Very sad to hear of the passing of Elisabeth Söderström, aged 82.

Swedish soprano, un-diva-ish diva, full of fun and laughter, great star of Glyndebourne when I was there in the 1970s. The definitive Countess in Richard Strauss’s Capriccio, sang all three leading female roles in Der Rosenkavalier (once all three on the same night!), pioneering exponent of Janacek (especially Emilia Marty in The Makropulos Case); a very moving Leonore in Beethoven’s Fidelio; also sang Tatyana in Eugene Onegin, Melisande in Debussy’s opera, and many more. Champion of songs and lieder in a surprising number of languages! Her last role on stage was the Countess in Tchaikovsky’s Queen of Spades.

Thank you, Elisabeth, for brightening all our lives.

more here:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/culture-obituaries/music-obituaries/6629452/Elisabeth-Soderstrom.html

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/11/21/AR2009112102168.html

I seldom listen to the radio these days – certainly not RTE. BBC Radio Four are running a series whereby they look back, day-by-day, on the events of that monumental year 1989. This week the fall of the3 Berlin Wall was covered. When I was reminded of that night, the tears that ran down my face then coursed over my cheeks once more. I remember feeling like Wordsworth: Bliss was it that night to be alive, and when I saw the people from Ost Berlin flooding through Checkpoint Chatlie, that symbol of repression with which I had grown up, the bars of Beethoven’s Fidelio flowed through my ears. This WAS history, and I longed to be in Berlin, not in this accursed place working on a doctorate on a subject which only interested me sometimes, but which I thought would be my passport out of misery. That night I was filled with so much hope, both for the world and for myself…

 Twenty years’ on, and I am still in misery and want, even though I got the doctorate. So many of the hopes of that night were short-changed. I look around me here in this accursed country and I see a government made up of cowards, crooks, mediocrities and liars. What’s more they’re ugly; they seem like the front-men and front-women for a criminal organisation.  My dear mother was with me that night in 1989, while my darling sister Anita was still alive too. What’s more I could still walk with ease. So, please don’t hate me if I express a wish to be back in November 1989: at least I still had my dreams.

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
Fidelio, op 72

• Overture

Zurich Opera House Orchestra
Conductor: Nikolaus Harnoncourt

youtube upload by hamjii

I’m coming in a bit late with a tribute to the soprano Hildegard Behrens who died Tuesday. In the 80s I was blessed to see her at the Met as Leonore in Fidelio with Jon Vickers as Florestan and Klaus Tennstedt conducting.  Behrens was also  centerstage for one of the most memorable experiences I’ve had in an opera house: Elektra in Munich.  It was an astounding performance and Behrens brought a touch of vulnerability to the character along with the requisite skin-crawling weirdness. Behrens went all out in every role and left nothing on the table.

She didn’t make nearly enough recordings. I have some private recordings of her in Met broadcasts and on DVD singing  Brünnhilde in the Met Ring Cycle. Her Salome with von Karajan conducting is her landmark recorded performance and one of my favorite recordings of the opera.

Here’s the electrifying Behrens in Elektra

More from Elektra

Final scene

Beethovens enige muziekdrama
Zaterdag 22 augustus is er op het podium van de Londense Albert Hall, in het kader van de BBC Proms 2009, voor de tweede achtereenvolgende avond een optreden van het West-Eastern Divan Orchestra onder leiding van Daniel Barenboim. Boden de musici op vrijdagavond een staalkaart uit het klassiek-romantische repertoire, zaterdag presenteert deze Prom een concertante uitvoering van de opera Fidelio van Ludwig van Beethoven. Aan dat opus hebben we op deze site op 25 maart, op 15 april en op 24 april van dit jaar; toen naar aanleiding van de herhaling door de Nationale Reisopera. Meer achtergrond-informatie is te vinden in een eerder verschenen artikel, naar aanleiding van een via Mezzo-televisie uitgezonden, veel oudere opname onder leiding van Karl Böhm; die bijdrage verscheen op dit weblog op 31 juli 2008.
Het spreekt vanzelf dat, naast het instrumentale ensemble, ook nog enige vocale solisten optreden. Zaterdag 22 augustus zijn dat Waltraud Meier (als Leonore), Simon O’Neill (in de rol van Florestan), Gerd Grochowski (als Don Pizarro), John Tomlinson treedt op als Rocco; Adriana Kučerová is Marzelline; Stephen Rügamer vertolkt de rol van Jaquino, en Victor Rud is Don Fernando.
Verder zijn de BBC Singers en het Geoffrey Mitchell Choir van de partij.
De uitzending van Fidelio via BBC Radio 3 begint reeds om 20:30 uur onze tijd, en zal gebruikerlijkerwijs worden onderbroken door een pauze — in dit geval van 21:30 uur tot 21:50 uur, met daarin het programma Twenty minutes met daarin het Proms Literary Festival.
BBC Two Television start de uitzending om 21:10 uur en eindigt om 23:20 uur.

> ver 5° Aniversario de mi Primer Concierto I — …mi Primer Concierto II — …mi Primer Concierto III
— …mi Primer Concierto IV <

http://ihatemusic1943.blogspot.com/2009/07/5-aniversario-de-mi-primer-concierto-v.html

> ver 5° Aniversario de mi Primer Concierto I — …mi Primer Concierto III — …mi Primer Concierto IV
— …mi Primer Concierto V <

http://ihatemusic1943.blogspot.com/2009/07/5-aniversario-de-mi-primer-concierto-ii.html

> ver 5° Aniversario de mi Primer Concierto II — …mi Primer Concierto III — …mi Primer Concierto IV
— …mi Primer Concierto V <

http://ihatemusic1943.blogspot.com/2009/07/5-aniversario-de-mi-primer-concierto-i.html

Intr-un supermarket se presupune ca poti atasa cosului tau de cumparaturi strictul necesar: o ceapa, un absorbant, un suculet,  o icra,  o bautura puternic alcoolizata, ma rog…ce mai are nevoie omul pe la casa sa. Si tigari, neaparat tigari daca te-a transformat viata intr-un junkie de nicotina. Fidelio se afla aproape de locul in care muncesc si de aceea mi-e usor sa cobor de la serviciu si sa cumpar strictul necesar de aici. Buba vine in momentul in care ajung la casa si vreau sa cumpar si pachetul de tigari de subzistenta. N-are domle’…n-are. De un an de zile au cateva brand-uri nenorocite, in rest, vant si pulbere. N-au Pall Mall (cateodata se intampla sa aiba Pall Mall lung, trebuie sa recunosc), n-au Winston, n-au Camel, au pachete goale de Marlboro din ala nou, dar ce sa fac eu cu pachete puse de design? O fi vreun tertip de marketing, or fi extraterestrii care dimineata devreme isi cumpara en-gros portia lor de fericire pamanteana, s-or da pe sub mana, or fi cretini de-a dreptul…

Nu-mi place Fidelio. Am cumparat de aici gogosari superbi de rosii asta iarna, dar mucegaiti in stomacel, legume inghetate varza de facute praf, zile intregi batea vantu’ la raionul cu pui, cartofi si alte cele prajite, casierele mi-au mancat nervii cu atitudinea lor de martire (unele nici macar nu raspund la buna dimineata, ce sa mai zic de multumesc).

