Francesca Caccini, La liberazione di Ruggiero dall'isola d'Alcina (1625)

Ah, so finally the time has come to acknowledge the fact: wow are female composers ever marginalized. You can criticize my reading habits for not including more women, but you really can'tcriticize me for never 'til now having seen an opera by a woman, because...they just aren't shown. It's not that they don't exist--here are five hundred of them, albeit some lost or extant only in fragments--but good luck finding the chance to actually watch one, with very rare exceptions. I can't help but think that this really does present a good case for affirmative action: sure, you can say "if they're good, they'll be put on," but that plainly isn't true for all kinds of structural reasons. I mean, I'm sure some of them aren't good, as isn't some of everything, but you don't know! Statistically, it would be very surprising if there weren't some real gems out there, but someone has to make an effort to find them. If you ask me, it would not be unreasonable to stipulate that at least one of the Met's Live in HD productions per season be an opera by a woman--and just commissioning new operas, either; it's fine if you want to do that too, but the point is to see what already-existing female-penned operas there are out there, sort of a secret history of the form. Yes, I'm sure it would be challenging to dig through all the material out there and find the relevant scores and evaluate them for quality, but it would definitely be worth it.

Anyway, this is the first known opera written by a woman. Appropriately, it's based on events from Orlando Furioso. What a shock. Opera McGill put it on, and helpfully uploaded it here. And it's perfectly credible. Nothing surprising, but fun. Alcina's bewitched Ruggiero and spirited him off to her island love-nest, but he's left his fiancée and slay some saracens, dammit! Or possibly slay Christians. Ruggiero converts from one side to the other at some point, and I'm not clear where he is now. It's all about the same! But anyway. The good sorceress Melissa comes by to save him from this nightmare in which he finds himself and that is that.

It sounds very Monteverdi-ish, which is fine. The McGill people do good work; they've moved it from an island to some sort of haunted mansion, which actually makes a certain amount of sense due to the presence of enchanted portraits with people trapped in them, but there IS a lot that specifically refers to the island; the prelude with Neptune and his pals is made a bit nonsensical by the change. The cast is fine, though, I thought, probably not quite as good as in Ariodante. I don't know; at an hour and a quarter, this is substantially shorter than that one, so maybe they let their b-grade students appear here. I'm not really criticizing; the singing is perfectly good. Some of the acting is slightly dubious: in particular, you kind of want to laugh at the part where both Alcina and Melissa are urging Ruggiero to go with them and he's sort of swaying back and forth in a very school-play-looking display of indecision. As noted, the opera is short, so this production includes an interstitial bit by another female baroque composer, Barbara Strozzi. The music is fine, and I approve of highlighting another female composer, but it does dull the opera's momentum somewhat, I felt.

Never mind; I'm glad to have had the chance to see this. Opera McGill is cool.

Stanisław Moniuszko, Paria (1869)

Big ups to Operavision for giving us access to operas that we'd never ever see otherwise! Thisis Moniuszko's last, and much less-performed than Halkaand The Haunted Manor. This production is in celebration of the two hundredth anniversary of Moniuszko's birth, as is the new production of Halka going up...just next week. And maybe more later in the year? I hope so.

This one takes place in India. Idamor is a military hero for having defeated the country's vaguely-defined enemies; his beloved is a priestess, Neala. Her father the high priest is going to release her from the priesthood so the two of them can wed. That's good! But Idamor has a Dark Secret: he's actually secretly a member of the undercaste (ie, a pariah), and if anyone learned this, it would be Big Trouble. That's bad! Things come to a head when his father Dżares shows up. And that...is about that.

Considering that Moniuszko is considered Poland's national composer and all, it's sort of weird that they seem to pretty much just fixate on the two operas. I mean, it would make sense if those were really the only two good ones, but this fuckin' rules. The Verdi-esque music is absolutely terrific, getting just unbearably dramatic and exciting in places, and if the story doesn't quite have the emotional resonance of Halka,it's still very good, especially in the latter half. According to the Operavision page,

after only seven performances, and despite relatively positive reviews in the Warsaw press, it was removed from the repertoire. This caused much distress for the composer, who, until his death three years later, could not understand why his compatriots were uninterested in his final opera.

I can easily enough explain why it wasn't a relative success compared to his more popular operas: it's because unlike them, there's really no way to connect Pariato ideas of Polish national identity. It obviously resonated less. But that doesn't explain why it didn't still see at least somesuccess; great opera is great opera. Hmph, I say!

