Incomparable!

Do You Hear What I Hear?

To those who still believe in the magic of the season:
the Merriest of Christmas.

Pensée de la Semaine

Oscar Wilde: “Hate blinds people.
Love can read the writing on the remotest star.”

"Pasquale" Telegram

BELATED STOP CHICAGO'S LYRIC PRESENTS PASQUALE STOP DUBBED POPCORN AND PASQUALE LAST SUNDAY STOP GEARED FOR CHILDREN AGES 5-12 STOP ILDREBRANDO D'ARCANGELO WAS VERY FUNNY AS TITLE ROLE STOP MARLIS PETERSEN AS NORINA WAS EVEN FUNNIER STOP COREY CRIDER AS MALATESTA WAS HILARIOUS STOP STEPHEN LORD LED THE ORCHESTRA STOP CIRCUS-LIKE AMBIANCE STOP THE KIDS WENT HOME HAPPY STOP 

Final Masterpiece

One of the last dresses that YSL designed in 2002, the year of his retirement. In the show, it was worn by the Russian model Eugenia Volodina, as seen above. It is made of silk chiffon, in a shade of blue so beguilingly lovely that Giotto himself would have been mesmerized. As the photo shows, the dress is strapless, draped and caught at the side with a perky bow in silk organza. Masterful. Sublime. Saint Laurent.

Beauty Diva

Irene Esser, 21, Venezuela’s representative in the forthcoming Miss Universe pageant in Las Vegas, being interviewed by a Spanish talk show a few weeks ago. Words are inadequate to accurately describe the beauty of this jaw-dropper. If she doesn’t win, there’s something seriously corrupt with the Miss Universe organization. If she does win, she would grabbed the headlines, the likes of which would make someone like the future queen of England green with envy, precisely because Ms. Esser would make her look like a royal nanny.

Runway Diva

Anna Bayle, fashion’s self-proclaimed First Asian Supermodel, was, in her glory days throughout the 1980s, one of high fashion’s most sought-after faces. She walked like no one else, whether on the runways of Paris, Milan, Rome, London, and New York. The 5’ 10”, Manila-born Ms. Bayle modeled for every major designer in the world: Saint Laurent, Christian Lacroix, Valentino, Thierry Mugler, Dior, Chanel, Givenchy, Versace, Oscar de la Renta, Michael Kors, Marc Jacobs, Calvin Klein, Mizrahi, et. al. And it was all because of her signature walk; a walk (above, it begins at :40.) that one New York Times critic described as though “she were crushing a cigarette butt with each step down the runway.” Ms. Bayle has long since retired, but through online videos of her triumphant years on the fashion stage, her exotic beauty and grace, but above all her inimitable walk, continue to inspire.

YSL: Pure Genius

Yves Saint Laurent haute couture, autumn/winter 1984. Violetta Sanchez, shot by Helmut Newton for French Harper’s Bazaar.

Divine Sarah

Sarah Vaughan. Unforgettable.

Ella Enchanted

The First Lady of Song. Pure Ella. Pure enchantment.

High Priestess of Soul

The Divine Ms. Nina Simone. The way she ends this song sent shivers down every erogenous zone of my body. One of the greatest frissons of my entire musical experience. Devastating.

A Thorougly-Modern Mess Redeemed By Love

Just a quick review of Werther, unveiled Sunday afternoon at LOoC. The production’s director, Francisco Negrin, must truly hate Massenet so deeply for him to have conceived such a pointless, heartless Werther. The spare, modernist sets, designed by Louis Désiré, did nothing to alleviate Negrin’s gloomy, preposterous staging. Thankfully, the singers were in top form. While tenor Matthew Polenzani, as the love-lorn Werther, did not quite steal the show as a truly great Werther must, he nevertheless sang the role with conviction that seemed to pour effortlessly out of him without resorting to clichéd gestures. He may not have compelled the audience to follow his lead by contemplating suicide in the name of unrequited love, but he gave a performance that was genuine and believable, vocally and physically; one never forgot, in listening to Polenzani, that Werther is a poet.

It was Werther’s beloved Charlotte, however, who made an indelible impression. Mezzo Sophie Koch’s voice is tailor-made for this role, like a Chanel jacket on Anna Wintour; it has the gleam of gossamer silk so finely spun that it seems ethereal. One could almost see the twinkle in her eyes when Werther declared his undying love. Her gestures alone, contained, graceful, suggested what her heart wanted to say, to Werther, to Albert, to me. Unbelievable to think that this performance was her first-ever foray onto the American operatic stage. Baritone Craig Verm was Albert as he should be portrayed: sensitive, alert to Charlotte’s feelings towards him, or lack thereof; a thoughtful portrayal of a thankless role. Soprano Kiri Deonarine as sister Sophie was charmingly naïve; Massenet would have been entranced. The orchestra, led by Andrew Davis, was often splendid, evoking the romance and beauty of Massenet's tear-jerker of a score that had the sweeping effect of a film score reminiscent of Max Steiner at his most feverish.

