Immortal Moments, Intermittently

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The New York Sun

Massenet’s “Manon” – not to be confused with Puccini’s “Manon Lescaut” – has some of the most beloved music in opera. I think, particularly, of two soprano arias: “Adieu, notre petite table,” a haunting G-minor beauty; and the Gavotte, kind of a showy party piece. And I think of the two tenor arias: “Le Reve” (“The Dream”), a piece of gentle D-major perfection; and “Ah, fuyez, douce image,” a romantic outburst in E-flat major.


You’ve wept over Sills and Gedda in this opera, haven’t you?


The Metropolitan Opera presented “Manon” on Tuesday night, the second night of its new season. In the title role was one of the great Massenet singers of today, Renee Fleming. She is not just a great Massenet singer, but a formidable “French” singer all around: She knows the language, she adopts the sensibility, and she makes you cherish her. She was near her best on Tuesday night, meeting every vocal challenge with ease. I wonder whether a voice so luscious has ever handled coloratura so adeptly.


She was not successful, however, in “Adieu, notre petite table”: It was slow and stretched, lacking body, lacking rhythmic sense. Also, she accented the second syllable in “table” oddly. (At least she did so repeatedly.) But in the Gavotte, she was thrilling: coquettish, musical, delicious. She produced bellclear Bs, and two serious Ds (the second of which was just a soupcon flat). This piece was putty in her hands, and so was the audience.


All in all, she did what can be done with Manon. A top singer, in one of her best roles, in the prime of her career – how bad could it have been?


In the role of Des Grieux was one of the clutch of Latin American tenors now before the public: Marcelo Alvarez, an Argentinian. He owns a beautiful instrument, of rather medium weight (a most desirable weight). It seems to be at its best when it is at its highest and loudest. Mr. Alvarez’s French is a little funny, but that is forgivable. What was truly disappointing was his singing of “Le Reve”: The rhythm was a mess, remote from the orchestra, and remote from Massenet’s score. Everything about this aria was clumsy – except for the last note, which was ably sustained. “Ah, fuyez” had rhythmic problems as well, and it was too big in the early going: Mr. Alvarez left no room to build. But there was no denying the passion with which he sang the aria.


Incidentally, he and Miss Fleming have recorded “Manon,” for Sony, under the baton of Jesus Lopez-Cobos.


The Met had hired a solid cast all through, a standout in which was Jean-Paul Fouchecourt, singing Guillot de Morfontaine. He is kind of a character actor among opera singers, apt to steal a show. If he did not steal on Tuesday night, he certainly threatened. He is amusing even while standing still, with his mouth shut. Jean-Luc Chaignaud was serviceable as Lescaut, Manon’s cousin, and William Shimell made a fine De Bretigny. Julien Robbins, as Count des Grieux, was rich-voiced and burnished.


Leading all this in the pit was the aforementioned Maestro Lopez-Cobos. He had an excellent night, showing no lethargy, and brooking no excess. There is something nice about a conductor who is equal parts tidiness and enthusiasm. If his singers sometimes departed from him, that wasn’t his fault. And the Met’s orchestra played superbly – for example, at the beginning of Act III, Scene 2, with its churchy warmth. If I started singling out players, I would go on for a while, but I should mention a ravishing cello solo.


The production is Jean-Pierre Ponnelle’s, from 1987. It is utterly appropriate, which may seem like weak praise – but in the opera world, it is not. Attend enough inappropriate productions, and you will appreciate appropriate. “Manon” is a work of French Romanticism, and the production reflects that. Strange, huh? The first scene of Act III is quite literally a circus, complete with tightrope walker. It also has a very fancy French poodle. If you’re going to have French Romanticism, you might as well have French poodles.


Some of us think that “Manon” suffers from stretches of emptiness between immortal moments. But so what? How many of us create an immortal moment, ever?


The New York Sun

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