I'm not, unfortunately, entirely sure about this production: the performances are all first-rate--a lot of Polish singers with no international presence who nonetheless rock up the joint, my favorite being Mikołaj Zalasiński as Dżares. But it's a kind of relentlessly avant-garde thing: it was performed in an actual factual sports arena, set up in such a way that the audience members are able to wander around and mingle with the singers, checking out the action from different angles. It's not awful for what it is, and I'm sure it would've been super-cool to actually be in that audience, but I don't know that it helps with the drama, and given that this is the first and very possibly last opportunity most of us will have to see the opera, I would've greatly preferred a more traditional take. Although, I hasten to add, it's good enough that you get past the weirdness quickly enough.

Anyway, that's that. Moniuszko rules. GIVE ME MORE, DAMMIT. The most promising of his other works are Hrabina and Verbum Nobile. According to wikipedia, the former has never even been recorded in its entirety, which is pretty mind-blowing. In this age of increased nationalism, can't we at least demand that it lead to more opera performances? C'mon.

George Frideric Handel, Semele (1744)

Oratorios became popular in large part because the Catholic Church forbade the performance of operas during Lent. That's why most of them have religious themes (or at least are, you know, based on Bible stories, which may not be quite the same thing). And indeed, most of Handel's are likewise thus. But then there's this, from Ovid, which clearly bucks the trend. The story, according to wikipedia, is that Handel wanted to write another opera, but he also wanted it to be able to be performed as part of a popular series of Lenten concerts. So, he just decided no, actually, it's an oratorio. Really. Trust me. Good on you, GF. Fight the power! Though actually, although this certainly feels more opera-ish than Juditha Triumphans, the only other oratorio-performed-as-opera I've seen, it still in some ways feels like an oratorio, what with various choruses which have no clear diegetic origin.

Regardless, it's good stuff. First Handel I've seen with an English libretto (a pre-existing one by no less a figure than William Congreve), though certainly not the last, if I get into the oratorios. That should be "when," not "if," and it certainly definitively answers the question of whether librettos are inevitably going to sound strange in your own language. No. No, is how it answers that.

The story may be familiar: Cadmus' daughter Semele is engaged to be married (there's also a thing where her sister Ino is in love with her fiancé Athamas, but that's not a big part of anything), but she's carrying on with Jupiter instead, who takes her away to his secret love-nest. Juno is pissed off, so she plays on Semele's vanity and suggests that she make Jupiter promise her a boon and then ask to see him in all his glory. Jupiter doesn't want to as he know it'll prove fatal for her, but he has no choice. So she dies. But don't worry: she has a son, Bacchus ("more powerful than love," we are amusingly told), so everyone's happy about that. I feel like there ought to be some thematic connection between Semele and the god of wine, but if so it's pretty obscure.

You have to feel for ol' Semele: getting seduced and manipulated and dicked around by gods; she never stood a chance. Sure, she got too vain, but that's really Juno's fault. I know there's a school of thought that sees the Greek gods as basically explaining internal processes: Semele was naturally vain and got to full of herself, so it's explained that Juno "made" her vain. But the gods here certainly SEEM to be real people! Well, apparently there's a tradition where later her son rescued her from Hades and she became a god (sounds like fan-fiction to me, but hey), so there's that.

The plot here is a little baggy (though I suppose that's kind of the norm for baroque operas); their reluctance to do real tragedy means that Semele's death doesn't have the impact that it could've had. There's a kind of funny bit at the end where Ino says "yeah, Hermes came to me in a dream and told me what happened to Semele; ps. he also said that I should marry her fiancé." Convenient! So everyone's happy about that, and also about the prospect of getting shit-faced with Bacchus. Terrific music, however, including "Endless Pleasure, Endless Love," which was used (with modified lyrics) in The Enchanted Island; Jupiter's serenade "Where'er You Walk;" and of course the centerpiece, "Myself I Shall Adore," which Semele croons to her reflection in a magic mirror Juno has given her. This here production has Cecilia Bartoli in the title role; I feel like Bartoli is a name that you hear a lot, but this was the first time I actually saw her. She's good. Charles Workman is surprisingly sympathetic as Jupiter, and Birgit Remmert is stone-cold as Juno. Good all around, in a witty production that takes place somewhere in England and features large tabloid headlines regarding Jupiter's and Semele's doings ("Princess in Eagle Palace Snatch-Drama Crisis," reads one). Fun all 'round. Unless you're the sort who instinctively hates such things, in which case CHRIST you're tedious.

Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon (1977)

I was wondering, somewhat guiltily: is this really the first book I've ever read by a black female author? And then I remembered, no, there's Their Eyes Were Watching God. But somehow, the fact that I've read one other almost makes it worse--like, it really emphasizes the limits of my reading. The same way having a single person sitting in an auditorium for an event makes it seem more deserted than if literally no one was there. I mean, there's no point in denying it: ethnic and gender diversity is a real weak spot in my reading habits. I'm honestly not sure I'm actually going to do anything about that, but it's still to be deplored.