Singurul lucru bun, si poate de aceea mai si calc din cand in cand pe acolo e doamna de la salamuri. Trecuta bine de 40 de ani, e o simpatica, mereu zambitoare, chiar si cand vreau sa-mi taie 4 felii de salam.

Ahhh…inca o chestie. Prezervativele “Entran” care la orice farmacie nu costa mai mult de 5 lei, aici sunt 7,5. Mai oameni buni din conducerea Fidelio, sunteti toti o varza si-un pamant. Cangurul e putred inauntru. Bleah.

Siapa gerangan sosok Elise dalam komposisi Für Elise nan indah karya Ludwig von Beethoven (1770 – 1827) ; hal ini sungguh telah menjadi teka-teki yang berusia ratusan tahun bagi para pecinta berat Beethoven.

Seorang musikolog Jerman, yang juga pakar tentang Beethoven, Klaus Martin Kopitz, mengklaim telah memecahkan teka-teki itu. Kopitz yakin banget, Elise dalam komposisi itu adalah Elisabeth Roeckel (1793 – 1883). Roeckel adalah seorang soprano Jerman, saudara perempuan Joseph August Roeckel, penyanyi tenor yang memainkan peran Florestan pada pertunjukan Fidelio yang dipimpin Beethoven di Vienna tahun 1806.

“Saat membaptis putrinya yang pertama pada 9 Maret 1814, dia disebutkan bernama Maria Eva Elise. Dia dikenal sebagai Elise di Vienna, bukan Elisabeth,” ujar Kopitz (30/6). Kopitz juga menambahkan bahwa saat Beethoven menulis Fur Elise tahun 1810, keduanya memiliki hubungan dekat.

Maka tampaknya benar bahwa komposisi itu dipersembahkan untuk Elisabeth. Soalnya sederhana koq, “Tidak ada perempuan lain bernama Elise atau Elisabeth dalam kehidupan Beethoven waktu itu (1810),” kata Kopitz penuh keyakinan. Bener juga ya … oh Elise !

Sumber  :  Kompas, 01.07.2009

Inspired by my Twitter-friend @AnnHawkins

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
Fidelio, op 72
Act One – Nr 3 Quartett – ‘Mir ist so wunderbar” [A wondrous feeling fills me]



Marzeline – Jennifer Welch-Babidge
Leonore – Karita Mattila
Rocco – René Pape
Jaquino – Matthew Polenzani
Metropolitan Opera Orchestra and Chorus
Conductor: James Levine




youtube upload by codonauta

• Quartett – Mir ist so wunderbar

The four voices are united in a wonderful canonic quartet. However, the mood of the four singers is quite different for each! Marzelline is described as being merely happy, singing: “Mir ist so wunderbar, es engt das Herz mir ein.” (I feel so wonderful, my heart is closing in), while Leonore is afraid of being discovered: “Wie groß ist die Gefahr, wie schwach der Hoffnung Schein” (how great is the danger, how dim the ray of hope), and the good father Rocco states innocently: “Sie liebt ihn, es ist klar, ja Mädchen, er wird dein” (she loves him, that is clear, yes, girl, he shall be yours). Somewhat comical is how the jealous Jaquino comes across: “Mir sträubt sich schon das Haar, der Vater willigt ein” (my hair is standing up, her father agrees to her marriage (with Fidelio).

MARZELLINE
Mir ist so wunderbar,
es engt das Herz mir ein;
er liebt mich, es ist klar,
ich werde glücklich, glücklich sein.

LEONORE
Wie gross ist die Gefahr,
wie schwach der Hoffnung Schein!
Sie liebt mich, es ist klar,
oh, namen-, namenlose Pein!

ROCCO
Sie liebt ihn, es ist klar,
ja, Mädchen, er wird dein!
Ein gutes, junges Paar,
sie werden glücklich, glücklich sein!

JAQUINO
Mir sträubt sich schon das Haar,
der Vater willigt ein;
mir wird so wunderbar,
mir fällt kein Mittel ein.

Fidelio is Beethoven’s only opera and tells how Leonore, disguised as a prison guard named “Fidelio”, rescues her husband Florestan from death in a political prison.

First off, before I get into what may well degenerate into a rant, I have to say that this was a spectacular concert.  The London Symphony Orchestra, Asher Fisch and Deborah Voigt peformed Wagner and Strauss (with a Beethoven interlude in the middle).  We had a nice comfortable seat in the front-ish left of the Circle, albeit that we were still surrounded by the Barbican, and all seemed set for a wonderful night of music making.  And then they let the kids in.

First to the concert:  there were a couple of orchestral pieces thrown into the mix alongside Voigt’s substantial vocal contribution.  There’s no disrespect intended to Voigt in saying that, in some ways, these were the best moments.  The Fidelio overture was spirited, incisive and energetic in the right measure, the Entry of the Guests from Tannhäuser launched the evening with due bombast.  However, the revelation was a wonderful detailed reading of Salome’s Dance of the Seven Veils.  Some of the calmer moments were amazing in their detail and incident, whilst the over-ripe, decadent grand moments where given full rein.  There is a moment where (and forgive the attempt to explain) the section that ends with the ascending harp motives leads to a brief pause before the introduction of the main theme on rich low strings and woodwind:  spine-tingling.

Voigt’s contribution was remarkable.  She seems to these amateur ears to have a voice which is secure and exciting at moments, but somehow just stops short of that last notch of bright, incisive thrill that you can sometimes get.  But there she was, surrounded by a bloody noisy band (in the Strauss especially), and still came out as audible above it.  This particularly applied to the excerpt from Die Aegyptische Helena, which I could probably go to my grave without hearing again and it wouldn’t feature highly on my list of regrets.  It was like Strauss was trying to get his own back on Korngold.

