Rossini L’italiana in Algeri:  Seattle Opera, soloists, cond. Edoardo Müller, dir. Chris Alexander, set designer Robert Innes Hopkins, costume designer David Woolard, Marion Oliver Mc Caw Hall, Seattle, 21.10.2006 (BJ)

 

 

Directed by Chris Alexander, who last season fashioned a barrel of laughs with his Fledermaus, Seattle Opera’s first-ever production of L’italiana in Algeri not surprisingly turned into a classic–and highly successful–example of opera as sheer uninhibited romp. The company’s General Director, Speight Jenkins, had succeeded in bringing to Seattle not only the physical production previously mounted in Santa Fe, but also two principals from its original presentation, Stephanie Blythe and William Burden.

Reviewing Ms. Blythe’s performance as Offenbach’s Grand Duchess of Gerolstein in Philadelphia a while ago, I described it as “an assumption of complete theatrical conviction, delicious wit, and unfailing vocal splendor,” and happily the same may be said with equal conviction of her Isabella in Algeri. Her mezzo-soprano voice seems, indeed, to be in better estate than ever, deployed with magisterial freedom and accuracy of articulation, lustrous and beautiful in the upper register, and at the bottom thrillingly resonant yet without a trace of harshness. Dramatically, too, her portrayal of a liberated woman in advance of her time was a delight, and created the feeling that she was, in the most amiable way possible, playing herself.

As her true love, Lindoro, William Burden seemed at first a shade out of sorts, with a sprinkling of strangulated tones marring his usually mellifluous tenor, but the second act found him much more in the vein, and his looks always serve him well in romantic leads. Making a company debut as the egregious Mustafà, the Italian bass-baritone Simone Alberghini played the besotted Bey to the hilt, and displayed a splendidly rich and flexible voice, even when asked by the director to sing while skipping rope–a feat I have never seen attempted before, but which he achieved with apparent nonchalance.

I was not able to see the alternative cast, in which those three roles were taken by other singers, but the supporting line-up–the same in both casts–was excellent. Sally Wolf was a sympathetic Elvira, George Mosley a nicely characterized Haly, Earle Patriarco suitably exasperating as the clueless Taddeo, and Melissa Parks a particularly strong-voiced Zulma.

Aside from some delectable solos from the principal oboe and other woodwinds, and some exceptionally clean horn playing, I found the orchestral contribution under Edoardo Müller less impressive than it has been in other Seattle productions lately. Fortes were a little underpowered, and ensemble came close to falling apart in one or two especially giddy passages. Visually, on the other hand, everything was not just diverting but also tidy and precise. Robert Innes Hopkins’s ingenious set was an absolute winner, with a kind of over-stage, hinged at the back that unfolded upwards at need to provide a handsome back wall.

Was it all, a serious-minded reader may be tempted to ask, played too pervasively for laughs? I don’t think so. Though I hesitate, conscious of the risk of pretentiousness, to make the suggestion, I found myself suspecting that treating the Bey as a figure almost purely of fun made a substantial political point. In a kind of comedic version of Lord Acton’s famous observation about the absolutely corrupting effect of absolute power, we were confronted with a ruler who, by very virtue of his absoluteness, placed himself outside the realm of rational behavior. And that is an important human truth. It may not have been present in the conscious minds of that inveterate joker Rossini or of his librettist Angelo Anelli. But it may be said to obtrude itself rather convincingly through the painless surface of this otherwise zany comedy.

 

 

Bernard Jacobson