to simply raise taxes to close budgetary gaps. If there are problems, dump them on to the public! For San Francisco Opera the public consists of ticket buyers who are paying prices that are already too high and contributo­rs who are unbelievab­ly numerous and generous. Still, we have a serious, and perhaps fatal, imbalance.

In the performing arts, costs have continued to grow faster than income, and generous union contracts are one of the reasons for this. Raising more money is only part of the solution. Labor must assume its share of the burden. -- David Gockley, San Francisco Opera General Director”

"A serious, and perhaps fatal, imbalance"?

Whoa.

In yesterday's Chronicle, Josh Kosman had this.

Last November, when Gockley first wrote about the situation in the program for The Makropoulos Affair, I wrote this.

Made you look!

Cartoon from The Stranger

First of all, I'd like to apologize to anyone seated on the right side of the front row at Davies last night hoping for a show that never materialized (see my earlier post). I guess I should have kept my mouth shut, because when Yuja Wang walked onstage last night the mini dresses from Tuesday night's performance had been replaced by a full-length, gorgeous purple dress, which was quite ravishing, but certainly not as interesting as what she had on the other night. I'm sure my uncouth previous comments had something to do with this return to staid, if elegant, propriety. I'm very sorry about that.

This was the first concert by the San Francisco Symphony since their return from a successful European tour. The first piece of the night, Bartok's "Romanian Folk Dances" started off with jolt but then the pacing seemed get a bit lax, and I couldn't quite figure out if MTT was going for a gentle, relaxed rhythm or if the orchestra was suffering from a bit of jet-lag. Nevertheless, strong solos came from the usual suspects: Carey Bell, Catherine Payne and Alexander Barantschik.

Wang came out to a great round of applause from the seemingly full house and sat down at the bench. To my surprise she used a score, and though this isn't unheard of, it is rather rare for the featured soloist to play the piece with the score in front of them. But Bartok's 2nd Piano Concerto is a bit of a beast, a fingerbuster, so I get it. There are probably quite a few minefields one could get lost in without a map.

In the first movement Wang played with demonic percussive force, making me wonder about the injury to her arm. She held nothing back, and her hands just flew across the keys, pounding out flurries of notes. There was no applause when the movement ended.

The second movement found Wang again on fire during the little scherzo-like part between the slower adagio tempos which bookend them, but the orchestra fell behind her and all of a sudden I wondered why Bartok was suddenly starting to sound like Bernard Herrmann. This movement drew some applause, but it quickly died. This was certainly a different audience than the one present for Tuesday's concert.

The third movement again seemed to lack precise synchronization between Wang and the orchestra for a good portion of it until the last few moments when they both came together to finish with an exhilarating swoosh, resulting in a climax that was actually felt in the audience as if it was a physical sensation. Seriously. I mean it.

The second half of the concert was Act III of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake but I have to admit to taking my leave after intermission.

There are three more performances this weekend.

On a side note, I was pleased not to encounter anyone I've slept with at the performance.

all that blooms shall wither, then...

For Bloomsday...

"He was in deep mourning, she could see that, and the story of a haunting sorrow was written on his face. She would have given worlds to know what it was. He was looking up so intently, so still, and he saw her kick the ball and perhaps he could see the bright steel buckles of her shoes if she swung them thoughtfully with the toes down. She was glad that something told her to put on the transparent stockings thinking Reggie Wylie might be out but that was far away. Here was that of which she had so often dreamed. It was he who mattered and there was joy on her face because she wanted him because she felt instinctively that he was like no-one else. The very heart of the girlwoman went out to him, her dreamhusband, because she knew on the instant it was him. If he had suffered, more sinned against than sinning, or even, even, if he had been himself a sinner, a wicked man, she cared not."

What Yuja do to me

I've said it before and I'll say it again. San Francisco is a small town and everyone you meet here you will eventually run into again. What that really means is everyone you sleep with, you will inevitably see again in public. Tonight, after what has been an exhausting, emotional four-day run, capped-off with an hour-and-a-half long conversation this morning with the Femme Fatale about the demise of our affair,  I walked into Davies solo tonight and standing there at the bar with her boyfriend was the Southern Belle- to whom I was once engaged.