Abscheulicher was delivered securely but not so flexibly – this felt like a bit of an odd choice, albeit a welcome one.  Du bist der Lenz from Die Walküre always seems a bit odd out of context; it sort of stops abruptly when you want it to run on into the drama that follows.  Chrysothemis’s big number from Elektra was well-delivered but with some slightly odd chopped phrasing in tha last wonderful, soaring “Ich bin ein’ Weib, und will ein’ Weibes Schicksal.“ 

The star turn, though, was a tremendous, intense account of the Closing Scene of Salome that matched the wonders of the Dance that had gone before in every respect.  Fabulous nuance, some chilling quiet semi-spoken moments, and reserves of power left for the big moments.  Absolutely tremendous – one to remember for a very long time.

So let’s talk about the audience.  You could tell immediately, I’m sorry to say, those that were in ‘on a scheme’.  Apparently the Barbican is offering free tickets to under-25s.  Guess what?  You give someone something for nothing and they treat it like nothing.  I heard a couple of disputes being resolved by means of hisses and shushes and subsequent muttering around the auditorium.  A phone went off.  Sweet papers were rustled.  Seats were intrusively swapped.  And a number of conversations were held.  I had to ask the gayboys next to me to stop their conversation through most of the Entry of the Guests, and one of them in particular spent the performance flicking back and forth through his programme with the kind of insolent disregard for the disturbance that this might cause that is to be expected of any peasant forced to sit through something they resent.  As you can tell, this makes me rather hacked-off.

What is the problem with issuing an instructional note with these ’scheme’ tickets to explain the etiquette:  talking, phones, jangling bangles
(a real bête noire).  Hell, it’s not even etiquette, it’s basic civility:  there are a hundred people slogging away to produce an artistic product that those around you are appreciating, enjoying, being moved by, reflecting upon.  If you are bored, then f**k off at the interval, or between pieces if you can get out without disturbing people. And it isn’t only people on these schemes, I know, but in this case I strongly suspect that cause…

And why should people have free tickets anyway?  You want to see a concert of top-notch international-standard music making?  Pay a tenner, or a fiver, or three quid at least.  Yes, these institutions are subsidised and should be focusing on developing new audiences; but giving seats away for free (as opposed to the nominal fees proposed) feels like taking that subsidy and pissing it away down the drain whilst, to add insult to injury, destroying the enjoyment and enrichment that those of us who are the CURRENT audience pay our ticket prices for.

Oooo, it makes me mad.  But I managed to enjoy the wonderful performance despite this audience’s best efforts.  Some people may not have realised it, but they were present for a performance that really was world-class.  I suppose you don’t expect to get world-class for free, do you?  So how would they know?

[ARCHAEUS]

Mihai Eminescu [1850-1889] (The first commentator and translator of Kant in Romanian)

Ms. 2269

(from: Mihai Eminescu, Opere II. Proză. Teatru. Literatură populară, Editura Univers Enciclopedic, Bucureşti, 1999, pp. 284-296.)

English Translation from Romanian © Tudor Georgescu 2001-2004

[284][1] Undoubtedly, there are many things for which is not enough the head of a heavy member of the city council or of a police constable — although these are generally men that get everything. At least when we’re speaking about the expropriation of a hen-farm, about instilling respect in the citizen slayer with false weights, men more handy than the two I know not. Tough, it seems us — it is understood we impose our opinion to no one — that, not counting wrong balances and hen-behavior in the open street, there still exist some things, indeed of a secondary importance, as philosophy, poetry, arts, and all the things which escape the eye of the named gentlemen, but whose existence one cannot deny.

We see that the author wants to begin from a to z. Indeed, world as we see exists only in our brain. No one will deny that is difference between a goose and a dog. The look of the dog is intelligent, he understands of this world a better portion than the goose; these considered both beings have eyes and brains. The world is not as it is, but the way we see it; for the goose as it sees it, for all idem, for a member of the council idem — for Kant [285] idem. But, what difference between the eyes of a pig of the above-understood member and the deep look of the wise of Königsberg.

What is the truth? The one clearly seen by a male goose or that seen as through darkness by Kant? Indeed, it’s a strange thing. The first clearly differentiates the grains of corn from the yellow earth; it surely swims on water, and measures with its eye the distances it can reach and it is not without tenderness faced with a female goose in the epoch of virginity. The second forgets to eat, wanting to jump over a hole he falls inside it, and the virgin or non-virgin beauties pass him without him raising his eyes.

With all these, we consider that the philosopher is wiser than a goose that in the problems of him is more truth than in the certainties of it. A sign that for a great mind all is problem. And for 75 grams of brain all is sure.

It is known that the Pythagorean rule of geometry was called the bridge of the mules. The bridge of the mules you have to pass in every deeper thought is: that we cannot understand the world in itself, and that its explanation is explaining some reactions of our brains and nothing further. The world in itself rests a problem inside which wanders a thinly ray, a sparkle which the deep thinker marks on paper, is being born inside the walls of your head that long resonance that makes you believe than indeed world and life are a dream.

But, as we said, all these are worthless for a member of the council. Life has for him meaning only if he takes the tax for registering in the book of civil service, death for he takes a tax for burial and for one adds one to the number of the born or of the dead. The member of the council sees in these [286] people only imposable individuals, the constable — individuals that must be watched for not stealing one another and for keeping in form.

After this class of people follow the learned of the word. These ask always quid novissimi? The newest book is for them the best. They read a lot and have inside their head a lot of definitions, formulas and words about whose truth never doubt, for they have no time to doubt. I call them of the word because their wisdom consists in words, in the envelopes of thought that their memory keeps, for thinking is an action, a trembling of nerves. As the nerves shake harder, more freely, the more is the thought clear. To them this action, by which the foreign thought repeats itself in their head, does not happen, for the multitude of reading and the fatigue of the brain does not allow it. The read things pass as dead envelopes into the barn of memory, from where it comes to light in the same form.

And me, from my part, I think as follows: whatever would think a man alone, without reading it or hearing it from others comprises a seed of truth. That’s why the old books, which men wrote not for just that, only write them, but also for they thought something which weighs on their heart and they wanted to tell that to the others, the old books I read and find between abstruse things some seeds of light which I remember.

