Fans of Italian neorealist cinema will appreciate Seattle Opera’s current production of Ruggiero Leoncavallo’s Pagliacci (August 3-17). Along with the familiar post-war costuming and tumble-down hill town set is a directorial focus on the misery, misogyny, and engrained cruelty that pervade this paragon of Italian verismo.
The 80-minute one-act opera has held the stage since its premiere in 1892, usually coupled with Cavalleria Rusticana, Pietro Mascagni’s earlier one-acter. To my mind, Pagliacci is the stronger piece of theater by far, and this solo outing (given with an intermission) confirmed outgoing general director Christina Scheppelmann’s belief that despite its brevity, Pagliacci provides a full evening’s entertainment.
Tradition has the overture played with the curtain down. At its conclusion, the character Tonio steps through into the apron spotlight, introducing himself as “the Prologue.” Director Dan Wallace Miller dispensed with this coup de theatre in giving the chorus and extras every conceivable bit of “little town” stage business from the opening bars. Tonio (baritone Michael Chioldi) began singing from a sudden mid-stage tableau, breaking the fourth wall to give a solid account of the famous opening aria, and overcoming some uncertain moments with a home-run high A-flat at its conclusion.
With the arrival of the itinerant players, focus quickly sharpened from superficial gaiety to an undercurrent of dread. This was highlighted by a dark admonition from their leader Canio (tenor Diego Torre:) “Un tal gioco, credetemi,” which hints at the violence he would do his wife were he to catch her with another man. Torre brought off the thuggish bluster of the character well, tossing off cruel insults (to player Tonio) and casual physical abuse (to player/wife Nedda) with an artless mien. Jonathan Dean’s captions left the most offensive parts of the libretto untranslated. References to Tonio’s physical handicap and some of Canio’s more lurid threats are shocking even by today’s standards.
Church bells (more Vatican, strangely, than rural parish) then announce vespers, and following the fine chorus “Din, don! Suona vespero,” Nedda (soprano Monica Conesa) was left alone onstage. She removed her player’s mask to reveal a blackened eye, an inspired and chilling effect. Conesa was the vocal standout of the evening; her aria “Stridono lassu,” a dream of flying away from her misery, was beautifully realized.
Conesa, whose Nedda might well have been a teenager, so slight and youthful she seemed, brought the lower range vocal heft so often missing in this role. I can’t decide if hers is a lyric or a dramatic voice, but she has a consistent, ringing sound from top to bottom. At 28, Conesa has already sung major dramatic roles like Aida and Giaconda, and her website features photos of the great golden-age soprano Rosa Ponselle, so I’m guessing that’s the course she plans to pursue.
Tonio then enters, confessing his love for her, which she laughingly rebuffs. The director here chose to depict Tonio without a spinal deformity, rather with a strap-on hunch for the play only. This, and the cruelty heaped upon him (missing from the captions) might make the dialogue a bit more digestible for local audiences, but it’s worth remembering the indignities the people these characters were based on suffered. Think of the jester Rigoletto, called gobbo, or “monster,” and the vitriol he endured (and meted out). Like him, Tonio is conditioned to this cruelty, and finally assaults Nedda in his rage. She fends him off with a drum mallet (in the score, lashes his face with a whip.)
His ignoble departure coincides with the arrival of Silvio (baritone Michael J. Hawk,) Nedda’s lover. His slender but attractive sound conjured a suitably youthful and guileless character, at least as desperate to escape as she, although Conesa and the orchestra came close to burying him at several points. The lovers are discovered, of course: Silvio narrowly escaping capture and Nedda left to face an inebriated Canio, who was tipped off to the tryst by Tonio.
Blind with murderous rage he demands the name of her lover, is barely prevented from beating her by player Beppe (tenor John Marzano,) and finally calmed by Tonio’s suggestion that he avenge himself during the evening performance. This crush of violence is the setup for “Vesti la giubba,” Canio’s famous soliloquy. Torre impressed with a handsome sound, a squillo reminiscent of the great tenor Mario del Monaco. Like del Monaco, he demonstrated superb breath control in this most iconic of tenor arias.
Leoncavallo set the second act a ventitré ore, at 11 o’clock at night, perhaps deliberately to ensure that the ragazzi who tormented the players earlier in the day were all abed and fast asleep, and therefore not witness to the bloodbath at the end of the show. However, in this production the kids crowded the stage, bedtime be damned, and wound up splattered in gore. This was a bit much for my wife, who also had trouble with the “Punch and Judy” sensibility of the comedy. I couldn’t help her with this. The point of the opera is that Art imitates life. Our entertainment, especially the commedia del’arte and its related forms, show us comic archetypes that frequently reveal brutal truths about human nature.
At the outset of the commedia, Beppe, in the guise of Arlecchino, serenades Colombina (Nedda,) a beautiful little melody delivered with Mozartian flair by Marzano. Things go downhill from there. Apart from a few timing issues, my only problem with “the play that goes wrong” was Canio’s stage deportment. As played by Torre, Pagliaccio (Canio,) blunders into the action blind drunk, something the onstage audience would have picked up immediately. It was certainly obvious from Row U.
The real horror of this drama hinges on the chorus and extras not realizing (until the closing pages) that anything is wrong. Therefore a Pagliaccio pissed from the outset rather spoils the illusion. I also thought the bloodletting at the end a bit gratuitous, but it gave me goosebumps all the same.
Maestro Carlo Montanaro highlighted numerous felicities of this singular score, namely for the horns and harp, and made no secret of his love for the excellent Seattle Opera Chorus, luxuriating and drawing out the grand “Silenzio! Ola!” in the second act. This indulgence extended to a rather epic intermezzo as well. A bit more flint and edge might have helped when Canio discovers the lovers in act one and in the closing bars of the show, where there is a need for speed.