Now, I never, ever run into her in the City, despite the fact that she lives only eight blocks uphill from me in the apartment we used to share together. The apartment with views of the Golden Gate Bridge from every room including the bathroom. The apartment with views I'll never, ever, have again. I've run into her before of course, because after we split up she started dating the guy who lives next door to my mother (her current boyfriend), so I often encounter her in Sausalito, but I'm prepared for that when I go over there. We wave to one another from across his yard.

How can one ignore one's ex-fiancee? One can't. So I strode over and said hello to both of them. It was the first time I've actually seen them together as a couple even though they've been together for years (I've met him before without her present- because you see he lives next door to my mother,- you see my mother and my sister have this habit of adopting my ex-girlfriends and turning them into something like extended family members, which made one family wedding particularly interesting and somewhat uncomfortable for me a couple of years ago as I stood there talking with three women I've slept with, who were hell-bent on being all chummy with one another).

Have you ever asked yourself as you read this blog why is he always drinking Manhattans? Well, now you know.

So there we are, this uncomfortable trio, and I realize since he came after me, ahem- in the timeline of her life I mean, he knows much more about me than I do about him and I'm thinking how awful this actually is because I have no idea what it is she's told him about me that is running through his mind at this moment. So instead we talk about the Prince concerts back in February, because the Southern Belle and I naturally have Facebook friends in common and she's aware of certain things about my life I have no idea she is aware of until she starts asking me about them. Fuck I hate Facebook. And it's actually just her and I doing the talking, though I keep looking at him to a) keep him engaged in the conversation and b) make sure I'm not about to get hit in the face with a glass. This goes on for about ten minutes, but it felt much, much longer.

How long has it been since I've seen her at a performance? November, 2005, when CC and I sat directly behind her and my mother (!- I swear this is true!) for a performance of Fidelio at the opera. Why now? Why today of all days?

But enough about the Southern Belle and her boyfriend. Let's talk about women I haven't slept with, but would like to.

Remember not-all-that long ago when people used to make snide comments insinuating Anne-Sophie Mutter wore those beautiful, shoulder-less gowns because by emphasizing her beauty it drew attention from her talent, the implication being her career success had more to do with the former than the latter? Those days are over, and not because Mutter's closing in on 50.

 

 

Now people are going to be talking about what Yuja Wang is wearing. The 24-year-old pianist took to the floor of Davies Symphony Hall tonight in the tightest, shortest dress I've ever seen on that stage. Never mind the fact that is was hot-pink and black. And she had on hot, "fuck me" shoes. And I'm pissed that from where I was seated I couldn't see her at all once she sat down at the piano because the violinists were in my way. And then she changed into a different dress, all-black, maybe a 1/4 inch longer, equally tight, for the second half. And she had on "fuck me" shoes. She looked like she was headed to the Infusion Lounge, somehow got lost along the way, wandered into Davies, and decided to join the musicians onstage for kicks. In other words, she looked really hot.

Okay, enough of that for now, but believe me, you haven't heard the last on the subject. I only wish I had a camera with me. And a year from now I'll want to know how many "Yuja Wang upskirt" queries Google is getting a day. Okay I'm done with that. Really.

This is what she used to wear. Photo by Who Cares?, but look at those shoes!

It's been a couple of years since I last saw Wang perform and she greatly impressed me then, but more so with her technique than with her passion. This concert led me to believe she's maturing into a warmer, more confident performer and while tonight's concert didn't really provide the musical vehicles for a passionate performance, it did show Wang to be evolving as a performer. Tonight's concert was chamber music with members of the San Francisco Symphony, kicking off the second half of Project San Francisco , and the first of five concerts she's appearing in over the next week (a solo recital was cancelled after she recently injured her arm).

The first half of the program was devoted to Dvořák's Quintet in A Major for Piano and Strings, Opus 81. I suspect this ended up on the program because it gave the injured pianist a bit of a break. While not a walk in the park, for the pianist it's not a terribly challenging piece. In fact, the string quartet composed of violinists Yukiko Kurakata and Amy Hiraga, Katie Kadarauch on viola and cellist Peter Wyrick more than held their own against the star performer, each offering individual memorable moments, with the violins overshadowing everyone else with lovely playing during the second movement Dumka. It really wasn't until the fourth movement's allegro finale that Wang took over and her piano lauded it over the ensemble.

