Composed by Kevin Day, the Cincinnati Opera’s Afrofuturist world premiere is a promising opening to its commissioning initiative.

By 

Heidi Waleson

July 13, 2026 at 5:06 pm ET

Brittany Olivia Logan and Terrence Chin-Loy. PHILIP GROSHONG

Cincinnati

Last week, Cincinnati Opera gave the world premiere of “Lalovavi,” the first entry of its Black Opera Project. Over three years, this $6 million commissioning and production effort, sparked in 2019 by bass and company artistic adviser Morris Robinson, will feature three new pieces by black creative teams that focus on “the richness and complexity of the black American experience.”

“Lalovavi,” a first opera for both composer Kevin Day and librettist Tifara Brown, is an Afrofuturist fantasy with nods to the “Black Panther” movies. Its story also suggests “The Magic Flute” in reverse: A totalitarian patriarchal society is overthrown by a matriarchal band of outcasts grounded in love and the natural world; the young heroine, Persephone, defies her father and finds her true roots.

Set in 2426, 400 years after an unspecified global catastrophe, the closed city of Atlas (formerly Atlanta) is ruled with an iron fist by Titan (Mr. Robinson). Aided by Dr. Apollos (baritone Michael Preacely) he maintains community survival through eugenics, purging those with low levels of the strength-conferring Syndica gene. When his daughter Persephone (Brittany Olivia Logan) is found to have the immortality-conferring Tree of Life genetic mutation, which Titan covets for nefarious purposes, she flees the city to seek the Nunewaks, who are led by her long-lost mother, Niamara (Talise Trevigne). She is aided in her quest by Lucian (Terrence Chin-Loy), formerly one of Titan’s soldiers, and Dinah (Adrienne Danrich), her nursemaid and a secret rebel.

A scene from ‘Lalovavi.’ PHILIP GROSHONG

The opera unfolds more like a pageant than a drama. Mr. Day’s lushly orchestrated score, sweetly tonal throughout and full of harp riffs, is paced with a mellow sameness that even the frequent big climaxes can’t jolt into dramatic excitement or dangerous energy. With more than 2 1/2 hours of music, it is also too long. The prevailing aural color works best in the gentler sections, such as Niamara’s appealing aria, “Love, love, come to me.” Ms. Brown has also set much of the Nunewaks’ music in Tut, a secret 18th-century language of the enslaved, which is pleasantly singable. “Lalovavi” is Tut for “love,” which triumphs in the end.

Staged in the 2,500-seat Music Hall, the lavish production, directed by Kimille Howard, benefited from significant resources. Steven C. Kemp’s sets contrasted the forbiddingly gray and angular environment of Atlas with the riotously colored, luminescent trees and rocks of the world outside. Thomas C. Hase’s lighting played up the psychic differences between those two places. Kara Harmon’s outstanding costumes leaned into the Afrofuturist theme with radiant colors, sparkling metallics and three-dimensional construction—including giant wings for Titan’s ceremonial cape and the elaborate robe, headdress and puppet body of Ivavi (countertenor G. Thomas Allen), the cobra guardian of the Nunewaks. Tiara Jonescontributed the essential wig and makeup design. Chloe O. Davis devised writhing choreography for the six dancers who supplied some movement, in contrast to the mostly static chorus.

Talise Trevigne and Ms. Logan. PHILIP GROSHONG

Standouts in the solid all-black cast included Ms. Logan, a potent soprano who also looked splendid in her many costumes, including her final warrior outfit, and Mr. Chin-Loy, whose sweet tenor made his Act 2 lullaby an affecting moment. As Titan, Mr. Robinson often resorted to shouting; mezzo Zoie Reams was persuasive as Persephone’s sister Zipporah. Leading the Cincinnati Symphony, conductor Kevin Miller relished the sweeping, Disneyesque optimism of the score.

The two performances sold well—the second completely—and a large, enthusiastic black audience turned out, a significant achievement for an art form that often has difficulty attracting a diverse public. The next Black Opera Project titles include promising subjects and creators. The 2027 work, “John Lewis: Good Trouble,” is inspired by the life of the congressman and hero of the civil-rights struggle. In 2028, the company will present “Good Bones,” a collaboration between two Pulitzer Prize winners: Composer Michael Abels, known for his scores for Jordan Peele films, and playwright James Ijames, author of “Fat Ham.”