After the Rain



Happy Halloween!



The Past is Prologue

Verdi’s so-called “symphonic opera,” Simon Boccanegra, opened Monday night at Lyric Opera of Chicago. Boccanegra is hardly a staple in the repertory, but when it is performed—and given justice—one is struck at how familiar the opera seems, as reassuring as one’s own grandfather. I feel like I’ve been acquainted with it somehow, when in reality Monday’s prima was my first live exposure to this astonishing gem beyond the unsurpassable Abbado recording. Verdi, ever the master at tugging our heartstrings, compromised not a single note in bringing to life Boccanegra’s universal story, going so far as to revise his work some twenty-four years after its 1857 Venice premiere, transforming it at once into a very human drama that goes straight to all our hearts.

Baritone Thomas Hampson sang the title role. Amelia/Maria was soprano Krassimira Stoyanova. Tenor Frank Lopardo was Gabriele. Fiesco was bass Ferruccio Furlanetto. Baritone Quinn Kelsey was Paolo. All five principals offered riveting performances that were slightly marred by opening night imperfections, for which the evening’s conductor must take the blame. Under Andrew Davis’ baton, Verdi’s gorgeous score seemed bereft of eloquence that this music so desperately requires. Certain key moments in the drama such as the moving climax of the “recognition scene” between father and daughter went by without fanfare. Davis is not a Verdi conductor. The meat of this opera is, of course, the Council Chamber scene. Boccanegra without it is akin to Onegin without the Letter Scene. When everyone on stage (and pit) conspire to set this scene on fire, the effect is extraordinary, unlike anything in Verdi. Monday night’s rendition of this volcanic episode came close to setting the Lyric stage aflame. Stoyanova’s piercing cries of “pace” helped to ignite it, but was put out by the conductor’s unimaginative wand.

The Bulgarian soprano, who is making her Lyric début, sang her first and only aria, “Come in quest'ora bruna,” with mellifluous grace that recalled Mirella Freni’s golden-voiced Amelia, except that Stoyanova’s is more lachrymose in timbre than honeyed à la the beautiful Mirella. What was missing in Stoyanova’s voice is a Gheorghiu-style urgency; that, and some old-school diva abandon à la Millo, from whom she can take a masterclass. Hampson’s Boccanegra—vocally—is not one for the ages. There are no incidental joys to be had in listening to him. As there are no opportunities to bask in the warmth and beauty of the baritone voice, for his has none whatsoever; if it can be likened to an ice-cream flavor, it would have to be vanilla. But, as an artist, he says more about his character’s life story through his impeccable musicianship than could any Boccanegra with the voice of God. Looking pale and gaunt in his death scene, he was Boccanegra. Other cast members weren’t so convincing. Lopardo’s heroic Gabriele vocalized unabashedly, as though he were singing Lohengrin, cracking a note or two in the course of his duet with his betrothed. His voice is as unreliable as a weather forecast; in fact, it seemed to hover in the air like a traveling cloud that gave no hint whether it might rain or not. Kelsey was a domineering Paolo, in voice but more so in demeanor. Vocal honors must go to the Fiesco of Furlanetto. With a voice that could plunge the deepest ocean depths, he dominated the stage with his voice alone. After last season’s victorious Godunov, the Lyric stage is artistically richer with him on it. The rest of the cast were in fine form throughout a long evening of heavy, testosterone-fueled vocal matches.

The production, borrowed from Covent Garden, was directed by Elijah Moshinsky, with not a whiff of modernism about it. (After a disturbing David McVicar staging of Elektra now playing at Lyric, so much for the better!) The sets are handsome enough to be visually satisfying: imposing ivory pillars stood proudly like Genoese skyscrapers, while the Council Chamber interior resembled a D.C. memorial park. (See photo above, by Dan Rest.) The lighting by Jason Brown was evocative of the paintings of Georges de Latour; the stage looked as if it were lit by candlelight. The Peter J. Hall-designed costumes worn by the men were splendid: brocades and damasks in an autumnal palette of reds and oranges that seemed borrowed from Tintoretto. Amelia’s frock looked sedate in comparison to what her father wore, which could set any geisha an example in elegant carriage.