Francesca da Rimini at the Metropolitan Opera

It is always a pleasure when New York City’s Metropolitan Opera revives a seldom-heard opera.  So it was with great pleasure that I caught the recent revival of Riccardo Zandonai’s little-heard Francesca da Rimini last Saturday. 

The story of Francesca derived from a brief episode in Dante’s Inferno that is based on historical fact, and has inspired adaptations in a variety of genres over the centuries.  Italian writer Gabriele d’Annunzio (1863-1938) wrote a tragic play based on the legend, which was adapted into a libretto by music publisher Tito Ricordi, Jr.  Ricordi initially wanted Puccini (1858-1924) to create the score, but when he refused Ricordi turned to Riccardo Zandonai (1883-1944), who had previously written the opera Conchita on a libretto also rejected by Puccini.

Francesca first premiered at the Met in 1916 with Frances Alda and Giovanni Martinelli.  It was performed through 1918, and then fell out of the repertory for 66 years.  The current production premiered in 1984 – and has not been seen at the Met since 1986.

The reason for Francesca’s protracted absence is puzzling, as it has a great deal to commend it, including a dramatic story, theatrical set-pieces and a score that, while not of the first rank, certainly delivers diverse pleasures.  It continues through March 22^nd and you should see it, if at all possible.  (It will also be broadcast, eventually, on PBS.)

The story concerns Francesca, promised in marriage to Gianciotto Malatesta.  When the handsome Paolo Malatesta arrives, she mistakes him for her betrothed, and – in one of the most magical moments of the opera, beautifully played here – wordlessly fall in love over the gift of a rose.  The second act takes place during a battle between warring families, the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, and we see her actual husband, the crippled Gianciotto.  We also meet the third brother, Malatestino, who rather graphically makes his appearance after losing an eye in battle.

Of course, the forbidden love between Francesca and Paolo continues unabated.  The malign Malatestino, who delights in mischief, draws the Gianciotto’s attention to his wife’s true feelings, and the opera ends in tragedy.

The sets, by Ezio Frigerio, have all the beauty of a Pre-Raphaelite painting; indeed, it is one of the most beautiful productions I’ve seen in years.  As mentioned earlier, the First Act closing love scene is a thing of great beauty, and the Second Act battle scenes are spectacular in a way that can only be delivered by the Met. 

Zandonai’s score is something of a mixed bag; equal parts Wagnerian bombast and Pucciniesque Romanticism.  It has echoes of DeBussy, as well as Strauss, but no matter how derivative, it is tuneful and amply dramatizes the action.

As Francesca, Eva-Maria Westbroek is at times transcendentally lovely, and her clear voice and fine tone is sometimes compromised by imprecise diction.  As Paolo, the handsome lover, Marcello Giordani is somewhat out of his league, having neither the voice nor the looks for the role.  However, his acting is occasionally affecting, and he is particularly effective in his silent love scene at the end of Act One.  As the evil brothers – lame Gianciotto and one-eyed Malatestino – Mark Delavan and Robert Brubaker, respectively, were particularly fine.  The performance was conducted by Marco Armiliato, who, in his ill-fitting tails, seemed to have an unfortunate resemblance to the late Dudley Moore.

Francesca includes battle scenes, spectacular fire effects, love affairs, decapitation, adultery, murder and dungeons.  As Arthur Schwartz and Howard Dietz said, “that’s entertainment.”

Shatner’s World: We Just Live in It

William Shatner – idol of millions (billions?) of science fiction fans and would-be pitchmen – comes to Broadway in a one-man show, Shatner’s World: We Just Live in It.  To witness this spectacle among the true-believers is not quite the same as attending a straight play; rather, it has all the flavor of an old fashioned tent meeting.  Whatever one might say about the show, Shatner has more dedicated, demonstrative, supportive and clinically obese fans than any Broadway actor I have ever seen.

Before going into Shatner’s performance, we should make clear that this is not a “one man show” in the accepted sense.  Do not expect Vincent Price as Oscar Wilde or Julie Harris as Emily Dickinson; this is a personal appearance, where Shatner tells anecdotes detailing how famous he is and how much fun he has had at the expense of a doting public.  Celebrity confessional seems to be a new focus on Broadway – Carrie Fisher, another science fiction icon, made hay (and money) with a recent “one-woman show” where she detailed her problems of addiction and told some moldy Hollywood anecdotes.  However, I do find it specious to bill a fan event a “one-man show,” particularly when the actor involved does little other than natter about the past.

Even within that framework, though, Shatner’s World is slim pickings indeed.  In a mix of anecdotes and film clips, Shatner takes pot shots at past co-stars, talks about the glories of live television, and tells interesting stories about people as diverse of Christopher Plummer and Lon Chaney, Jr.  Some of these stories are interesting and amusing, but Shatner also tells too, too many borscht belt jokes that were stale when Eddie Cantor did them.  As an actor there is nothing that can be said of William Shatner that hasn’t been said of George Hamilton or Robert Wagner – men who are largely famous for having become famous. 

Shatner’s prowess as an actor is something we are expected to take on faith.  In detailing a triumphal turn as Shakespeare’s Henry V (when he understudied a sick Christopher Plummer), Shatner ends the story with showing us his press clip.  An actor, rather than a celebrity, would’ve provided a snippet of Henry (a part rich in monologs) for our delectation, but that’s never the point in Shatner’s World.  The point is he did it, by jingo, and now on to the next triumph…

One must, however, applaud Shatner for his robust energy and extreme vigor.  A man of 80, he prances up-and-down the stage for an hour and 40 minutes, sometimes shouting, sometimes whispering, and even dancing here and there.  He plays largely against an office chair, which doubles as everything from a car to a bed to a horse, and takes much-needed pauses during film clips.  As an act of endurance, it is a formidable feat for both the actor and the audience.

Shatner also tells a great many personal stories, including the death his third wife, and how using his prized horse as a stud ruined that animal, and his guilt at having to put it down.  Surprisingly, the horse story goes on for some 10 minutes, and his wife is largely mentioned in passing.  Even as a confessional, the show also lacks depth-of-feeling.

And if one were to sum-up Shatner -- the show and the man -- that would be the key complaint.  Many are engaged by Shatner’s innate hamminess and the fact that he happily embraces the joke that he has become.   But it is this lack of depth-of-feeling, this sense of a barren interior, that differentiates a fan icon from an actor of any real sensitivity or warmth.  Shatner has become the exemplar of our ego-centric age: we seem enamored of people who disproportionally love themselves.  I had the sense that the audience ovation was also self-reflective – by cheering Shatner, we applaud the neediest part of ourselves.  Shatner comes off as a strange mix of ego-maniacal manchild and wide-eyed innocent: that might be enough to fill the outer reaches of space during Prime Time, but not nearly enough to inhabit the even greater vastness that is the theater.