This way I was staying whistling at the open window, it was snowy and nice outside, when I see an old man passing with a long mantle on his back and with the hat of large margins. I see him entering The Ark of Noah. This Ark is a pub where we find good old Hungarian wine. There I had also my sitting tablet for the evening, when I was fed with reading and writing, I went to my tablet in the corner of the ark and it seemed to me that I was child again, that I was in the time of Sam, Ham and Japheth. When, I saw the old man entering I say: “What the heck! This [287] I never saw… let’s see, who is he?” I take my hat form the nail; I descend the stairs quickly and, to the Ark.

I enter inside… the old man — at my table. The Ark was a big room, rounded and dark in which even at daytime there was a lamp lit. The old man was interesting. The hair of his head as white, wholly slim his face, gray eyes, big and deep, then he smelled form far away of tobacco and I always liked the men that smell of tobacco.

I said him good evening and I sat before him, for I was in my right to stay at my table. He rose a little, but said nothing. Then he started to knock the table with his long and thin fingers and he was whistling through his teeth… He was impolite… but now I was silent; for however impolite he was, the aria was of a rare beauty… it was acute as the buzzing of a bee, but it seemed in his mouth laid a virtuoso with a violin, at a length of a palm, and, on a violin as the envelope of almond, he sang thin and nice, you were staying in his love… then he was silent and started again to knock with his long fingers, so his hand seem to me a long spider, the plays.

— Forgive me, Doctor, I was saying closing my coat, but it seems to me that the aria you whistled I heard it somewhere… and I would like to ask you…— The aria you heard in the head of yours, he was telling, when you were licking the boots of Beethoven.

— What do you know if you knew him or not.

— I say unto you: you knew him… I say you were licking his boots, and this is all.

“What the hell! This old man is crazy”, I was thinking.

— What the hell! This old man is crazy, he said winkling his eye and perfectly imitating my voice. Then he followed: Kellner! Hungarian wine five years old, properly closed… Quick. Eh, nephew, he followed, is that your first thought that came [288] to your mind to my answer was:

— “What the hell! This old man is crazy”. You see, that I wanted to know!…The man is like a violin… if you put the finger in a place on the chord, sounds in a way, in another place in another way, but a violin is as the other violin. Today I feel disposed for philosophy and I like that I found you, nephew, for you seem to me an inoffensive man and one who wonders, and wondering is the mother of wisdom.

I was staring.

The old man looked at me and started to laugh.

— Tell me, nephew — if you are able — an impossible thing and an impossible idea.

— An impossible thing is that I licked the boots of Beethoven, that died so many years ago, and an impossible idea is that something would be and would be not at the same time.

The kellner brought the requested wine; the old man filled me a glass and one to him, which he threw up his throat.

Listen, nephew, you are a stupid, he said. Have you ever eard of Archaeus?

— No.

— No? Well, Archaeus is the only reality in the world, all the rest are worthless — Archaeus is everything.

— Heck! Hell with you old man, with all your Archaeus… As I see you’re making fun of me. Who is your Archaeus?

— Psst! Silent, kid… All these in due order. I will tell you soon who Archaeus is, only drink at first your wine glass and hear the following words of the old man.

Impossible thoughts do not exist for, once a thought exists, it is no longer impossible and, if it would be impossible, it would not exist. What is impossible? I will put you a lot of problems. The conditions of every possibility are in our head. Here are the odd laws to which nature have to conform. Here is the ime with its mathematic rules, here is space with the geometric laws, here the causality with its absolute necessity [289] and if you erase these… and a good sleep erases them for a few hours… what feeling rests inside us for this erasing interval? Nothing. And with all these arrive moments in life when these three elements of our mind, these drawers in which we fit a world disappear for a moment… true, as a flash only, disappear partly or in whole and you sit as for a miracle and you ask yourself… so, as the man that believed all he sees is the way it is… for, what means this. When you look at a strange physiognomy the question comes itself: how the hell is this man thinking? But, the lack of one of the five senses, even coming late, modifies radically the world of thought.

— How this? Just Beethoven composed music when he had lost his hearing.

— I knew you’d object this. Yes, Beethoven composes the opera Fidelio after he forgot for a long time the nature of the human voice… he writes music for voices as he thinks these should be and you are confronted with an opera that runs seemingly from your eyes… as looking with the reversed binocular… and you’d see from far, far away, inside the thinking of a man, something strange which you seem not fully to understand, till you notice these are the phantasms of a deaf about the human voice, whose normal nature he forgot or he only had a vague reminiscence about it. But figuring that all men would have in their ear only a reminiscence of a memory like that of Beethoven… all the opera clearly approaches, as you would be looking it with the glass normally put on your eyes… even approaches so that all the scene lies on your head and you hear the opera howling in your desert crane, with bushes, jails, actors, actresses, with all. How would be looking the head of a man that with the light of lamps, with painted veils, all [290] in his head… A whole theatre in which his soul, small in a corner of the hall, is the only spectator.

— Well. But why not believe that the normal being of man is the one expressly made to see the truth?

— Why? For even this normal being is not the one and the same — always will be small differences; although, where the differences are big, we have another world. But let me follow. I don’t know if someone ever dreamed himself elastic…that he may grow, can inflate, can conflate. If such a man would nobody wake him up from sleep, he would live all his life with a real and touched world, for during the sleep you touch as good as awake… this means he lacks not that control, the safest, of reality… And this man would conflate in a potato that would cry to men on the street not to step on him, or he would thin in a bearded English spike with a tall hat, or he would thick as a Bavarian pub owner… he would pass himself through thousands of figures, if he would sleep all his life, it would come not to his mind to doubt that this is his nature, that otherwise cannot be and that all things have to be as they are… If he would wake up before dying, he would think, on the contrary, that he is asleep and he dreams. A world as no-world is possible, uninterrupted by another order of things.