The second half of the program featured Brahms' Quintet in F minor for Piano and Strings, Opus 34, and here the audience got to hear Wang take off, dominating the first movement with strong, robust playing. Everything then slowed down for the adante into gorgeous playing by the quartet, especially by violinist Melissa Kleinbart. The third movement scherzo had cellist Amos Yang and viola player Yun Jie Liu stomping their feet in time with the music, they were going at it with such rhythmic force it really felt like rock and roll. Dan Carlson's violin also contributed significantly to the overall strength of this particular quartet. Perhaps it's just my preference, but while there was nothing at all to dislike in the first half's Dvořák, it was the Brahms which made the night truly worth hearing.

Both halves received standing ovations, which are becoming pretty standard responses these days, as is applauding between movements (which happened for the duration of tonight's concert) and while I have to say it was a very good night of music, I think the standing ovation was a bit much. I'll be back for the next concert on Thursday, where Wang will perform the seriously challenging 2nd Piano Concerto by Bartok with the orchestra in a program also featuring Bartok's Romanian Folk Dances and Act III from Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. I can't wait to see what she's going to wear.

A night in Treme

On Friday night Penelope and I had dinner at Urban Tavern, where we encountered the "rather strange server" once again. She's not bad per se, but she's not fast and she is rather odd. But I really like the food there, it's two blocks from my apartment, and for a corporate restaurant in a huge hotel chain it's a better restaurant than it has any right to be. The Host(ess) (a mature woman of a certain age) had on a dress to die for. On top of that, and perhaps the number one reason I like it so much is that the bartenders there make great Manhattans which never disappoint. Okay, sorry- way off topic, I know. Did I say the food is good?


Afterward we made our way over to the sold-out SFJazz presentation of A Night in Treme at Davies, the traveling roadshow featuring musicians who've appeared on the HBO program Treme (pronounced Truh-may')- which I've never actually seen because I don't watch enough TV to care about cable, much less subscribing to a premium channel, especially since you can buy seasons of Breaking Bad and Mad Men from Amazon.


You'll likely read rave reviews about the show from everyone else who attended but I'm going to have to say there were two things which kept it from being the rollicking good time it should have been. One was the format, which made the the first half of the gig a let's-school-these-mostly-white-folks-on-our-heritage-and-music.  Standing at a lectern no less, Wendell Pierce, told us what was what and then the assembled players gave us a musical example of what he was talking about. Now the guys (all male) onstage definitely knew what they were doing and some seriously fine chops were on display from Donald Harrison Jr. on the alto sax, Kermit Ruffins on the trumpet, the extraordinary Dr. Michael White on clarinet, and Big Sam Williams on the trombone. No doubt and no complaint there, but just when they'd hit the groove and exhort the audience to its feet, the music would stop, Pierce would start yammering again, and everyone would sit down, only to be told a couple of minutes later get back on their feet and get down for a couple of minutes and then sit down again for more schooling.

When Pierce finally did shut up and let them play for maybe ten minutes max things hit high gear quickly and backed by members of the Rebirth Brass Band, the show finally started cooking like it ought to have from the first note.

Then guess what? Yep, intermission time. Just when things were really getting a groove on.

The second half of the show started off with the musicians entering from the rear of the floor in a second line. Handkerchiefs and parasols came popped up throughout the audience, everyone was on on their feet, and Davies felt like it was about to erupt.

As they hit the stage, the aforementioned talents kept on going, exiting through a side door, waving goodbye, leaving the audience with the Rebirth Brass Band. Don't get me wrong- I like the Rebirth Brass Band, but they tour regularly and they're not enough of a draw for me to make me want to see them headline a gig at Davies. I wanted the other guys to keep playing.

But the second half was a Rebirth gig, and on top of that, the volume and sound simply sucked. From where we sat in the orchestra it was actually painful- too loud and all that brass was horribly distorted and as the band kept telling everyone to get up and dance (which they quite willingly did) it only seemed to get louder and grow more distorted. Finally, and this didn't take long, I turned to Penelope and said let's go see if it sounds better from the second tier, which she readily agreed to and up we went.

