Lulu

by William Braun

OPERA NEWS

Ever since it was new in 1977, John Dexter's Met Opera production of Berg's Lulu has been one of the few truly successful examples of music drama. On a good night, it could seem that the music was reaching out of the scenery, that the singers were conjuring the instrumental sounds, that the score was inducing the movements of the actors onstage. When the production returned this season on May 8, there was some question as to whether it would still provide real theatrical catharsis. Dexter, of course, has been dead for twenty years (the staging is now maintained by Gregory Keller), and some of Jocelyn Herbert's scenery, a model for the presentation of an intimate opera in a huge auditorium, is looking tatty. But with the arrival of a stupendous new soprano and a virtuoso new conductor, the show was still, after all this time, a major success.

Marlis Petersen, the Lulu, has mastered all the many difficulties in the score — a feat in itself — but she used this merely as a starting point. If Berg wrote a melisma, she found the underlying theatrical imperative. (The final time Lulu sings "I don't know," the flurry of notes represents impatience.) If Berg wrote a rest in the middle of a word, if he wrote a difficult ascending line that rises to the stratosphere while getting softer, she made sense of it. She even took most of Berg's high options. The arc of the character's life was carefully delineated. She rightly made the casino scene Lulu's crisis point. After being so confident of her power over men in each of the five previous scenes that she took it for granted, she now realized that she would fail. Petersen understands that Lulu is not a slut — otherwise her breakdown in the casino would make no sense — and she realizes that Lulu, as Berg wrote her, should not have even a hint of toughness. The final line of Act II, "Isn't this the divan where your father bled to death?" is marked by Berg to be sung "casually." Some sopranos try to make a meal of it instead, but Petersen got the point. Yet the whole time, for all her accuracy and dramatic involvement, she sang beautifully. She had a triumph.

Fabio Luisi, not long after his appointment to follow Valery Gergiev as principal guest conductor at the Met, offered unfailingly clear stick technique combined with real warmth in the orchestral tone, the essence of Bergian qualifications. Luisi was particularly interested in exploring the instrumental colors underneath Alwa's musings in the theater dressing room and underneath Countess Geschwitz's suicide monologue in Act III. He was spectacularly attuned to the return of the atmosphere of the Lulu–Alwa duet, originally aborted in the first scene of Act II, when it resumed in the second. He kept Lulu's "Lied" integrated within the whole scene in which it appears by choosing an unusually brisk tempo. The solo musicians shone (although the important piano part was too subdued). The saxophonist should have been commended by name but was uncredited in the program book.

Lulu has almost always had fine Met interpreters across the board. Anne Sofie von Otter was yet another fine Geschwitz, one with a good sense of humor to go along with her silky vocalism. Her disgust at the Athlete's behavior was a highlight. She brought tender hope, not despair, to her penultimate monologue. And Ginger Costa-Jackson upheld depth of casting with her stone-faced, seen-it-all wardrobe mistress, her hyperactive schoolboy and her befuddled casino page. Gary Lehman was an individualistic Alwa, singing simply and directly. He didn't force his high notes, a nice metaphor for the repression in this character, but he had real power when Alwa finally broke.

Dr. Schön, whose story this really is, was sung by James Morris. He certainly knew the role, but in a house where memories of Donald Gramm and Franz Mazura are strong, his interpretation was superficial. Morris's face tended to be blank, and he came across as glib, even amiable. There was hardly any anger, let alone agony. But these same qualities made him a chilling Jack the Ripper. Bradley Garvin used his great height and a fake pot belly to good effect as the Athlete. Berg expected the little song of the Marquis to be sung better than Graham Clark thinks it should be done; this is the most important melody in Act III.

There have been adjustments to the production. The slide show in the Act II interlude is gone now. That is fine, since it would look awfully quaint today. But Dexter surely would never have countenanced the staging of the end of Act I, where Lulu immediately mounted Dr. Schön after he finished writing the letter she dictated. But supertitles now make the abundant legitimate comic business clear. (And the banker's line about how reliable he is got a huge laugh.) Yet it bears noting that, for whatever reason, the audience was the most attentive one I've sat with at the Met in twenty-nine years.

‘Lulu’ a real, uh, lulu

by James Jorden

NEW YORK POST

Alban Berg's "Lulu" is an opera for adults.

The return of this disturbing masterpiece to the Met Saturday afternoon for the first time since 2002 left the audience momentarily limp with emotion before it burst into a standing ovation.

