PAOLO E FRANCESCA -- ZANDONAIANA

Speranza

 Peter G. Davis in New York Magazine:

SWEET SCENE

It
must have taken some nerve on James Levine's part to engineer a new production
of Riccardo Zandonai's Francesca da Rimini at the
Metropolitan Opera.

Even before the first performance, superior beings began to
sniff.

Why resurrect this moldy fig by a second-rate composer from the
post-Puccini generation?

Isn't it bad enough that the Met occasionally wastes
its time on Cilea's Adriana Lecouvreur?

That work, for most critics, more than
adequately sums up early-twentieth-century Italian verismo and a trashy operatic
era best forgotten.
Well, let them fume.

In a broad sense, the reappearance
of Francesca at the Met after 66 years can be justified as part of Levine's
commendable ambition to explore significant areas of the- repertory that the
company has either neglected or completely ignored.

Personally, I welcome any
opportunity for further acquaintance, having developed a soft spot for Francesca
long ago, when the score and later a recording fell into my teenage hands.

The
first production I saw a gorgeous one in 1959 at La Scala, with Magda Olivero
and Mario Del Monaco remains a vivid, treasured memory.

For me, the astonishing
part about the Met's Francesca da Rimini is not so much
the fact that it was done at all, but that it was treated so sensitively and
with such a keen appreciation for the special requirements of verismo and a
practically vanished performing tradition.

Admittedly, Francesca exudes an
aura of decadence, but no more so than the stage works of Richard Strauss.

Some
will always find the sweet perfumes of these operas noxious, a slightly morbid
aroma compounded in Zandonai's case by Gabriele D'Annunzio's extravagant
libretto.

Drenched in flowery verbal imagery, this retelling of the tragic
Paolo-and-Francesca affair mentioned in Dante's Inferno is so full of gaudy
grandiloquence and D'Annunzio's bizarre cult-of-the-beautiful aesthetic that
even Italians find much of the text incomprehensible.

Zandonai was one of the
few composers to base an opera on a D'Annunzio drama—possibly the only one who
were not defeated by the poet's high-flown language.

Much help in this respect
came from Zandonai's publisher, Tito Ricordi, who skillfully reduced the
original play to its barest essentials without sacrificing the characters'
driving obsessions or the lush Renaissance atmosphere.

The Act I curtain falls
on a scene of sheer operatic magic.

Surrounded by their retinues, Paolo and
Francesca meet for the first time and their love is kindled without either
uttering a word; an offstage female chorus floats its sensuous melody over a
ravishing orchestral texture of shimmering strings punctuated by the archaic
sounds of a solo lute, piaffer, and throbbing viola pomposa, as Francesca offers
Paolo a rose.

Zandonai was master of such delicate mood painting, but
he
could also graphically depict the drama's desperate, brutal passions while
never disregarding the voice or its capacity for sustained lyrical
expression.

The Met must have spent a fortune on Francesca
da Rimini, but there is no way to skimp on this opera and do it right. If
one element is slighted sets, costumes, casting, conducting, or direction—the
entire fragile illusion collapses. With their intricate decorative details, the
massive sets by Ezio Frigerio serve the work exquisitely, conjuring up striking
tableaux of thirteenth-century Rimini. The flowery courtyard, an awesome citadel
armed for battle, and richly furnished castle apartments irresistibly draw the
audience into the opera's romantic milieu. Piero Faggioni's graceful direction
strikes a perfect balance between veristic and poetically stylized movement; the
long scene in Act III, as the two lovers' repressed sexual attraction becomes
increasingly physical, evolves choreographically, in a riveting sequence of
potent visual images.

As Francesca, Renata Scotto has found her ideal role,
one that responds naturally to the fascinating chiaroscuro of her unusual timbre
and vibrates with the dramatic intensity her special stage personality can
generate when all is well a great performance in a tradition that is now hers by
right of training and temperament. Paolo is not an especially grateful part, but
Placido Domingo sang it glamorously, while Cornell MacNeil as the betrayed
Gianciotto roared, appropriately enough, like a wounded animal. Levine conducted
far more discreetly than he often does when leading an opera for the first time,
and his affectionate concern for the music told in every measure. I could
complain about some of the casting in the many important smaller roles, but I
won't. The main point is that the Met championed an underdog opera, threw its
considerable resources behind it, and scored a creditable artistic
achievement.