Thankfully it wasn't as loud up there, but the mix was still horribly distorted and since the place was packed leaving nowhere to sit nor stand and the upstairs ushers were a bit uptight about keeping the aisles clear, we bailed. I'm sure it was a party, but not one we needed to stay for.

Later on, we ran into a couple toting SFJazz swag bags who said the headliners came back at the end and it was a glorious show. Well, good for them. For us, it was pretty disappointing, especially considering all that talent on hand and the music could have made for one seriously great night. This is the second time in a month the people doing the sound for SFJazz gigs at Davies have messed it up really badly to the point where I'm considering skipping any further shows there which aren't acoustically oriented.

If size doesn't matter...

Thankfully, the Opera Tattler doesn't expose hers because I'm sure it would shame us all. I've often wondered what Herr Feldheim's looks like, but he keeps it to himself. Frankly I'm surprised Brian hasn't shown his, but then again maybe that's best because I'm sure its huge.

However, I've checked out Patrick's a few times and cast envious glances at Lisa's more than once and while I'll be the first to admit it's not as impressive as theirs are, they've inspired me to expose my own.

Ojai North!

Peter Sellars  photo by Kenneth Higa

Based on what I've seen, tickets don't seem to be selling as well as one may have expected for the first Ojai North! mini-festival taking place at Zellerbach next week. This is surprising, since if there's one West Coast Festival with a solid reputation, it's Ojai. Add to that two of the programs feature local favorite Dawn Upshaw and it's even more puzzling. Plus, love it or hate it, if Peter Sellars is invloved it's at least guaranteed to be interesting (I always appreciate seeing something Sellars has a hand in).

Here's the schedule:

Monday, June 13: Maria Schneider and her 18-piece jazz orchestra.
Tuesday, June 14: Dawn Upshaw and Australian Chamber Orchestra including a new    work by Maria Schneider for Upshaw and the ACO.
Thursday & Saturday, June 16 & 18: Dawn Upshaw in Peter Sellars' staging of George Crumb’s The Winds of Destiny; plus celebrated vocalist Ustad Farida Mahwash and other Afghan musicians. There's a video preview for the The Winds of Destiny here.

Prior to the show on the 18th, a symposium will take place at the Zellerback Playhouse at 5:00pm, free to the public, where journalist Mark Danner and Sellars will discuss "the civic consequences of the absence of the humanities in American public life and articulate a strengthened and re-purposed role for the humanities in the future of American public life."

Tickets are available on Goldstar, and they're seriously reduced for the first two programs (free!).

Delirium. Worst bar in San Francisco?

Isabella likes bourbon. I like bourbon. So we popped into Delirium before heading to a movie at the Roxie. The music playing was terrible and the frayed, sagging booth in the corner should have been replaced back when the joint was still called The Albion.

She ordered a Knob Creek neat, with a soda back. I ordered my usual- a perfect Knob Manhattan, up, with a twist. We received two sodas, and then I received my "Manhattan"-  a Knob Creek neat in a rocks glass with a twist in it.

Isabella noticed immediately that whatever was in the bottle of Knob Creek wasn't Knob Creek and said, "Taste this. It isn't Knob." I did and I agreed. In fact, I'd bet $100 it was Wild Turkey 101.

We went next door to Dalva, and got what we wanted. The bartender there was sympathetic, saying he had heard stories like ours before. We never did make it to the movie.

Ray of Light Theatre's Assassins

Ray of Light Theatre likes to take risks. Last year they presented the uproarious West Coast premiere of Jerry Springer, the Opera and now they're back with Stephen Sondheim (music & lyrics) and John Weidman's (book) Assassins. As directors Jason Hoover and David Moschler note in the program, Assassins is about failing to achieve the American Dream and how individuals desperately strike out against the dream in the midst of their failures in an attempt to connect with other people in some way that forces others to pay attention to them.

 

 

Within its 90 minutes are a lot of complex ideas unfolding among the carnage and comedy and the troupe does an excellent job of creating juxtapositions onstage that bring those ideas vividly to life. It becomes crowded, with 14 or 15 people on the small stage of the Eureka theater at some points (plus the musicians), with everything overflowing into the carnivalesque by the end of the show. The strong cast (unfortunately miked) gives their all to what is in all likelihood the most unlikely group of historical figures to ever appear in a play together (John Wilkes Booth and Squeaky Fromme, just to get started). By the time the entire ensemble gathers onstage for the final reprise of "Everybody's Got the Right" Assassins succeeds in making us re-think who these people were and what motivated them to grab a gun and point it at a President. That's no small feat, and will definitely give you something to talk about after the show.