There exist many evil herbs that, bringing a slight modification of the organ of sight create before man another world. A drink prepared of a mushroom magnifies the proportions of things. A big straw as a tree and the man, in reminiscence of the figure he had before, jumps over a straw in the way. A wheat field becomes a golden forest, men become giants and maybe the old story, that before the giants inhabited the earth, belong to the construction of the eyes of then and not on the objective size or, more accurately, by the measure in which our today eye reflects the human beings. Which is the criterion of reality? Let’s not speak more of the eyes… Who knows not the [291] reality, the truth present in our dreams familiar faces, gardens, homes, streets; the ear hears pleasant music and the mind remembers it heard this music before… A friend shows up… he got old, he has some white hairs on his head… the mind compares him with the reminiscence we had on him, and imagination how he was and the real sight how is makes us feel sorry: “How this man changed!”… In a state of madness all ideas have a terrible reality… The man is tortured, put on the cross, beaten, without somebody touching him. The most terrible physic pains tear apart the soul and marks his face… on the contrary, real pains in our sense find him without sensitivity… We have no criteria… We know not if we know something… We believe it, for others believe it, for it is an all-ruling norm and that not because the world would be as we figure it, but for man resembles man more or less… Maybe they say that this odd man has no right when he says something? What do you argue against him?… With the argument that the others say just as you, that it is not so? With what right? The value of his view is the same with the value of our view… only his is isolated, while ours finds another one, molded on the same mold. But he is a dreamer! Well. Who? Him or we? This is the question… Maybe us we do nothing else than dreaming one way or the other…

— But well… we see the world.

— He sees it too.

— But we touch it.

— He touches it too. With what right our mode of seeing be the true one and his the fake one? For what is not the reverse? We are mad or he is mad… this is the question. And only if we think how different was the view of men in other centuries, that what to us seems strange to them seemed natural, that in every unknown thing we have only a form under which another man’s forehead saw a very high thing, then we come to ask [292] which the criterion of the sound mind is? A mind that today approves what it disapproved yesterday, which disapproves what it approved; a mind we see thriving each century with paradoxes…

— How, of paradoxes?

— Yes! For only tell a man that just got out of the envelope of nature that the Sun sits and Earth revolves… he would find it irrational, paradox, against sane mind… Tell him the stars are that many worlds… he would find it a paradox.

— But this is the truth.

— The truth? As you want… The way they disappear, how they slowly become unsound the theories of movement when we suppose all that imposes through itself… that space is endless!… Where’s the movement if the space is endless?…Earth went a bit… Well… Above and under it is still the same space, for it is endless… this means that what it walked, for it walked nothing, for everywhere it sits in the same place, in the same centre, in endlessness, and if it would stay and if it would move, still the same would be… Which is the criterion of its movement? Even our senses, and this visionary sensor, so its movement is unthinkable without putting in it all of our being. The earth wanders as we wander in a dream. We reach far away, but we are still in the same place… Neither after and before, neither grew nor lessened the distance — for it is infinite.

— But time?

— Oh, this cursed time, which is when long, when short, after all being the same; at least the watch says it… When somebody waits in the winter to the gate of a mansion his beloved… and she does not come… what’s time? An eternity. And when somebody reads a beautiful book… thousands pictures pass before our eyes… what’s time? A minute. Who never had a whole novel in his mind for whose normal reality he would need a lifetime or a whole youth?… In a dream he [293] can have in a night the whole life of a man. And why of a man? Why not of all that revolve around him? And in how much time? In seven or eight hours. But is that a tragedy or a comedy something else than that? And, indeed, if such a man interests you, you notice not the time passing. If we take the criterion of normality, we erased all the exclusivism of a conventional possibility and of size and we put instead it one of the same pertinence.

They we no longer say: only this is possible and only this way is possible, but we say:

After all our head is worth, it is so… but the devil knows if it could not be a thousand fold otherwise…

— What a strange idea about life!

— Think of an old manuscript, with oily pages, in a corner of a drawer… a comedy, for example. The theatre manager, in trouble, finds it, reads… reads… knocks his fingers… “This is good!”… And this way you notice on stage a living icon of life… the public laughs, actors mimic, and all these like before… of a hundred years. Then you’d want to say that either the public or the theatre is two hundred year apart, or that the script is new. Where’s the time? When you turn the binocular, they seem in an abnormal length… A man born with the binocular on his nose would run all his life after his nose, to reach it, and this would be very natural… Where’s space? That’s why when we hear the trumpet of great truth, which presents them with that amount of self-consciousness, to smile and to say: Words! words! words! Let’s listen stories, for they at least make us live the life of other men, mix our dreams and our thoughts with theirs… In them lives Archaeus… Maybe the story is the most beautiful part of human life. With stories the world is enchanting us, with stories it makes us sleep. We wake up and we die with them… Have you ever heard the story of king Tlà?

— [294] Never… But I’d first want to know who Archaeus is?

— Hm! How the hell to tell you if you didn’t got it already. Fellow! With all the changes that a man wants in his person, he still would want to rest himself… his person. I knew people that wanted to be more beautiful (how many women!), more decent (how many statesmen!), more genial (how many writers!), I knew some that wished they be Caesars, in whom the glory dreams of the whole world rested… but they wanted to be still themselves. Who and what is that he or I that in all changes of the world would want to still rest him? This is maybe all the mystery, all the enigma of life. Nothing he would want of what he has. Another body, another mind, another physiognomy, other eyes, to be different… only to be just him. He would want to change in thousands other faces, as a chameleon… but still rest himself. Abstaining from the wish of this remembering, each and everyone has his wish fulfilled,… for is indifferent for he who does not want the memory of identity, if he is he or is not him a king. He is the king, if he does not make the pretense to be himself… It is another body, another mind, another position, only he is not you. Eh, have you perceived what Archaeus is?

— Not. Less than at any other time.

— It is not easy to perceive — for he is eternal. And eternal is all that is always present…, in this moment. Not what was there, for states of matters were, not what will be, for again there will be states of matters. What is. Only if the time would

stay put we would clearly see what’s eternal… Only in a point in which would be born a moratorium between life and death, for world is only a payback towards life, an eternal cashing on the side of death. And this turn is the mother of time. Without

this, the sum of what truly exist would be to be seen everywhere we would know what

is a-temporal.

— [295] What is the use of these expositions if I still don’t know who Archaeus is?

— Hm! You are heavy headed. When somebody thinks that the unimportant size of human body stays not in a rapport with power, with immensity of will (think of Napoleon), as man is only the occasion, often weak, only a breath, for terrible passions, when you think that the bearer of these passions may at any moment become an envelope, as a vessel which the wine broke, then when you see that one and the same principle of life germs in thousands of flowers of which the most fall down half way, few remain, and these few finally have the same fate, then you see that the being in man is immortal. It is one and the same punctum saliens that appears in thousands of people, unveiled of time and space whole and undivided, moves the envelopes, draws them, one towards the other, it quits them, forms some new ones, while the meat of its sketches appears as a matter, as an Ahasveros of forms, that makes a journey that seems eternal.

— And it is indeed eternal.