The story, as troubling today as it was at the 1937 Zurich premiere, is about the destructive power of female sexuality. As a young girl, Lulu was the lover of both Hearst-like newspaper tycoon Dr. Schoen and his son Alwa. After her first two husbands die mysteriously, she marries Schoen, then murders him when he discovers her many affairs.

Escaping from prison with the help of the lesbian Countess Geschwitz, she faces blackmail, prostitution and, finally, a grisly encounter with a serial killer.

Berg's music enriches the sordid story with jazzy lyricism that probes the depth of the sexpot's soul. In the end, only the women characters, Lulu and the devoted Countess, emerge with sympathy.

Ironically, the hero of the Met's "Lulu" is a man -- conductor Fabio Luisi. He accepted a thunderous ovation with the same modesty he devoted to the work. His precise leadership elegantly defines the many layers of sound in Berg's complex score.

Marlis Petersen boasted a supermodel's face and figure as Lulu, her manic acting contrasting with her cool soprano. Veteran bass James Morris sounded vocally fresh in his first-ever performance of Dr. Schoen, returning after his death scene for a chilling cameo as Jack the Ripper.

As the Countess, mezzo-soprano Anne Sofie von Otter made her spiky vocal lines sound as pristine as Mozart, and Gary Lehman's tenor rang with confidence as the heartbroken Alwa. Among the large and expert company a standout was the young American mezzo Ginger Costa-Jackson in multiple roles, including a dowdy wardrobe lady and a horny schoolboy.

The 1977 John Dexter production tells the story cleanly, but the sets are looking shabby. This superb a cast and conductor deserve a fresh staging so the Met's audience can experience "Lulu" on a regular basis.

The Met Delivers an Alluring Lulu

by Olivia Giovetti

TIME OUT NEW YORK

At its worst, opera consists of unfocused hyenas clinging to rote mannerisms and scraping their way to top notes. At its best, opera is taut drama often about profoundly messed-up characters accompanied by core-shaking music. And while productions of dissonant, 12-tone operas can often tend toward the former, the Metropolitan Opera’s revival of Lulu is firmly rooted in the latter.

Left unfinished at the composer’s death, Alban Berg’s final opera is an intense thriller with which Tim Burton could have great fun; the weight of it rests on the shoulders of a strong lead and an even stronger orchestra. At more than 30 years old, John Dexter’s staging may not compare with whatever His Gothic Highness could cook up, but it remains one of the most handsomely understated productions in the Met’s arsenal.

Sure, in the weeks leading up to Saturday afternoon’s opening the production seemed to be facing some major problems. German soprano Marlis Petersen faced a critically tepid reception for her 11th-hour performance in Hamlet, and James Levine (Lulu’s go-to maestro) withdrew from the performance for health reasons. But Fabio Luisi’s assumption of the podium led to an inspired and ravishing account of Berg’s gaunt, grim score, infusing it with minimalist decadence and kinky traditionalism.

A multitude of murders and suicides featured some gripping, white-knuckle points of musical drama, and moments of submission to the titular femme fatale were sonically orgasmic. The latter was especially helped by Petersen’s performance as Lulu—her voice’s light and lithe brushstrokes were excellently suited to Berg’s impeccable, architectural score. She was a lioness who made the stage her den until the final scene, in which we see her literally washed up and stripped bare. Her childlike naïf interior amplifies the final tragedy of her death (at the hands of none other than Jack the Ripper).

Petersen’s costar in Hamlet, James Morris, returned to her side as the Machiavellian Dr. Schön, a role wholly suited to the aging bass-baritone. Likewise, mezzo Anne Sofie von Otter held her own as the Countess Geschwitz. As Schön’s son Alwa, Gary Lehman was disarmingly sympathetic in an otherwise bloodless world.

Criminally, Lulu runs for only two more performances (May 12 and 15). There are still tickets to be had: Go, and plan on a cold shower afterward.

Canny Tale of a Femme Fatale

by Martin Bernheimer

FINANCIAL TIMES

Alban Berg’s ultimate masterpiece, Lulu, had its premiere in Zurich back in 1937. The Met finally acknowledged the opera 40 years later, thanks to the advocacy of James Levine. Although hardly a mass-audience favourite, the production – directed by John Dexter and designed by Jocelyn Herbert – has survived 33 sporadic performances, with Levine on duty on all but three occasions.

He would have been in the pit for the revival on Saturday as well, had medical issues not intervened. Luckily, Fabio Luisi, the new principal guest conductor, was able to take over, and he did so brilliantly. The complex textures have seldom sounded so transparent, the dynamic shifts so vivid, the lines so taut. Under the circumstances, Berg’s harmonic knots hardly seemed forbidding.

