The Stars Come Out for Sills
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Late Sunday afternoon, the Metropolitan Opera staged a tribute to Beverly Sills, the great American soprano, who passed away in July. The house was full of people, and full of adoration. And many have noted the “irony” of this event: a Met celebration of Sills.
She made her Met debut late — in 1975, at age 46, when she had only a few years left in her career. (She’d been singing pretty much full-time since her mid-teens.) Why so late a debut? The Met’s general manager, Rudolf Bing, kept her out — for reasons that would fill a chapter in a psychology textbook. But eventually Bing left, and Sills came in.
The night of her debut, the audience went wild: The Brooklyn-born babe was at last appearing on her city’s most important operatic stage. After the final note had sounded, there was an 18-minute ovation; tears flowed. Sills would later write in her autobiography, “Mine may have been the only dry eyes in the place that night.” She had already done so much worldwide; the hour was so late.
But she had those few seasons at the Met, and, many years later, she became chairman of the Met’s board. She was mainly a City Opera gal: first a prima donna, then general director. But the Met was a part of her life, too.
In Sunday afternoon’s tribute, there were 10 speakers and four singers. For my taste, the ratio could have been reversed. But all 10 of the speakers were superb. That seems impossible, 10 being such a big number — but it’s true.
Before getting to the speakers, shall we have a little music criticism?
Plácido Domingo sang “Ombra mai fu,” from Handel’s “Xerxes,” accompanied at the piano by James Levine. He sang it in the lowish key of F. And he fished around for his first note. But he quickly got on track, singing with his usual confidence.
The aria was too slow and flaccid. But, really, how bad can Mr. Domingo be in this music? For the most part, he delivered heroic Handel — but he also floated the prettiest little high F you’ve ever heard.
Anna Netrebko, the Russian soprano, sang a rarity, at least in this country: Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Nightingale and the Rose (Oriental Romance).” She sang with an alluring sound, mixing dark and light. She also sang with considerable interpretive sensitivity. She displayed a hint of her Slavic throb, but did not overdo it. A class performance, all through.
John Relyea, the Canadian bassbaritone, offered Schubert’s “An die Musik.” Right out of the gates, the pianist, Craig Rutenberg, used a ton of rubato — discouraging. And Mr. Relyea was out of sorts: growly, contained, and heavy. That’s not him. And yet “An die Musik” was not unaffecting.
The fourth singer was Natalie Dessay, the French soprano, who will open the Met’s season in “Lucia di Lammermoor” next week. She sang a piece Sills herself would have sung: Strauss’s “Ich wollt ein Sträussleinbinden.”Unfortunately, Ms. Dessay, like Mr. Relyea, was not at her best. She was less accurate and less lyrical than she can be counted on to be. But, like Mr. Relyea, she was no failure. And Mr. Rutenberg accompanied limpidly and well.
How about those 10 speakers? Peter Gelb, the Met’s general manager, welcomed the audience. He was graceful and direct, acknowledging Rudi Bing’s error. The mayor, Michael Bloomberg, read a fantastically well-written and opera-knowledgeable speech. At the end, he choked up, as so many speakers would.
Barbara Walters said, “Beverly Sills was my best friend.” She also said that, in her later years, Sills had sung a little to herself — for example in the shower. That was news to me, and I was glad to hear it!
Carol Burnett spoke soberly and movingly, recalling that famous CBS special from 1976: “Sills and Burnett at the Met.” Frank Bennack, chairman of Lincoln Center, was deft, endearing, and funny. He used what he identified as a Texas-ism: Sills’s powers of persuasion were so great, “she could talk a dog off a meat truck.” Susan Baker ably represented City Opera — she is chairman of its board.
And the next speaker opened this way: “You have no reason to know me — I’m Beverly’s brother, one of two.” That was Stanley Sills, and his speech was touching, homespun, and hilarious. He said that, from the earliest age, Sills lived life “as though it was dedicated to her.”
Nathan Leventhal, former president of Lincoln Center, was eloquent, amusing — and brief. Then Julius Rudel, the veteran conductor, came out: He is the very definition of spry. And the final speaker was Henry Kissinger. As he started speaking, a man behind me shouted, “He’s got blood on his hands!” Somehow, I don’t believe that he meant to suggest that the U.S. prosecuted the Vietnam War incompletely.
In any event, Kissinger gave his speech, and it was top-of-the-line, as usual. I’m not alone in pointing out that the good doctor is underrated as a writer — and as a speaker. It may also interest you to know that he used a phrase long associated with him. He said that something had “the additional advantage of being true.”
I should have noted a fifth singer: Beverly Sills herself. They played some recordings, some video clips. We heard once more that rare combination of purity and strength. And, of course, there was that fabulous technique — one of the wonders of the world. Nice going, Miss Liebling! (Estelle Liebling was Sills’s longtime teacher.)
The evening ended with Sills in “Adieu, notre petite table,” from Massenet’s “Manon.” She was one of the great Manons. And she was one of the greatest people of our lives. The Met’s celebration of her was pretty much perfect.