Opera Theatre of Saint Louis Review: From ‘Streetcar’ to Shakespeare

The highlight of the company’s season is a production of André Previn’s ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’; also being presented are Adam Guettel’s musical ‘The Light in the Piazza’ and Gounod’s ‘Romeo and Juliet.’

Sara Gartland in ‘A Streetcar Named Desire.’ ERIC WOOLSEY

By Heidi Waleson

June 15, 2026 5:03 pm ET

Webster Groves, Mo.

Patricia Racette launched her first season as artistic director of Opera Theatre of Saint Louis with a winner: She and the company’s music director, Daniela Candillari, breathed new life into André Previn’s “A Streetcar Named Desire”(1998). Its wordy libretto, faithfully adapted by Philip Littell from the Tennessee Williams play, is a bit too long. Yet unlike many operas that closely mirror their sources, Previn’s music adds serious depth and dimension to the characters and story in the tradition of Poulenc’s “Dialogues des Carmélites” or Debussy’s “Pelléas et Mélisande.”

Previn’s complex, inventive orchestral palette, carefully shaped by Ms. Candillari, deploys jazz-tinged New Orleans brass and sinuous woodwinds along with subtle dissonances to map the tragedy of the fading Southern belle Blanche DuBois, destroyed by Stanley Kowalski, her sister Stella’s brutal, working-class husband. The vocal writing, even in the conversational sections, is distinctive, and Sara Gartland was revelatory in the punishing role of Blanche. Beneath the character’s flirtatious wiles, her powerful soprano brought steel to Blanche’s determination to live in her fantasy—a lost world of wealth and graciousness. The music seesaws brilliantly between Blanche’s dreaming arias, when time seems to stop, and her impoverished reality. Finally, the two states can no longer coexist, and she retreats permanently into delusion, murmuring “Whoever you are” to the doctor escorting her off to an asylum.

Andrew Boyce’s unit set evoked the French Quarter of New Orleans. The kitchen and bedroom of the Kowalskis’ claustrophobic two-room apartment were set against a rear wall of louvered shutters with a second-story wrought-iron balcony reached by a spiral staircase; a streetlamp marked the outdoor scenes. Kylee Loera’s mostly black-and-white projections strategically added atmospheric images, including the eponymous streetcar; Eric Southern’s lighting zeroed in on Blanche—in different colors—whenever she slipped into reverie. Amanda Gladu’s handsome costumes underlined the contrast between Blanche’s finery and the everyday wear of the other characters.

Ms. Racette’s sharply detailed direction kept the focus on Blanche and her gradual disintegration through tiny details—in Act 3, Blanche starts nervously playing with her hair—and bold statements. Stanley’s rape of Blanche was violent and explicit for a few seconds. Then the singers froze in place, the lighting changed, and the screaming orchestra and Ms. Loera’s projections of Blanche’s agonized face told the rest.

Soprano Lauren Snouffer was a sensual Stella, in thrall to her husband; David Adam Moore was all aggression and fierce cunning as Stanley, determined not to let anyone get the better of him. As Mitch, Stanley’s poker buddy who is attracted to Blanche, Bille Bruley’shigh tenor poignantly embodied a weak man trying to be strong.

A scene from ‘The Light in the Piazza.’ ERIC WOOLSEY

Ms. Racette is also experimenting with Broadway musicals, beginning this season with Adam Guettel’salluring “The Light in the Piazza”(2005). The book, adapted by Craig Lucas from a novella by Elizabeth Spencer and set in the 1950s, is the tender story of Clara and Margaret, her very protective mother, who are visiting Florence, where Clara and Fabrizio, a young Italian, fall instantly in love. Clara is developmentally disabled due to a childhood accident; Margaret’s efforts to keep her safe gradually give way to a fuller understanding of her daughter’s awakening, and the lovelessness of her own marriage. Mr. Guettel’s twining, urgent vocal music captures the complexity of the situation, encompassing the innocent, sincere mutual recognition of the lovers and Margaret’s sadness and guilt.

