"The 'Orfeo' Diaries": Why You Must See "Orfeo & Euridice"

 "A must-see, don't miss this!"

Orfeo's  Katharine Goeldner

You know, every opera company says that about every production they put on. And every singer says it about whatever their current role is. So what is different about this one? Why should you, Dear Audience, come see Orfeo ed Euridice? It's not "grand opera" or as familiar as, say, Carmen, Aida, or Boheme. So why bother?

I'll tell you why.  It's because Orfeo isn't like any other operatic experience you will have. There's no spectacle (but this really is an incredibly lovely production!) and this isn't some outdated re-telling of a boring, ancient myth. This is an intimate, incredibly moving musical and theatrical experience. The reason this opera has been so popular for over 200 years is because it tells the universal story of human pain, loss and the redemptive power of love.

Take the show's hit tune, "Che faro senza Euridice." You may think, "Yeah, yeah, I know that song. Heard it a million times." Let me tell you: you haven't. When you hear this deceptively simple tune in the context of the opera, it takes on a whole new meaning. Gluck has managed to create a timeless expression of what everyone of us who has experienced the death of someone close to us knows. The simple text  ("What shall I do without Euridice? Where shall I go without my love?") becomes the heart-wrenching outpouring of Orfeo's grief: first disbelief, then anger at the gods who let this happen, then sad acceptance and the desire to kill himself to be reunited in death with his beloved. It's amazing to me how Gluck uses the same words and the same tune for three different verses and yet the result has so many unexpected facets to it. (And, by the way, we are doing Gluck's original version, which is much quieter and more introspective than the more familiar, flashy Berlioz re-working of this piece.) 

I keep coming back to the word "intimate" to describe this piece, and it truly is. There are only three characters—the Goddess of Love Amore, Euridice and me, Orfeo. Well, four, really, because the chorus and our two wonderful dancers make up the important fourth element of Furies/Souls of the Heroes and the Virtuous. (The chorus, by the way, gets some of the best music in the opera. So gorgeous!) 

My goal in my portrayal of Orfeo, is to take you, the Audience, along with me on this emotional journey. I want to give you more than just a pleasant evening of lovely music. I want to make you feel what Orfeo feels, to remind you of your own love and, yes, loss. And most importantly, to remind you that Love truly does bear all things, hope all things, endure all things.  — Mezzo-soprano Katharine Goeldner (Orfeo)

"The 'Orfeo' Diaries": Shrew or Doe?

Arizona Opera's Euridice, soprano Christine Brandes

One of the more daunting challenges with the role of Euridice is finding a way to convey the profound disorientation and fear she experiences at Orfeo's silence without tipping over into the realm of the nagging wife. While the myth can be read in such a way as to conclude she has mercilessly hounded poor Orfeo into looking at her and unwittingly causing her death, we have opted for a more nuanced approach.

What must it be like to die so suddenly? To be transported to the sweet oblivion of Elysium only to be retrieved by your beloved who refuses to look at you as he drags you back to the upper world through the harrowing realm of the underworld? As a Greek friend of mine would say, "I was like a deer without headlights!" Hence, our doe-like Euridice initially speaks from a place of bewilderment that is nonetheless infused with her innate sweetness, love and faith in Orfeo's love for her. After asking so many times and in so many ways for Orfeo to simply look at her, her faith is crushed by his brusque demand for her to shut up and follow him. Sweet bewilderment is replaced by frustration, fear and anguish. Ultimately, her life force begins to weaken, and we discover she will die of a broken heart before Orfeo can reach the surface. To a degree, it is Orfeo's desperation at hearing the fading of her spirit that provokes his look back in an ill-fated attempt to save her. It is not the relentless kvetching of Euridice the Shrew but the rapid heart beat and labored breath of the dying doe. —Soprano Christine Brandes (Euridice) 

 

"The 'Orfeo' Diaries": Time Off with Frank Lloyd Wright

One of the added bonuses to this remarkable life as an opera singer is the opportunity to take in the landmarks, museums, cuisines and natural wonders of cities across the globe.

