Opera Criticism in ‘The Best of All Possible Worlds’
Memoirs on My First Opera Season
This essay was published in Nemunas magazine on the 21st of July 2019, and translated into Lithuanian.
I’m now finishing my first opera season as an international opera critic. During this year I wrote about thirty reviews for three publications and started researching for writing two big articles about the problems of the industry. But the more I write about the opera world, the more problematic I find sharing my critical opinion.
Far behind repertory stagnation, gatekeepers, merciless directors, and other serious issues, we are quietly missing the crisis of criticism. And it’s nothing about unprofessional writers or loyalty to singers and opera houses.
It is about two most important components — the opinions and the medium for their distribution.
Part One: What’s on Us?
When I started to write about opera, I got an additional course in Music Theory from the University of Birmingham. I thought refreshing my knowledge was really important. So I could describe what I’ve seen more confidently. Go, watch, review. That’s an opera criticism, as is. And I’ve adored some perfect examples of this: complex, with numerous details about singing, acting, and conducting, balanced with special terms, and not confusing. And yet, they contained nothing in the background. Nothing, that could affect the industry as a whole.
Critics lacked complex vision. The reviews, sharing something more than a professional opinion about the performance — some conclusions made on the basis of experience and confirmed by what’s just been seen were very rare.
But isn’t it a responsibility only opera critics could take? To watch and estimate the general progress of the entire industry. Aren’t we those who have both proper knowledge and the ability to describe and discuss problems in the best way? Why do most of us, critics, avoid doing this?
When I see another performance, I always recall some previous operas I’ve seen and find connections. Together they always reveal some common issues. Something bigger than the success or failure of one particular production. And then, I do spend half of my article discussing this notable problem. Though I never judge. I try to ask questions. I try to represent different perspectives as I see them. I can find a topic for a separate article after every performance I’ve seen in my life, but should I? Should I write another big piece, trying to catch attention to this problem out of nowhere, when I have a vivid example illustrating my thoughts? So I find it more accessible for an audience [and accessibility is extremely important] if I include those related topics in my review.
I’m not saying to put your extra thoughts in your every review. I’m saying, show what you have more. In your articles, in your lectures, in your talks.
Don’t you feel like this or don’t you feel like doing this?
You will say, I know you will because I had some talks like this before, that you haven’t noticed any trends besides some obvious ones. I’ll say — you need to study. You’ll say that you’ve been doing this job for 20 years and my approach doesn’t work for you. I’ll remind you that the world is changing, and the art is reflective.
I’ll ask you to tell me about #metoo from the perspective of opera. You’ll say about women in the industry, about those who’ve been hurt. I’ll ask if that’s it. You’ll remember some miserable female characters, but nothing related to the general progress of the industry though. I won’t argue. I’ll ask about Calixto Bieito. You’ll roll up your eyes. Easy! He’s a monster! There’s always something offensive in his violent productions…
I’ll recall November evening in 2018 when I rushed into Opera Bastille straight from the airport. With the last call, I was making my way through the line of opera critics to my seat in the middle of a row. I was a black oversized sweater, messy hair, tired, carrying my backpack. They were noble, refined, male, fifty-plus. they gave me an appraising look, with no approval. And they were right, I was different.
That was the opening night of “Simon Boccanegra”, a new production by Calixto Bieito, featuring Ludovic Tezier and Maria Agresta.
“…In his production, Calixto Bieito decided to bring to the stage and highlight the character of deceased Maria Fiesco. When you see her in the prologue, Jacopo Fiesco drags a plastic sheet with a girl on it. She is still alive. She seems no more than a victim of his. She is moving but isn’t resisting. […] In the next scene, she is already dead, but stands up and starts her senseless existence on stage almost all the time, half-naked, receiving just anxiety or ignorance from everyone else. Even Simon, after his own death, heads toward her but also abandons her.”
That’s how I later described the most offensive part of this production. Sure, my experienced colleagues did the same. And then, they were stuck. As they were stuck during the premiere.
One of the critics questioned loudly during the interval, “Isn’t it disgusting?”
“Offensive,” I corrected quietly to myself.
My neighbor leaned to me, “Do you know, what to say about it? How to justify your opinion against the big name of the director?”
“I do,” that was a promise.
“I’m happy you’re here then, we need you to say something,” he left me pop-eyed.