 

 

Assassins runs through June 25th at the Eureka Theater. Tickets are available on the ROLT website, though you may want to keep an eye out for them on Goldstar.

 

 

Before the show, Isabella and I had dinner at Credo, which, as usual, was delicious and we appreciated their flexibility with our fluctuating party.

Götterdämmerung: having sex with Valkyries is hazardous to one's health and can turn you into a zombie

Silvestrelli and Citro: "Drink this- it will make your boobs even bigger."

Seeing Götterdämmerung performed live is really unlike any other opera experience. Yesterday was my fourth time, and as I walked away from the War Memorial I had this warm feeling seething through my entire being. There is something immensely satisfying about witnessing the end of the world, even if the world's end is done on the cheap and not all that spectacularly staged.

The prologue where the Norns catch us up on all that's happened and hint at what's to come was probably the most imaginatively staged bit of the entire Cycle. I loved the concept of the Norns as a kind of cloud repository of the history of the world manipulating the mother of all motherboards, though I thought the use of "cables" in the surtitles instead of "rope" or "thread" was annoying. It was also the most well-executed, thought-through part of the afternoon, though I imagine it was particularly challenging for the singers. All three (Heidi Melton, Daveda Karanas and Ronnita Miller) did a fine job and I was paying particular attention to how large Melton's voice is as I plan on seeing her sing Sieglinde in the 3rd Cycle- no problem on that count- she can fill the house with her voice.

As the Prologue ended and we picked up where we last left Brunnhilde and Siegfried, my initial thought on seeing Ian Storey a week after watching Jay Hunter Morris in the same role was "Wow. Banging a Valkyrie for a week will really age a man!" Morris' youthful vigor was now replaced with an older, greying, Siegfried with a beer gut who had none of the swagger which made Morris' performance so engaging despite the lack of vocal heft required to really sell it. Storey's voice is bigger, though not too much, but it's also much deeper, bordering the baritone range, and for me this was problematic. Nina Stemme seemed determined not to sing over him, so the first act was kind of a repeat of last Sunday's performance which left me wondering to where the Brunnhilde of last summer's Walkure had disappeared? It also made me ponder how much time has supposedly elapsed between the events of Siegfried and the opening of Götterdämmerung? More than I had originally thought, based on appearances.

During the first act the orchestra sounded still not quite engaged, even under-rehearsed, with some sections seeming to lag noticeably behind even though Runnicles never took anything at a tempo one could describe as unexpectedly fast- in fact, there were parts of the afternoon where the tempos seemed almost too slow, which allowed for great exposition and clarity, but worked against the drama of the score (especially during the Funeral March). Thankfully this problem largely disappeared after the first act and the rest of the afternoon was musically superb, slow tempos aside.

Ian Storey and Gerd  Grochowski: "I want to sleep with your wife, so drink this and I'll let you bang my hot sister."

The weaknesses in director Francesca Zambello's "American Ring" concept surfaced again upon entering the unhappy home of the Gibichungs. Not only was their lair uninteresting and cheap looking, but it said nothing about them and what part of this world they represent, unless the idea is to say they're just shallow, dull, fools who take all of their decorating ideas straight from the ads found in 7x7 or some other vacuous rag. That's not very interesting. Nor is it interesting to portray Gutrune (Melissa Citro, debuting with the company in this role) as an empty-headed tart whose raison d'ete appears to be little more than running around the stage shaking her tits in a low-cut orange dress. Sure she looked great in that same tawdry way certain hookers on the street do,  but is that the most you can say about her character? Actually, Gutrune undergoes an interesting evolution under Zambello's direction in the 3rd act, but since the starting point is so base, so low, it takes longer than it should to see how her character evolves and I daresay it would be easy to miss entirely. Gerd Grochowski's Gunther doesn't leave too much of an impression in the role, thankless as it is.