Dexter’s staging scheme, a literal representation of decadence set against cheap expressionist-Jugendstil décor, looks a bit conventional in the brash light of 2010. But it makes sense on its own cautious terms. And, apart from some erotic-aerobic interpolations, Gregory Keller has restored it faithfully, first as a comedy of bad manners, then as a morbid tragedy.

Marlis Petersen initially portrays Lulu, the eternal femme fatale, as an exquisite coquette, pert rather than mysterious, more kitten than tigress. She finds canny pathos for the later scenes, however, as the amoral innocent approaches delusion and desperation. And, despite some stratospheric squeals, she sings the almost impossible part with clarity, ease and, where needed, coloratura glee.

Anne Sofie von Otter complements her as a sympathetic, stoic, quietly powerful Countess Geschwitz. For all his stolidity, James Morris proves that expressive understatement and a slightly rusty Wotan-baritone can be assets as Doktor Schön. Gary Lehman’s urgent heldentenor reinforces the anguish of Alwa, while Michael Schade thrives on impetuous lyricism (everything is relative) as the Painter. Bradley Garvin (replacing David Pittsinger) swaggers brashly as the Animal Tamer/Acrobat, Gwynne Howell totters deftly as seedy old Schigolch, and Graham Clark blusters smartly as the nasty Prince, Servant and Marquis.

Unlike many a recent venture at the mighty Met, this Lulu thrives on ensemble values in depth. There may be hope. (FIVE STARS)

A Bleak Story With a New Conductor as Its Caretaker

by Steve Smith

THE NEW YORK TIMES

Among the many issues James Levine’s health problems have raised at the Metropolitan Opera, his withdrawal from the company’s latest revival of “Lulu,” Berg’s bleak final opera was probably not the most urgent. But “Lulu” is one of the pieces in the Met repertory most closely associated with Mr. Levine; before Saturday, he had conducted all but three presentations of the company’s efficient, intelligent John Dexter staging since its introduction in 1977.

Whether “Lulu” could be maintained at Mr. Levine’s customary high level was the subject of speculation, if not cause for alarm. The supremely accomplished performance of the opening matinee on Saturday, then, was a welcome note of reassurance that Mr. Levine’s eventual departure, whenever it comes, will not rob the company of its capacity to play his favored works honorably. The performance also showed that the Met chose wisely in appointing Fabio Luisi’s its new principal guest conductor.

To the beauty, clarity, coherence and power that Mr. Levine has always extracted from this knotty score, Mr. Luisi added a fleetness that boosted the work’s pitch-black humor. Passages of mounting suspense — the riveting preludes to the Painter’s suicide in the first act and Lulu’s own demise in the third, for example — had a furious energy. Yet the opera’s few tender moments, set to what seemed like profaned echoes of Wagner’s “Tristan,” had a warmth that was gripping. Projections customarily used to depict Lulu’s time in prison during one orchestral interlude were omitted here, but the vivid playing spoke volumes.

Any “Lulu” is equally dependent on the singer in the title role. In the German soprano Marlis Petersen, the Met had a charismatic, technically assured protagonist. That Ms. Petersen’s Lulu was rarely seductive in any genuine sense seemed to be precisely her point: more often than not, she was both a scarred adolescent fascinated with the powers of her sublime figure and face and an amoral kitten prone to remorselessly raking everything within reach. Her wasted placidity in the tragic final scene was deeply affecting.

James Morris was Ms. Petersen’s match as a handsome, calculating Dr. Schön, singing with intelligence, compassion and sustained security. Gary Lehman was an ardent, ultimately pitiable Alwa. Michael Schade’s Painter was eloquently sung and relatably pathetic. Anne Sofie von Otter brought a sad dignity to the Countess Geschwitz. Bradley Garvin was a magnetic Animal Tamer and Acrobat; Gwynne Howell, a likably crusty Schigolch. Smaller roles were capably handled.

Not all of the initially sizable audience on Saturday afternoon endured the four-hour journey. Still, passion and engagement ran high among those in attendance; seldom have I heard the work’s morbid humor elicit laughter so readily. (One particular line during the third act — “We bankers know our business, dear,” sung just before a spectacular stock failure ruined everyone onstage — had obviously gained in rueful resonance.) Ms. Petersen and Mr. Morris rightly earned hearty ovations, but the most tumultuous applause was reserved for Mr. Luisi.