So I would conclude the description of that performance and quite likely the whole review with questions on eternal values in the modern world — in the opera world, expecting if not to start a dialog, then to provoke some thoughts:
“A woman, a lover of the main hero, a mother of his beloved child, a great loss for her father, a symbol of memories. Maria represents all of these virtues in the libretto itself. But here we see her as a victim, before and after death — weak, ignored, with no goal and reason to exist, naked, autopsied and surrounded by rats on the curtain during the interval. What this representation was supposed to mean? Is it the image of a woman we need in contemporary opera? Moreover, how does this support the themes of unity that encapsulate the opera itself?”
No one else asked any questions or made any conclusions in their reviews. They were short. They punctuated: Terrible. Disgusting. Wasted. And then, they returned to describing a beautiful singing.
I wasn’t sad, because I remembered us walking down the stairs after the performance. I was sharing my ideas modestly, my colleagues were promising not to copy. I wouldn’t mind, in fact, and yet they wanted to share their own opinions.
Suddenly, one of them asked, “What should we study about that?”
I was glad to hear this question.
I said, “You should study the modern world.”
We laughed, and he asked for something “petite” to start.
I suggested #metoo but from an art perspective. “And then,” I added, “rotate those terms. And study more.”
Short and easy to remember. Not that easy to do.
But I assumed they would find what to say next season. And I had to rotate the perspective already in a month, talking about how weak argumentation could harm feminism in the example of a new production of “Otello” at Bavarian State Opera.
“The character I really feel sorry for is the victim — Desdemona,” — [director Amelie] Niermeyer said. I wonder, why having all the instruments to highlight any shade of Desdemona’s personality, the director decided to show this proud, true, and noble woman as just a victim, deserving pity?
Perhaps, Niermeyer tried to bust the problem, depriving it of “unnecessary details.” Details like a social context and love itself. And what was shown was just darkness with no shades.
Instead of blackface, the director turned the whole opera into black.
In this review, I had to defend a historical and social context, proving that you cannot change the source for the sake of your ill-conceived ideas. I also advocated feminism as a reasonable and relevant idea against what was shown in the performance.
After the first half of a season, I caught myself thinking I was writing about women’s rights way too often. I didn’t want to be branded this way. But instead of avoiding the topic, I decided to study more and open my eyes to the bigger picture. Indie opera, local theatres, new approaches. And this worked out perfectly.
There would be many general problems to discuss in my following reviews: the big topics of the small operas, the importance of the inner match to the role, the external perspective of the directors, acting and dramaturgy, sustainability, national mentality, popularity and status, experiments, and gatekeepers.
Also, many of them would lead to the greatest one — the lack of open communication in the industry. Solving this problem would be the long-run objective of my future research.
But even before reaching this goal, I see clearly — an opera criticism is an essential tool to build these connections, but only if we use it to the full.
Part Two: Sharing Optimism
“To praise is not less important than to point out mistakes or think about trends,” my editor told me once.
“Why not,” I remember I thought, “Optimism is a good thing. It motivates. It gives support. It unites.”
The main problem of optimism is that it’s hard to sell. We love to be optimistic, but we don’t want to pay for it. The drama was always traded better. Until one day, when the entire world and opera media among others have become a part of social media. When coverage and spreading have grown into a new currency. And here comes the time of optimism.
You might even think that optimism was a point in this heading. It foxed you. “Sharing” was a thing.
People now follow their favorite singers and theatres. So they choose whom to follow, instead of what to read. And if any media, especially a new one wants to be read by thousands, these official pages may provide support. In the beginning, it worked. But soon it caused a conflict of interest — while the goal of critics was to form and share an opinion, the publications worked in purpose to be read widely. You can guess what singers’ official pages prefer to share. Their “likes” and “shares” settled of the conflict. Not in favor of critics.
I just got back from Paris, where I had five events in seven days. My last review was published a week after the performance. I was tired and it took a long time to start writing. But I was sure about what I was going to write once I left the Philharmonie de Paris. And I knew it would be no praise.
“I strive to bring out the best in myself, but I also know that perfection does not exist. And to be honest: I don’t care. Neither in myself nor in others. In my eyes, perfectionism is an unhealthy and cramped urge. Because you cannot force perfection. Compare it to lying in the water. Whoever relaxes, who dares to surrender, stays afloat. He who fights drowns.”