Andrea Silvestrelli's Hagen started out rough vocally and from the first row of the Balcony Circle he bore more than a passing resemblance to Ron Jeremy, and neither of these observations is a good thing. Vocally he found himself by the end of the act, but for me the damage was done. His Hagen didn't work for me at all- way too over the top and his voice is too Italaniate for the role- besides, every time he opened his mouth all I heard was Fasolt- who is a chump, while Hagen should be evil incarnate. Hagen, perhaps the most interesting character in the entire story, in my opinion should also be the most nuanced in performance and Silvestrelli brought none to the role. It was all flash. Maybe that's part of the "American" concept- Hagan as the playboy huckster, but really, I would have preferred him to be less Bob Guccione and more, I don't know, like Osama bin Laden- someone whose evil is disguised by their quiet, surface demeanor rather than wearing it on their sleeve.

Also during Act 1 Siegfried is a dolt once he sees Gutrune even before he drinks the potion, and while that's pretty much Siegfried and thus unavoidable, once he drinks the potion he becomes an uber-dolt and quickly becomes tiresome, not at all helped by Zambello's seeming insistence of adding an ick-factor to each opera- here it's when Siegfried pries the ring from Brunnhilde ala what she did with Wotan and Erda in Siegfried. Why does she have to go there?

The highlight of Act 1 was the scene with Brunnhilde and Waltraute, which Karanas delivered with impressive urgency and mesmerizing grace.

At intermission I had the good fortune to run into Rosine Stoltz, whom I last espied at the LA Ring and we caught up and laid plans for a future rendezvous.

"I'm the only one who apparently isn't getting laid in this story, unless my dad counts!"

Okay so so far I know this reads like I'm not really enjoying this but it is Götterdämmerung and all this aside, I actually am enjoying it, though perhaps not as much as I'd like. All this changes in Act 2, which I think is just brilliant from almost start to finish. Not quite from the start, as it begins with Hagen and Gutrune watching television on his bed, which for some reason brought to my mind "an old black ram is tupping your white ewe." More Zambello ickiness. This is even more pronounced when next thing you know Alberich (Gordon Hawkins) climbs into Hagen's bed for their one scene together and Hawkins just isn't doing it for me- his voice is no match for Silvestrelli's, even though Silvestrelli is singing into his pillow. After these little bits of nastiness, totally unnecessary for the story, Hagen gets to make his announcement, perhaps the most thrilling part of the opera, my favorite part at least, and his call summoning the Gibichungs is thrilling.  The choreography in this scene is superb visually and the male chorus sounds fantastic. This is what I wanted to see and hear. Stemme enters the scene and finally lets her voice loose and it soars gloriously. It's also during this act that Zambello illustrates the parallels between Siegfried and Hagen, both bred for the same purpose, which actually worked, and the orchestra finally got it together and everything came together fabulously. Siegfried is a total douche and Brunnhilde gets really, really pissed off.  When Stemme reveals that she left Siegfried's back vulnerable to attack she's chilling in her vengeance.Everyone onstage is doing their bit and doing it well.  That is until Brunnhilde, Hagen, and Gunther all swear an oath on Hagen's spear to bring Siegfried down and suddenly the three of them just stand and deliver. Ugh. Two steps forward, now go back, all they way back to 1965. Jane Eaglen would have moved more during this moment- everyone just turned to stone. And yes, as you may have read elsewhere, Stemme's costume during this act is a disaster of the first order- and why they hell was she still wearing boots with it?

Stemme and Storey: "You're sleeping with her?"

During the second intermission Rosine bought me a drink, claiming she owed me one from LA last spring. I didn't argue and listened attentively while she shared her thoughts with me on what we had just seen and heard, all of which I agreed with, mostly because she's brilliant.

Act 3 opens with the Rheinmaidens collecting plastic bottles from the banks of the river and visually it's pretty arresting. Sadly, that's the last great visual for the rest of the show as all of a sudden the lack of money and concept are laid bare for all to see during the final act. This is ameliorated in no small degree by the fact that the singers and orchestra are now going full-bore, so it's not as bad as it could be, but conceptually Act 3 is a total failure and small mis-steps and errors litter the path all the way to the end of the world as we know it. Also, there's more silly license with the translations as "ich geb' ihn euch, gonnt ihr mir Lust" doesn't really translate into the English equivalent of "... if I can bang the three of you."