I chose this out of all Morrison novels because back in college, I had a class in the modern novel with this very prickly, intimidating professor, and--who can remember why?--this novel came up, just in passing, and he commented on how great he thought it was. So there you go.

The main character is named Milkman Dead (the oddity of which is, naturally, explicated in the text) (and which may be where the Dead Milkmen got their name), from a wealthy black family mid-century. It's basically a Bildungsroman where he has to come to terms with his heritage and the fact that he kind of exists in a liminal space, on the one hand living in luxury with no material wants but on the other hand being a black man in a profoundly racist society. The book surprised me, though, by existing in what I guess you'd call a very subtly heightened level of reality. Comparatively few Bildungsromans (I kind of want to write "Bildungses roman") featuring hunts for lost gold, let alone secret murder clubs.

There's some beautiful writing here; Morrison's talent is not in doubt. However, I have to ask a question that would make any right-winger reading this call me a soyboy beta cuck who's been so thoroughly whipped and castrated by feminist sjws that he's afraid to venture a politically incorrect opinion, which...well, fair enough. But the question is this: does the fact that I didn't like this book more than I did make me a racist?

I mean, it's a real concern. Because I don't feel like my problems with it were racially-based, but it's so difficult to untangle your unconscious prejudices. I dunno. All I can say is, I thought this was generally well-done and intriguing in the early going, but it sort of...well, not falls apart, exactly, but let's say doesn't execute as well as you might hope in the end-game. There's this business where Milkman is sort of rediscovering his roots and learning about the barriers that he's put between himself and his people, culminating in this hunting trip where he learns to be One of the Guys, and it just struck me as so clumsily executed and not particularly convincing. We also have this Faulkner-esque stuff where he learns about his anscestors and things, and Morrison mixes it all up with a certain amount of African folklore puts all this symbolic weight on it and tries to endow it with a profundity that I don't feel like it remotely earned. And then the ending is just irritating in its predictable ambiguity.

Look: on a pure writing level, I had no problems here; it's all very good with a few breathtaking passages. But...I dunno, man. I probably ought to read some more of Morrison (there was at least one goodreads review from a fan who thought that this was one of her weaker efforts, which gives me at least a little hope that I'm not just being a jerk), but--UGH. I mean, obviously, I decided to read this because of her passing, and I fully expected one of those "why didn't I read this earlier, idiot me?" situations, and then to have the reaction I had...not great.

George Frideric Handel, Ariodante (1735)

Eighty percent of baroque operas are based on Orlando Furioso. I may have just made that fact up, but that doesn't change the fact that it's extremely true. It's interesting that such a massive cultural touchstone is largely unknown these days, at least outside the Italophone world. I enjoyed it many years ago, but I've forgotten most of it now. I kinda want to reread it now. Shouldn't it have been made into a Netflix show or something by now?  Not that I'd watch it.

This takes place in Scotland (those Carolingian knights tromped all over the place). Ariodante and the king's daughter Ginerva are in love and the king approves so they're going to be married and he's going to be king. Things are looking preeeee-tty sweet. However, after she spurns the advances of the evil count Polinesso, he tricks everyone into thinking Ginerva has a lover. Everyone's sad and Ariodante tries to kill himself (it probably pays not to think too hard about this business where knights have to fight to somehow prove Ginerva's guilt or innocence) but then the truth comes out and Polinesso dies and everyone's happy again. As they should be.

It's another great Handel opera; what more can I say? I watched this production, from Opera McGill, McGill University's opera training school (there are actually two performances uploaded, labeled "cast 1" and "cast 2," but in fact they appear to have identical casts, so I don't know what that means). You might think, is this going to be worth watching? Buncha college students (well, and some graduate students)? But yeah, it is; these people are NOT messing around, and they do an extremely credible job. I mean, okay, clearly on some level it's lower-powered than professional performances, but you really don't feel like you're watching amateurs. At least I didn't. My favorites were Veronica Pollicino (she has a website!) in the title role and Nicholas Burns as the villainous Polinesso (referred to as "Polynesia" in the credits, which I assume is a weird translation into French or possibly English). They should have careers. Well, in fairness, anyone here could probably develop a career. But they seemed the most promising.

A traditional sort of production; fine. It is a bit odd that Pollicino has a long ponytail; in spite of her fake beard, she presents as pretty feminine anyway, so you have to wonder what the thinking is. Also, there's a dance break at the end of the first act (influenced by the French baroque?), which...well, it's true that in theory we're in Scotland, but there's nothing particularly Scottish-looking about the production, which is why it's very odd when the music shifts to all-bagpipes for the duration. This does not fit in well with the rest of the opera.