— In any man the spirit of Universe tries itself again, forces itself, raises as a new ray from the same water, somehow a new assault towards heavens. But it stops in its way, true that very different here as king, there as beggar. But with what helps the envelope the minuscule bug that is stuck in the wood of life? The assault is the youth, staying in the road — deception, fall of experienced animal — oldness and death, the men are problems that the spirit of the universe puts itself again, their lives — trials of answering. The long torture, the eternal rush for unknown does not resemble the avidity to find out the answer of a curious question?

— But to me it seems that where a problem is, there is at the same time its solution.

— [296] Yes, Kant. But men rest questions, sometimes comic, sometimes dumb, and sometimes full of meaning, sometimes barren. When I see a man’s nose, I always want to ask what searches this nose in the world?

I’m not much of an opera lover. The stories are mostly preposterous, and I prefer instrumental music to vocal music most of the time. But, every so often opera puts words to music in a way this is immensely touching and wise. For me, the best example of this comes in the vocal quartet “Mir ist so wunderbar,” from Beethoven’s only opera “Fidelio.

Beethoven sets the drama up quickly. Florestan, housed in a dungeon, is the political prisoner of an evil and corrupt Governor named Pizarro. Florestan’s wife, Leonore, doesn’t know whether Florestan is living or dead. But, ever faithful, she disguises herself as a man using the name “Fidelio” (so much for the preposterous part) and gets a job at the prison. Her boss, the jailer Rocco, has a beautiful adult daughter named Marzelline, who is being pursued by a prison guard called Jacquino. But as soon as Marzelline gets a look at her dad’s new assistant, she pushes Jaquino away and has eyes only for Fidelio. Fidelio can’t exactly reject his boss’s daughter, and he lets her and her father assume that a marriage will be near at hand.

At this point, Fidelio (“faithful one”), Marzelline, Rocco, and Jaquino sing a vocal quartet that is touching because of it is gorgeous music, but even more, because it describes the poignancy of the human dilemma in which these four decent people find themselves.

As the musical lines of the four voices weave in and out, Fidelio expresses her worries over her husband, the possibility that she will not find him,  and the anguish she feels at Marzelline’s affection for her;  Jaquino articulates his heart break at having been jilted by Marzelline for Fidelio; Marzelline sings as a young woman in love; and her father, Rocco, looks forward to the happiness of these two good young people, his daughter and Fidelio, and their domestic life together.

The music touches us because of what we know that they do not. Marzelline will have her heart broken, as she must very soon, when she discovers that her future husband is a woman. Rocco, too, will have his future hopes for this daughter dashed. Fidelio faces danger if Florestan lives and she attempts to rescue him, and her own unhappiness if she has arrived too late to save him. And there is no certainty that Jaquino will ever win over Marzelline, even as a “rebound romance” once Fidelio’s identity and true gender as Leonore are revealed.

But there is more, and it is what Beethoven’s opera tells us about life in this music. It is that even decent and good people such as these four will sometimes be at cross purposes that frustrate them and hurt them. The disappointment will not happen because any one of them wanted to harm any other one of them. It will occur simply because that is the nature of human existence. And Beethoven made art of this fact of life. We feel for the characters, however absurd the opera’s premise, because we’ve been there too, been in difficult relationships where pain was inevitable despite our best efforts to avoid it for ourselves and avoid inflicting it on others.

The disappointments that are bound up with living, the tragedy that touches virtually every life before its end (and, often, because of its end), is the stuff of opera, life, and of psychotherapy, too. Fidelio moves us because it is a story of self sacrificing love and courage. And the irony of great art that comments on human suffering, such is this vocal quartet, is that just as Beethoven moves us to tears, he touches our heart in a way that enlivens us, and makes life worth living in the moment that we share the beauty and wisdom of his vision.

Un altre bell moment de Fidelio, amb Karita Mattila i Ben Heppner a la Metropolitan Opera el 2003, el duet de Leonore i Florestan a la cinquena escena del segon acte: «O, namenlose Freude!» (Oh joia inefable!).

(vídeo pujat per MacbettO).

Llegint el diari, m’he ensopegat amb aquest artícle d’en Gregorio Moran titulat “Fidelio, el hijo más querido”… bàsicament ve a dir que és música d’amor i llibertat -sobretot aquesta última-. Estic d’acord en alguns punts (com el cor final a l’estil Boradway), però ni molt menys sóc l’entusiasta i groupie que és ell respecte aquesta òpera. Entenc el misstage, i l’admiro, tanmateix no m’exalta i em condueix al setè cel en un orgasme musical continu. Ho sento però no. Grans moments: si; Fidelio és una òpera que no m’arriba.

El que és impresionant, és la quantitat de tinta que ha fet córrer. Els diaris han anat plens de pàgines dedicades a aquesta òpera. I jo em pregunto… és l’altíssima qualitat de l’obra, que la fa tan mediàtica? O bé,  com que és Made in Beethoven, el deliri es desencadena i se li otorga un prestigi i una importància absoluta que no es mereix? Personalment, em decanto per aquesta segona opció…

Gregorio Morán, “Fidelio, el hijo más querido”

Highlights

La Vanguardia – 23 maig 2009

(…) No creo que se trate en esta ocasión de un gran acierto de montaje y cantantes, por más que la puesta en escena traiga el marchamo made in New York, que ahora parece salvoconducto para todo, y los cantantes tengan tantos niveles diferentes de calidad que al final el resultado medio resulte modesto. Habrán de conformarse en el segundo acto con estar pendientes exclusivamente de la música y las voces, porque la escena ayuda muy poco a entender algo. Pero no les costará trabajo adentrarse en un auténtico prodigio musical. Y cuando lleguen al coro final, hagan como si no lo ven y sólo lo escuchan, porque si abren lo ojos y contemplan el fasto de Broadway se les pondrán los pelos como escarpias ante tal derroche de mal gusto.  (Si, si, si! Totalment d’acord!)