Yesterday, Katharine and I took advantage of our day off by steeping ourselves in the brilliance of Frank Lloyd Wright. Both of us have spent a great deal of time in Chicago and are familiar with his home and studio in Oak Park, Illinois, as well as his many magnificent buildings in the greater Chicago area. 

The leads of "Orfeo ed Euridice," soprano Christine Brandes and mezzo-soprano Katharine Goeldner, at Taliesin West

Nothing could have prepared us for the uniqueness of Taliesin West. It really is as though it has arisen out of the desert as any other natural formation and when viewed at a distance seems to melt into the surrounding landscape. One of the great surprises for us was to discover Wright played the piano, had many Steinways of various sizes and hosted "Taliesin Evenings." One of the guests at such an evening was Aaron Copland.

There is a space somewhat like an auditorium dedicated to entertainments and concerts as well as a subterranean cabaret zone modeled after a cabaret he attended in Berlin in the 1920s. Of course, our first thought was: We have GOT to come back and do an opera fundraiser here!

We then went to the sumptuous Biltmore Hotel for lunch, which was capped off by a dessert of S’mores made with a wee charcoal burner at our table.

Divine music, great colleagues and Frank Lloyd Wright—what more can a girl ask for?
Except perhaps a trip to a spring training ballgame. Stay tuned.  — Soprano Christine Brandes (Euridice)

Director Lillian Groag brings her vision of Gluck's "Orfeo ed Euridice"—"this most tranquil and optimistic of operas"—to Arizona Opera

Whenever I prepare a new production, I ask myself, “Why do this opera/play today?”  CDs abound if one wants a pleasant listen, glass of sherry in hand.  But what does it have to say to us now?  What’s it about, other than an opportunity to make “innovative” production choices?  And in this particular case, how do we communicate this most tranquil and optimistic of operas—composed almost 250 years ago and, most eminently, a product of its age—to an audience bombarded by media, three-second sound bites, deafening sound effects and daily news of terrorism and war?
 
There are four main characters in Gluck’s opera: Orfeo, Euridice, Love … and the chorus, or the community. The story tells us how they are affected by the loss of one among them, the grieving process, ensuing solace and a return to life. It’s about a community and its artist(s) dealing with the unimaginable: Death and, in the Calzabigi-Gluck version (as opposed to the traditional myth), humans actually coming out winners.

And that was the hard dramaturgical question: if Euridice comes back to life a second time, the iconic myth is dismantled and loses all meaning... at first sight. At the core of the problem is the puzzle of this Western theme about “not looking back.” It seems to be closely related to the “not seeking to know” dictum. Orfeo must not look back at Euridice after bringing her back to life; Lot’s wife must not look back to Gomorrah going up in smoke just as Psyche must not look at Eros after making love; Semele must not look at Jupiter; Elsa mustn’t ask Lohengrin’s name on their wedding night; the fairy Melusine’s husband must not look at her at night (well, she’s a Serpent during those hours, which might send the poor chap screaming into the night), etc. There are a myriad variations on this theme in our fairy tales and mythologies. But myths without profound meaning don’t take hold in cultures . What is the meaning of this one?

It seems to have to do with a failure of faith, the greatest sin in all theologies. Let us not forget that Socrates was condemned to death for impiety, lest we wax romantic about the Classical Greeks’ enlightened mindset. Calzabigi’s and Gluck’s worldview was Christian— most particularly, Catholic— and Catholic theology, unlike pagan theology, contains the possibility of redemption through suffering.  Hades, for the ancient Greeks, did not contain a heaven or a hell and so, by extension, no Purgatory. Hades was the Underworld, the world of the Shadows, from where “no voyager returned.” Yet the Furies’ words in this opera imply that they are expiating transgressions—as in the old Purgatory notion—which might be a first sign of the possibility of Euridice’s final resurrection through the appalling suffering of Orfeo. (It was his fault she died a second time.) Thus it reminds the audience of the hope on which Christianity is based and thrived in the Western world.

Performances of "Orfeo ed Euridice" are Apr. 13-15 in Phoenix, Apr. 21 & 22 in Tucson.  For tickets, go to  www.azopera.org or call 602.266.7464 or 520.293.4336.

