Nobody has ever praised Verdi’s La forza del destino for its continuity. The action moves from one country to another and is spread over years and years, sometimes in a nobleman’s home, then an inn, later in a monastery, on a battlefield, then back at the monastery. When our leading lady exits at the end of Act 2 she is not seen again until the end of the opera, almost two hours later. The series of coincidences are absurd – characters in the same place don’t recognize each other, of all the battlefields in Europe the tenor and baritone – enemies – bump into one another, all the protagonists meet at the monastery at the end. Despite an interlude or two depicting the jollity of soldiers when they’re not fighting, the whole affair is dismal. Verdi has added a “comic” character, Fra Melitone, but I’ve yet to meet anyone who welcomes his appearances.
In the Metropolitan Opera's new production, the overriding gloom is underscored by Mariusz Treliński’s dark direction. Treliński’s concept, on Boris Kudlicka’s sets, brings the opera into the 20th century. The first scene, before the accidental murder of Leonora’s father by her lover, Don Alvaro, now takes place at the elegant Hotel Calatrava. A revolving turntable takes us into an impressive office with a grand wooden desk, a plush sitting room, and a large party room with Art Deco details. No longer a Marquis, Leonora’s father is a military dictator of sorts, with guests who almost goose-step and almost offer the Nazi salute. Projections of fire implying military strength are seen on a back wall. War has broken out and is everywhere in Bartek Macias' projections; confusion, death and destruction take up the stage before each act. Barbed wire, a dirty hospital, a depressing series of tents, and eventually, total destruction, almost dystopian for the last act, which takes place amidst a homeless population in a bombed-out subway station, unfold in front of us. Like it or not, it’s very effective.
This is the first new Forza at the Met in almost 30 years. Treliński has said that the death of the Marquis destroys familial order and chaos ensues. But the Marquis was not a gentle Patriarch and, in this production, his “presumed” replacement, Padre Guardiano (performed by the same singer) is nasty and unkind; he’s harsh with Leonora when she seeks refuge and has her scourged before being accepted. Leonora is just out of luck, finding the monastery after her car crashes. Bleak, bleak.
Jumble or not, the opera contains some of Verdi’s most sweeping arias and duets and requires great singers. It is scored heavily; these are not the voices for Un ballo in maschera. Instead, they look forward to Aida and Otello. Alvaro is a dark spinto, filled with brooding moments as well as high-flying outbursts. Brian Jagde, fast becoming a Met favorite, filled the bill; talk at intermission was about which other contemporary tenor might sing it better; Jonas Kaufmann was the only candidate. Jagde’s ringing tone, perhaps not truly Italianate, fine legato and fidelity to the score were a joy, though one wished for some nuanced singing below mezzo-forte; there was none.
Igor Golovatenko as Carlo, Leonora’s vengeful brother, proved to be a real Verdi baritone, with a maniacal sense of purpose, a dark burnished tone and bright high notes. His duets with Alvaro – three exciting crowd-pleasers – were sung with precision and ardency. Solomon Howard sang with authority as both the Marquis and Padre Guardiano. His roaming omnipresence (as the dead Marquis) in the final scene was a figure of doom, not comfort, looming over the others. The casting of Patrick Carfizzi as Fra Melitone, the foul-tempered clergyman who feeds the beggars and is supposed to amuse, was luxurious – no foolish buffo here. Judit Kutasi was Preziosilla, making her debut in one of Verdi’s ugliest roles. Costumed as a cross between the Queen of the Night and Marlene Dietrich, she was graceless in a graceless part.
But all ears were on Norwegian soprano Lise Davidsen. Handsome and statuesque in purple evening gown for Act 1 and increasingly ragtag as the opera went on, her sheer sound was astonishing – big, focused, steady at mezza-voce, laser-like at forte, an ideal Leonora. Her voice is not truly as lushly Mediterranean as, say, Renata Tebaldi’s or even the non-Italian Leontyne Price, but it soars and soars in a role that's not easy.
Yannick Nézet-Séguin led like the bundle of compact energy he is, occasionally misjudging tender moments: the sad clarinet solo before Alvaro’s aria was lugubrious rather than full of dreamy longing. The big moments were splendid, the duets had real suspense, and the awful camp scenes (Preziolzilla telling fortunes; playboy-like bunnies doing the Charleston) got more respect than they deserve. The Guardiano–Leonora scene was pious and ravishing despite the element of cruelty crammed into the priest’s personality.