Well, no matter. Lots o' laffs here.  Sez wikipedia, the opera fell into a state of complete obscurity for years after its initial production until it was revived in the 1970s.  Crikey, man.  Makes you wonder what great stuff we're missing out on now due to unjustified neglect.

George Frideric Handel, Partenope (1730)

I found this production on youtube. And there are A LOT of problems with the recording: the visuals are extremely murky, for one; it's hard to really tell what's going on, and there are so many close-ups of faces that it's hard to get an idea for where this is all taking place. Furthermore, the subtitles are wonky as hell; frequently they just appear and disappear in the blink of an eye or a few second at most, so you really have to be looking closely or have the pause button at the ready. Finally, for reasons surpassing understanding, whoever created the video decided to awkwardly edit out applause breaks--although that last one is actually less irksome than the others, which make it difficult or impossible to parse the plot here in anything but the broadest of strokes. After watching it, I belatedly realized that this very performance is available on disc, which would no doubt fix a lot of these problems (though the close-ups would still be an issue).

So that story...well, sure, I could easily crib from wikipedia, but where's the fun in that? What I got is that there's this queen, Partenope, and also Rosmira, another woman (not totally sure what her deal is) who is in drag for most of the opera. And there are two dudes, who are sort of torn between the one and the other of them, and...possibly a third dude? I think there's a third dude. But seriously, even looking at that wikipedia entry, it would be impossible to tell which of these dudes is which or who ends up with whom. Suffice it to say, everyone's happy except odd-dude-out.

I haven't been this confused at a Handel opera since Serse. Well, actually, until now I'd never been at all confused by any Handel opera other than Serse. Still! When the music is this good, you can't complain too much about plot concerns--or about dodgy video issues (the sound, at any rate, is first-rate, which is of course the main thing). I mean, come on. As may be obvious, baroque music has really, really grown on me lately. I go back and forth between Handel and Rameau, but it's all GREAT STUFF! Time to watch some more.

Jean-Philippe Rameau, Platée (1745)

Boy, where would we be without baroque opera, I ask you? I mean, considering where we are now,it chills the blood to imagine how much worse it could be.

This is definitely the most go-for-broke comic opera I've yet seen from Rameau.  The idea is that Juno is jealous, as she no doubt should be, and causing storms. So the other gods hatch a plot to calm her down by making her think that Jupiter is planning on marrying someone else, and then when she realizes that his alleged bride-to-be is actually an ugly water nymph, ha ha, who'd marry her?, she'll chill out.

In addition to the other somewhat dubious aspects of this plan, the main thing is: it's really mean, which meanness reviews of this that I've seen either dismiss in a few words or ignore entirely. But it definitely impacted my enjoyment. It's actually sort of hard to parse, because it's not like these gods are notably sympathetic, with Jupiter himself in particular coming across as a huge douchebag. But perhaps that is merely my contemporary sensibilities.  It's vexing.

And yet, not vexing enough to ruin the viewing experience. As is usually or always the case, this is not exactly tightly-plotted, and Platée herself is largely just sort of hovering around in the background for most of it while various singers and dancers do their thing. And this is all a lot of fun, and Rameau's music is phenomenal, seemingly effortless pivoting from comic to dramatic themes. Just accept that it is what it is and you're not watching it for the main plot, and it should be fine.

This production is weird but fun, as Rameau productions seem to often be. It has the conceit of a stage with theater seats, as seen in Agrippina,sort of, which is a little pointless but all right. But that doesn't matter; it's all very well done. The copious dance sequences are just great, to my mind more entertaining than any Rameau production I'd seen before. Also, dancing frogs. During the third-act overture, one of them enters the orchestra pit and starts fucking with the musicians. What more do you want? Performances are up to par; Paul Agnew is sympathetic in the title role. I think the fact that it's an en travesti role is supposed to make the audience feel better about being cruel to the character, which yuck, but Agnew--decked out in green froggish costume and make-up--makes the most of it. The show is handily stolen, however, by Mireille Delunsch as Folly in a dress made of sheet music. She gets some of the best singing in the show, I think, and she's very magnetic. I loved her. The only real complaint I have about the production is that given modern sensibilities--it's not just me, right?--I really think they could have done something to endow Platée with a little dignity in the end; to make the whole plot a bit more palatable.

Still, on balance another winner. Let me say just a brief word about the DVD release: so there are actually two different releases of this same production, the first by Kultur and the second by Arthaus. If you look at reviews of these discs, they tend to be somewhat monomaniacally focused on how the former has lousy sound and picture quality and the latter is way better. That's as may be, but I watched the Kultur disc, and I had no problems. Maybe it's just because I'm not an audiophile, but I could detect no problems with the music; I guess maybe the visuals are slightly dark, but if I hadn't known I was meant to be offended by this, it never would have occured to me to be upset. So take that for whatever it's worth.