I don’t hold spiritual beliefs of any kind, but I do see this as a profoundly Christian version of the pagan story. I think it incumbent for directors not to impose their personal views on a piece of theater if they contradict the original intent of its creators. I see Elysium as the 18th-century Enlightenment’s vision of a Good Life: all arts, sciences and crafts applied in a peaceful society where harmony was the goal. The world of the Furies is that place where the unquiet souls reside and who are comforted and solaced by Orfeo’s Music.  Music alone cannot relieve suffering but, in acknowledging it, can bring a degree of understanding—and so, comfort—to the suffering human heart. And isn’t that the function of all Art?  — Lillian Groag

Mezzo-soprano Katharine Goeldner, the Orfeo in April's production of "Orfeo ed Euridice," describes her recent experience in the Metropolitan Opera spotlight

There's never a dull moment at the Metropolitan Opera.  I've sung many roles there: the School Boy in "Lulu" (my debut), Prince Orlofsky, Cherubino, Nicklausse. And I've covered a couple of things, but I have never actually gone on stage as a cover at that house. On October 18th, all that changed.

At this point, I should explain a bit what a "cover" is. A "cover" is sort of an unofficial second cast. As a cover, you may not necessarily have scheduled performances, but you are "on call" for every one and must either be in the building or within a 20-minute cab ride of the Met, accessible by cell phone. You are responsible for learning the entire role and being present at every rehearsal, where you watch and carefully write down all of the stage directions. You also rehearse with the other covers and have a complete run-through before the day of the premiere, just in case something should happen to one of the first cast singers. I have to point out, though, that the covers have no stage or orchestra time.  And although you have your own set of costumes, made just for you, you don't actually get a chance to rehearse in them.  Bear this in mind as you read...

So, I've been here at the Met these past two months, covering the role of Giovanna (Jane) Seymour in the new production of "Anna Bolena," which stars Anna Netrebko in the title role.  I had been put on "official warning" for the three previous shows.  The woman I was covering, Ekaterina Gubanova, had a sore throat and thought she was going to have to cancel, so I needed to be ready just in case. They had me in a dressing room with my costumes at the ready, but each time she wound up singing the entire performance.

On October 18th, I didn't get that "official warning," so I was covering from my cell phone and having dinner with a friend. Halfway through the show, I get The Call. After singing Act 1, my "coveree" felt she was losing her voice, had cancelled the rest of the show and I needed to get down there pronto. So I hopped into a cab, told the driver to step on it and arrived at the Met as fast as I could. They held the curtain for about 15 minutes while I was rushed into makeup and my costume (warming up while they're dressing me!). I was quickly swept into the 15th century and out onto the stage of the Met to sing the big Act 2 duet with Anna Netrebko. Keep in mind, I had never been on the set and had never sung this role with an orchestra. Oh, and this was a role debut for me as well. Anna was a wonderful colleague, energy was high and we had FUN out there. And then back I went into the dressing room to be rushed into the next costume--that beautiful reproduction of the red dress in the famous Holbein portrait of Jane Seymour--and onto the stage for my last big scene with Henry VIII and my aria.

I have to tell you that every single mezzo I've talked to who has sung this role has the same opinion of it: it's HARD. The role really lies in soprano territory and it's very difficult to maintain the tessitura and then end the aria on a high B. It is definitely the most technically-challenging role I have ever sung.

So there I am, on the stage of the Met, singing the most difficult aria I have ever sung, never having sung the aria in public before. Was I nervous? A bit but not as much as I had expected. There just wasn't time to be nervous! In the end, it all went very, very well, and I was pleased to have pulled it off.
And then... three days later, my "coveree" cancels again, but this time I had two hours' notice and sang the entire show. This also happened to be a live Sirius radio broadcast with a new soprano in the title role, Angela Meade. And again, the performance went very, very well.

So it turned out to be a very lucky week for me. This is why I always pick up lucky pennies. From never expecting I would actually perform this role, I wound up singing two performances, got a review (always good for the website), a radio broadcast AND there happened to be a house photographer there.

I should have bought a lottery ticket. But maybe that would've been pushing my luck just a little too far.