I read this quote on Barbara Hannigan’s official Facebook page, two days after “The Rake’s Progress” in Paris. I was by a large desk at a coffee shop just back in Vilnius and laughed bitterly.
“What a terrible excuse,” I thought.
That’s how I started my review of Stravinsky’s opera, conducted by talented soprano Barbara Hannigan and featuring young singers from her project Equilibrium. No praise, but I felt like it was necessary to write that. To confront this beautiful idea in the very beginning, when it was still easy to change this approach a bit.
Before writing a review, I got pictures from Hannigan’s agent Samantha. Being kind and helpful as always, she hoped I really enjoyed the performance. So I could enjoy, she thought? I started to doubt myself.
I wrote with great respect about the values Hannigan tries to bring to the industry. And her ideas to make singers respect and value themselves. But I also wrote about how important to estimate the level and mastery and to keep it up. That singer’s harmony and confidence don’t make an excellent performance. And that time for yourself cannot replace the rehearsals.
For sure, neither Barbara Hannigan nor Equilibrium ever shared my review. And I understand why. But also Operawire, my own media hasn’t posted a link on their Facebook page.
*A small fact: all the reviews of mine were highlighted on Operawire’s pages in the last 5 months.
Another [not modest] fact: I find this review worthy and well-written. The second best from my Paris trip.
No sense to share, I concluded.
The number of readers of this article has collapsed compared to my usual statistics. Though I was ok with it. All I wanted at that point was to read my book.
The problem appeared the next week when it was time to publish and spread my interview with Barbara Hannigan. This article was timed to Hannigan’s debut as a festival musical director at the Ojai Festival in the US. And the material seemed to be very important. Samantha did her best to make this interview happen, while the soprano was very busy on tour.
“We are delighted Operawire will publish this!” she wrote.
Being aware of the rules of the game, I wrote to my editor leaving the Philharmonie. I asked him to publish the interview before the review. But we had a schedule, so he refused.
The interview was issued a week before the Ojai Festival opening.
You can find numerous interviews about Ojai on Barbara Hannigan’s page lately. Mostly European newspapers. But not a single word from one of the influential American opera media.
A week passed, and I found I didn’t feel bitter about Hannigan materials anymore. Once got my articles inaccessible for an extended audience, I could look back at them and take them as a part of my own heritage, the thoughts that represented me as a critic. And I felt glad about both — what I said and the fact that I said it.
I remembered that I got into a similar situation previously when I tried to share my opinion about the Lithuanian National Opera this spring when I revisited a performance of “Madama Butterfly”. After the terrible performance in winter, I actually swore never to attend Anthony Minghella’s production at this theatre again, but I changed my mind after some recommendations from insiders.
The performance was high-grade. Rather opposite to the winter edition. When I tried to uncover the reason I was told that it just happens, it could be even better or way worse. And they are aware of weak places and sometimes make some changes. I examined if they really meant that no one tried to control the process to bring sustainability. No one did.
I came home and wrote an article about this absurd problem, also mentioning the last performance.
In two days I would find my article “LNO Brings Minghella’s Production from Hell to Heaven. With no control” published, with both my criticism of local theatre and headline halved. The reason was simple — the problem of sustainability and control in Lithuanian opera was nothing on a world scale. At the same time, the successful performance of an internationally acclaimed production [Minghella’s “Madama Butterfly” is performed only at the ENO, Met, and LNO] was definitely a thing.
I was suggested to share the complete article with locals. So I did. I posted the full text and mentioned some people in my post. No one shared that post. I’m not sure if I even received any likes. I thought I failed with my idea to reach anyone’s mind. Until I received private feedback.
“You had no pity for the theatre, huh? But the truth should be said,” a highly acclaimed Lithuanian conductor wrote to me.
The next day I got another one and later, about a dozen more. It turned out that everyone had read it. I saw another way of sharing. Rumors still work no worse than Facebook.
I’ve been thinking a lot. Where does the balance lie? Was it really important for me if people shared my thoughts and convictions or not? I used to pay attention to that.
After all, I write to be read.
“To be read,” I repeated aloud. Now and then. To have my thoughts, my understanding, and my beliefs published and read. Maybe by a single person or two, who can agree or not. But I’ll do my best to make them think, rethink, remake, or even change something.
I’m now finishing my first season with no doubts about what I do and why. Isn’t it optimistic?