The hunting party scene has swords and rifles, but that's been done before. Hagen plunges his spear into Siegfried's back and when we get to the Funeral March... there's nothing. The scrim comes down and there is nothing to see but clouds or something- I don't really remember because I was watching the orchestra during this part because during one of the most important, poignant parts of the opera Zambellow gives us NOTHING to watch. On top of that, Runnicles decides to play the march slowly, robbing it of a lot of its dramatic effect.

Back at the Gibiching hall, Siegfried's body is unceremoniously wheeled in on a cart and Gutrune gets to start her evolution into a real character, thankfully no longer dressed as Anna Nicole. For the remainder of the opera, Gutrune acts as Brunnhilde's attendant, which is an interesting feminist statement on Zambello's part and it works rather well, redeeming a character who has been interpreted pretty shabbily up until this point.

Siegfried's body is literally dumped over the edge, which is kind of cool, and then doused with gasoline (like he did Mime and Fafner) and lit aflame, but then every one in the balcony got to see Siegfried in his bright orange hunting outfit get up and scamper offstage. Wait- isn't he supposed to be dead? Please, please, don't let us see Siegfried become a zombie and run offstage!

At gotterdammerung, when Brunnhilde takes a torch to burn down the house (there is no horse, naturally), the torch went out before she made it across the stage (distracting), but then when everything is supposed to burn, the world erupting, dissolving into flame, the ending is just so-so, with no real sense of catharsis visually. Then a boy enters bearing an Ash sapling (how symbolic!) and plants it in a hole on the stage. The end.

Still, Stemme's final moments were stunning and when she appeared onstage alone for the first curtain call I don't think I've ever heard a more thunderous round of applause in the house. It was huge. The ovations lasted for several minutes as the production team and the entire orchestra appeared onstage for applause. Despite all of its shortcomings, and no "American" theme present at all during the final chapter, it was mostly a fantastic performance. All in all, the new San Francisco Opera Ring is a winner.

Brian- it was great to see you.

Who is Jessica Chastain and why have I never seen her before?

Chad Newsome, Penelope and I went to go see Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life on Saturday and we all had a different reaction to it. Chad liked it. Penelope didn't. We all agreed it was extremely indulgent and beautifully shot. They agreed to a lesser extent with my newly discovered belief that Jessica Chastain may be the most beautiful woman currently working in film today.

I admired the film with reservations- at times 2001's Star Child seemed poised to appear onscreen at any moment, at others it felt like I was watching a kinder, gentler version of Enter the Void. I spent a good deal of the film trying to make up my mind which of the three kids Sean Penn is supposed to be and wondering why the third child often disappeared from the story. It's a narrative disaster and a masterpiece of cinematography. It's a beautiful case of what makes cinema a distinct, unique medium for story-telling that most directors would never envision, much less attempt. That's reason enough to see it, though the poor sound and smallish screen at Landmark's Embarcadero Theater makes it a poor showcase for such carefully crafted work. It should be shown in a better-equipped house.

There's more to say (especially about the beautiful home Brad Pitt and Chastain live in at the beginning of the film) but I'm meeting Brian for breakfast before Gotterdammerung unfolds this afternoon at the opera house, so it will have to wait, along with so many other things.

The Oregonian

Calvin Lee Reeder's The Oregonian is one of the strangest films I've seen in a long time. If you were to put the shiny shotgun to my head that True Blood's Lindsay Pulsipher totes around for a good portion of the film and forced me to describe it I would say imagine Eraserhead's baby grows up to be a normal looking woman who takes a Walkabout after a car crash and finds herself in Dante's Inferno accompanied by her own Virgil in an Oscar the Grouch costume (or maybe he's a fuzzy Gumby whose head has been caved in?). Still, that would leave out the scary lady, the excrutiating noises, the vomiting, the blond man and much, much more.


The Oregonian is slow, genuinely scary at moments, and populated with some of the creepiest characters you've ever seen onscreen who shouldn't be but are. It's just plain weird and I would say it's destined for cult status. Maria Gostrey, if there was ever a movie that had your name all over it, this is it. I think I want to see it again. The next screening at Another Hole in the Head is Thursday, June 16,  at 7:20 PM.