(…) ¿Y qué es Fidelio como ópera? (Jo tinc constantment aquest dubte cap) Una reflexión musical, un exposición musical, diríamos mejor, en torno al lema “por el Amor y contra la Tiranía”, así con mayúsculas. El artificioso argumento sobre una esposa que se disfraza de hombre para ayudar a escapar a su marido encarcelado no es que estuviera de moda tras la Revolución Francesa como aseguran los comentaristas. Ya lo estaba en la época de Cervantes, y no hay teatrero de entonces que no tenga su obrita sobre los audaces rescates amorosos. Fidelio es tanto la representación de una música para el amor como de una música para la libertad. Se podría decir que Beethoven es por encima de cualquier otra cosa un compositor de la libertad, y entendiendo la libertad como una manifestación de la individualidad del ser humano, del creador, y sobre todo del defensor de la verdad. Es sorprendente esa suma exponencial de un músico poco dado a las teorías sociopolíticas o filosóficas; los músicos, tanto o más que los pintores, son biológicamente alérgicos a los esquemas intelectuales que utilizamos en los papeles. Ellos tienen otro lenguaje que no se parece en nada al nuestro. Pues bien, dejando esto sentado y sin poder avanzar un palmo explicándolo, hay que añadir que la ecuación beethoveniana suma siempre tres elementos: Amor, Verdad, Libertad.

(…) Quiero terminar con un sarcasmo que considero de máxima importancia a la hora de valorar la otra instrumentalización de la música. ¿Saben ustedes que cada vez que se interpreta en público el Himno a la Alegría beethoveniano extraído de su Novena sinfonía,ese mismo que canta a la libertad y a la hermandad entre los hombres, y que ha sido adoptado como emblema de la Unión Europea, hay que pagarle los derechos de reproducción a los herederos de un ex nazi? (Quina forma de dir les coses….) El Himno a la Alegría de Beethoven fue adaptado y registrado legalmente por Herbert von Karajan, militante voluntario del partido nazi desde 1939 hasta 1945. La Unión Europea aceptó por contrato que se considerara como obra de Karajan y no de Beethoven. ¡Y luego dicen que el destino no le fue aciago al sordo de Bonn! (A que ve aquest final?)

Dijous vaig anar a veure Fidelio, l’única òpera de Beethoven, al Liceu. Hi anava sense conèixer l’òpera però amb bones expectatives que m’agradés: m’havia estat escoltant algun fragment i m’havia agradat força. D’altra banda, hi anava amb una mica de recança pels comentaris d’en Joaquim sobre els cantants («Fidelio al Liceu: sort de la Mattila»), però potser per això no em va semblar que cantessin tan malament. Elena de la Merced (Marzelline) va brillar des del començament, ben acompanyada al primer acte Mathias Klink (Jaquino), i després per Stephen Milling (Rocco) i, sobretot, per Karita Mattila (Leonore/Fidelio). Mattila té una veu potent i amb un to vellutat molt bonic i va ser la protagonista de la nit (sí, d’acord ÉS la protagonista de l’òpera, però també ho va ser de la funció). Clifton Forbis (Florestan) va cantar bé, potser sí com diu en Joaquim una mica escanyat en algun moment, però no em va semblar que la seva actuació fos dolenta. El cor, reforçat pel Cor de Cambra del Palau de la Música, brillant com sempre, i l’orquestra correcta. Per una vegada no tinc cap queixa de l’escenografia: em va agradar (que és el menys important) i s’adeia al que vèiem a l’escenari i al que es cantava.

Per si us en voleu fer una idea, aquí teniu un vídeo del mateix muntatge, l’any 2003, amb Karita Mattila (Fidelio), René Pape (Rocco) i Jennifer Welch-Babidge (Marzelline) a la Metropolitan Opera de Nova York. És el quartet del primer acte, un dels moments més bonics de l’òpera:

Fidelio, com diu el nom, és una obra sobre la veritat, sobre l’amor i sobre la fidelitat. Florestan és a la presó que dirigeix Don Pizarro, a qui havia denunciat. Leonore, muller de Florestan, disfressada d’home i amb el nom de Fidelio, s’hi ha llogat com a vigilant i s’ha guanyat la confiança del carceller, Rocco, i l’amor de la filla d’aquest, Marzelline. Florestan és a les masmorres del soterrani de la presó, i Fidelio aconsegueix baixar-hi quan acompanya Rocco a cavar la tomba on Don Pizarro vol enterrar Florestan abans no arribi la visita del ministre. Un cop a baix, Fidelio es dóna a conèixer, salva Florestan i Rocco intercedeix per ells davant del ministre, que condemna Don Pizarro i allibera Florestan.

La producció que hem vist al Liceu, té tants desequilibris que al final et quedes amb la sensació d’aprovat

justet. És la pena de les mitjanes aritmètiques. La posada en escena de Jürgen Flimm no aporta absolutament res. Si en comptes d’estar situada en una presó dels anys quaranta ens hagués mantingut el postís d’una sevillana d’inicis del segle XIX hagués fet exactament el mateix efecte. Què suposa realment plantificar-li a la Mattila en comptes d’un sarró, una motxilla de soldat ras? Tanmateix, la producció ha agradat. Jürgen Flimm s’ha guanyat l’aplaudiment d’una part important del públic –suposo que el mateix que va entusiasmar-se amb aquella de Luisa Miller.

Tot el que porta la etiqueta made in New York no és que sigui el colmo de l’originalitat, això ja ho sabem. Bé… doncs si ho sabem, perquè portem aquesta producció? Des del punt de vista tècnic, considero que era bastant bona; per exemple, l’aprofitament de l’espai i el pas del temps en el primer acte. De fet, aquest acte funciona molt més que el següent. Hi ha un lleuger problema de direcció d’actors en el moment que Leonora s’interposa per defensar a Florestan (queda sobreactuat i fals) i un de greu en el retrobament dels cònjuges. I el pitjor és que aquest és, o hauria de ser, el clímax de l’òpera!

Després de desemmascarar-se, després que Florestan reconegui a Leonore, que aquesta hagi arribat a l’extrem per defensar el seu marit i la llibertat… després de tot això… la Mattila se pega un paseillo per l’escenari que dóna gust, mentre el Florestan-Forbis continua florint-se al seu racó (i realment, allà s’hi podria haver quedat… però amb un esparadrap a la boca). Per què es retarda tan innecessàriament el clímax del retrobament? Retrobar-se després de dos anys evidentment que et pot suposar una mica de trauma, però en cap dels casos un es creu que aleshores: “Ai… que justament ara defalleixo una mica”. Era d’esperar una mica més de passió entre ells dos. Semblava com si després de tant de patiment… ara li sap greu haver-lo alliberat. Com si

El grau d’horterisme broadwayano de la última escena (joer… els cantants del cor fan el bailecito estem-contents-i-movem-els-peus-amunt-i-avall) per la detenció i linxament caricaturesc de Don Pizarro. Els guardes se l’emporten darrere de l’estàtua… i allà comencen a colpejar en plan camera lenta! Tot ben amanit amb un cel pintat a aquarel•la que li donava un aire a pati de catequesis.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!!”, era l’únic que podia pensar.

