What to do with Medea? Luigi Cherubini’s 1797 opera was first presented in French, as Medée. The reception was tepid. The use of spoken dialog proved awkward. In 1909, Carlo Zangarini undertook an Italian translation, which has stuck. In the 20th century, with rare exceptions, this is how the public has heard it; indeed, most of us know the opera through the various recordings with Maria Callas, and indeed, the stronger delivery of consonants in Italian seem more suitable for the dreadful, insane title character. And it is in this edition that the Metropolitan Opera is presenting its first-ever production.
Much like Beethoven (who considered Cherubini a great composer), the latter straddled the Classical and Romantic eras. After the wild, threatening overture, the first half hour sounds perfectly classical as we are introduced to the characters: the bride-to-be Glauce reflects on her upcoming marriage to Jason, who, previously and troublesomely, has had a relationship with the demi-goddess and sorceress, Medea, who had helped him steal the treasure known as the Golden Fleece, in the meantime betraying her family and murdering her brother. Jason and Medea had two children. Jason has since abandoned Medea, and in the opera’s introductory passages, Glauce’s handmaidens attempt to comfort her, she sings a lovely aria with flute obbligato, and Jason professes his love for her. It’s a half hour of major-key loveliness – the last we’ll hear in this opera.
When Medea enters, the mood turns dark immediately – she’s furious, knows she’s not welcome, and is looking to get Jason back – and for the remainder of the opera, this darkness and danger prevail. The role of Medea is almost non-stop and about as challenging as soprano roles get – exclamations come from the center/bottom of her voice, she soars to high Bs and Cs in rage, she must beg and plead and threaten. The music is ruthlessly emotional, with little respite.
Sondra Radvanovsky, by now a Met favorite, dared to take on the title role. The shadow of Callas loomed large. Callas’ teacher once said that her voice was the only one she’d ever heard that could express hate. Radvanovsky came close. The wheedling of Jason and his father, Creonte, filled with viciousness disguised in lovely, legato, pianissimo singing turn wild and hateful when Medea feels she will not get her way: her invocations to the dark gods brim over with a sickening sort of mental derangement. Radvanovsky has previously impressed in major Verdi roles, a stunning Norma and an almost overwhelming Elisabetta (Roberto Devereux). This Medea cements Radvanovsky's position as thrilling prima donna assoluta – the voice is more under control at all volume levels, and what was an exciting somewhat Slavic edge in the high notes is now a thrilling vocal and dramatic device. Her acting was brilliant – with auburn hair a mess and streaks of mascara running down her face, she slithered, crawled, grabbed at the earth and stood tall, all while bringing to life this hideous character. Her curtain call was met with a wild ovation, complete with torn programs wafting down from the Met’s upper reaches.
The rest of the cast was also splendid, though they seemed like minor roles in comparison. Matthew Polenzani’s bright sound and intelligent musicality went a long way to make us feel for Jason. Singing with great authority tinged with fear and anger, he feared for his helplessness in the wake of Medea’s lunacy. Janai Brugger’s lovely sound and demeanor was just right for Glauce, whom we hardly get to know before Medea murders her on her wedding day. Ekaterina Gubanova, as Medea’s confidante, sang her moving last act aria, with its bassoon obbligato, handsomely, the fidelity she swears to Medea truly moving. Michele Pertusi, as King Creon, was strong and regal – if only he had exiled Medea when he first wanted to!
Sir David McVicar, in his twelfth Met production, is on his best form. Seemingly iron semi-circular doors to the palace and a huge tilted mirror which both clarifies and alters audience perception are very effective, and his bringing the action forward to pre-Napoleonic France allows for stunning costumes. He and movement director Jo Meredith keep characterizations crisp, though the Argonauts seem more like frat boys on spring break. Lighting designer Paule Constable and projection designer S Katy Tucker rate high praise. The back-and-forth in Medea’s fractured mind over whether or not to kill her children was terrifying and when Medea sets fire to the palace, the final conflagration would do Wotan proud.
Others conductors have been far more fiery and suspenseful than the Met’s Carlo Rizzi, although he elicited fine playing and ensemble work from the Met forces and helped give Radvanovsky the triumph she deserves. Even in our tabloid heavy world, this take on vengeance and infanticide manages to grab us by our throat.