Sort que el Basso dirigeix bé el cor, i si un tanca els ulls, pot arribar a gaudir –i molt– del final de l’òpera. Sobretot… perquè també saps que després no vindrà cap acte més, i prou Fidelio fins d’aquí 20 o 30 anys.

Ahir dia 18 es va donar la primera funció del Fidelio, així que arribo una mica tard, però tenint en compte que la segona funció es dóna el dijous (jo assistirè), encara em salvo.

Per a explicar una mica la història de la composició de l’òpera i un breu resum del seu argument aprofito la introducció que hi ha a la pàgina web del Liceu (que per això la paguem entre tots).

“Òpera en dos actes amb Llibret de Joseph von Sonnleithner (1805) revisat per Stephan von Breuning (1806) i Georg Friedrich Treitschke (1814) basat en l’obra Léonore ou L’amour conjugal de Jean Nicolas Bouilly. Música de Ludwig van Beethoven. Estrenada el 20 de novembre de 1805 al Theater an der Wien de Viena. Estrena de la versió revisada, el 29 de març de 1806 al mateix teatre. Estrena de la versió definitiva, el 23 de maig de 1814 al Kärntnertortheater. Estrenada al Gran Teatre del Liceu l’11 de gener de 1921.

Es basa en el drama francès Léonore ou L’amour conjugal de Jean-Nicolas Bouilly (1798), que Beethoven admirava. El drama pertanyia a un gènere molt popular els anys de la Revolució Francesa, la pièce à sauvetage, en què els herois triomfen d’una situació de greu perill, en una visió optimista dels valors positius de la justícia i la raó. La primera versió, en tres actes, tingué com a llibretista Joseph Sonnleithner i s’estrenà el 1805 en una Viena ocupada per les tropes franceses, sense èxit. Una segona versió del 1806 només tingué dues representacions. La versió definitiva, en dos actes, en què havia incorporat el llibretista Georg Friedrich Treitschke i revisat a fons la partitura, s’estrenà al Kärtnertortheater el 1814, i pocs mesos després arribà a Praga, Leipzig, Dresden i Berlín. Aquesta llarga i complicada elaboració explica també l’existència de tres obertures prèvies a la definitiva, que –amb el nom de Leonore– han tingut una gran difusió com a pàgines simfòniques independents. Habitualment, l’anomenada Leonore núm. 3 s’insereix entre les dues escenes del segon acte.

L’acció transcorre a Sevilla, al segle XVII, en una terrible presó militar governada pel cruel Don Pizarro, que hi té presoner secretament el seu pitjor enemic, Florestan, que s’ha atrevit a proclamar unes veritats que el delaten. Leonora, magnífica encarnació de la muller valenta i enamorada, es disfressa d’home, amb el nom de Fidelio, i es guanya la confiança del carceller Rocco –personatge bo i de gran dignitat personal– en un intent desesperat de salvar el marit. Les primeres escenes segueixen el to i l’estructura del singspiel –Marzelline, la filla de Rocco s’enamora de Fidelio creient que és un noi–, però aviat l’òpera es converteix en un esplèndid oratori que celebra la força de l’amor. Fidelio aconsegueix baixar a les masmorres per cavar amb Rocco la tomba on Pizarro pensa enterrar Florestan després d’assassinar-lo, preocupat per l’anunciada visita del ministre Don Fernando. Després d’escoltar el plany desesperat de Florestan en la foscor, Fidelio aconsegueix amb un coratge inaudit deturar l’acció criminal de Pizarro mentre l’arribada del ministre resol definitivament el drama. El cant a la llibertat dels presoners perdonats s’uneix a l’alegria dels esposos celebrant el triomf de l’amor conjugal i de la justícia.

La música ens porta tota l’energia i la passió del compositor en una partitura plena d’idealisme i de sublimació. A més de l’esmentat plany de Florestan («Gott!, welch Dunkel hier / In des Lebens Frühlingstagen»), destaquem l’ària de Leonora «Komm, Hoffnung, lass den letzen Stern», la primera sortida dels presoners a la llum («O welche Lust»), el duo de retrobament dels esposos («O namenlose Freude!») o l’himne a l’amor conjugal que clou l’obra («Wer ein holdes Weib errungen»).”

Veiem uns quants fragments de l’obre dels que abans se comenten.

En primer lloc l’ària de Leonora, per, en teoria (això d’anunciar la cover fa arronsar el nas) la mateixa soprano que les canta al Liceu, la Karitta Mattila, en la meteixa producció del Metropolitan que es presenta la Liceu.

“Abscheulicher! Wo eilst du hin? – Karita Mattila – The Metropolitan Opera Orchestra and Chorus-James Levine, 2003.

Continuem amb l’ària de Florestan (dificilíssima), per un molt implicat Jonas Kaufmann.

Jonas Kaufmann cantant l’ària de Florestan

I per últim l’Obertura Leonora nº3, amb la Berliner Philharmoniker i Herbert von Karajan.

Karajan – Beethoven: ”Leonore III” Overture, pt. 1 of 2 i 2 of 2

Per últim acompanyo el post amb una gravació extraordinària i en directe del Fidelio, que va servir de base a la versió d’estudi de Fidelio aclamada com la millor per la crítica (la de Klemperer amb la Ludwig i Vickers), però en aquest cas és al Covent Garden amb Klemperer, repetint Vickers com Florestan i amb els llegendaris Hans Hotter i Sena Jurinac (i amb una Leonora III que posa els pèls de punta).

Descarga CDs (Password:Sankerib)

 INFORMACIÓ DE LA PRODUCCIÓ

Direcció d’escena: Jürgen Flimm / Gina Lapinski

Escenografia: Robert Israel

Vestuari: Florence von Gerkan

Il·luminació: Duane Schuler

Producció: Metropolitan Opera House (New York)

Dates: 18/05/09 21/05/09 22/05/09 24/05/09 26/05/09 27/05/09 30/05/09 31/05/09 02/06/09

Cast (1er repartiment)

Direcció musical: Sebastian Weigle

Don Fernando: Anders Larsson

Don Pizarro: Terje Stensvold

Florestan: Clifton Forbis

Leonore: Karita Mattila

Cover Leonore II: Eilana Lappalainen

Rocco: Stephen Milling

Marzelline: Elena de laMerced

Jaquino: Mathias Klink