Broadway actress Kate Baldwinmissed Margaret’s profound emotional intensity; an intermittent Southern accent did not help. With her high, bright soprano, Katrina Galka was a persuasive Clara—you believed in her emotional blossoming; tenor Roy Hage needed to be more of a crooner as Fabrizio. Crossover expert Paulo Szot was stylish as Signor Naccarelli, Fabrizio’s father, and Kelly Guerrahad a fine Sondheim-esque number as Franca, Fabrizio’s embittered sister-in-law. Rob Berman was the capable conductor.  The bare-bones production, designed by Cameron Anderson with costumes by Ulises Alcala, was efficiently directed by Crystal Manich.

Emma Marhefka and Leonardo Sánchez in ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ ERIC WOOLSEY

The season’s only classic opera title, Gounod’s “Romeo and Juliet,” fared the least well. This feast of gorgeous tunes fell prey to a clunky English translation by Edmund Tracey and unidiomatic conducting by Ramón Tebar, making it dull rather than sublime. As Juliet, Emma Marhefka’slyric soprano was best in dramatic moments, such as Act 4’s poison aria; as Romeo, Leonardo Sánchez tended to overcook his tenor. Benjamin Taylor had some trouble with the many words of Mercutio’s “Queen Mab” aria; he was stronger in the duel scene. Bass-baritone Nicholas Newton was a solid, affecting Friar Lawrence. The chorus had good diction, which was not necessarily a plus, given the words.

Like “Piazza,” the very basic production—designed by Liliana Duque Piñeiro—had a decorative back wall and some columns that were moved around by costumed figures for scene changes. The appearance of an actual bed for the Act 4 wedding night was a surprise. Robert Perdziola’s period costumes, repurposed from OTSL’s 2005 staging, conveniently put the Capulets in red and the Montagues in blue, which was awkward when some of Romeo’s interloper friends had to briefly join in the Capulet ball to make up the numbers in the chorus. Keturah Stickann supplied the serviceable direction.

A world premiere by Gregory Spears casts a veil of dream-like haunting over the story of Sleeping Beauty.

By 

Heidi Waleson

April 24, 2026 at 5:18 pm ET

Jonghyun Park and Susanne Burgess STEVEN PISANO

Philadelphia

“Sleepers Awake” by Gregory Spears, given its world premiere by Opera Philadelphia at the Academy of Music on Wednesday, turns “Sleeping Beauty” on its head. In the familiar fairy tale, sleep represents something close to the curse of death; in this version, and in Mr. Spears’s haunting musical landscape, it is a state preferable to waking.

Mr. Spears concocted his libretto from the writings of the turn-of-the-century authors Robert Walser (translated by Ron Sadan) and Arthur Quiller-Couch, plus an English translation by Frances Cox of “Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme,” a 1599 hymn text by Philipp Nicolai. (The hymn, though superficially about marriage, is actually about the resurrection into eternal life, which offers yet another level to an already multilayered concept.) The story starts where it usually ends: The Stranger (tenor Jonghyun Park) kisses Thorn Rose (soprano Susanne Burgess), the sleeping princess, waking her and her court from a century of enchanted sleep. No one seems pleased to be roused from dreams. They enact for their confused rescuer the story of the forgotten fairy at the christening, the curse and the spindle—and then go back to sleep. The cycle begins again, but this time the Stranger explains how he came to find the castle and mysteriously breach its defenses. Thorn Rose accepts him and everyone rejoices—but soon they all fall asleep again, suggesting that the cycle will repeat forever.

The accomplished Opera Philadelphia Chorus has the starring role in the 80-minute opera. In Mr. Spears’s hypnotic text settings and harmonies, the chorus becomes a kind of breathing atmosphere, echoing the lines of the individual characters and carrying them along with it into waking and sleeping. The opening setting of the “Sleepers, awake!” text starts out muddy, as though the singers are still half asleep and not quite on their parts. Words become a texture of stasis, as when “winding” and “whirring” are repeated multiple times to describe Thorn Rose’s climb to the turret where she finds the fatal spindle. The penultimate ensemble, as the crowd trips off happily to the wedding feast, is the brightest, perkiest moment of the opera, but suddenly the pitch drops, like a record player slowing down, and everyone sinks musically back into sleep.

Mr. Spears’s orchestration is similarly evocative of this timeless state, with rumbles, lush strings, and no high woodwinds. A pair of harps, placed antiphonally in boxes at opposite sides of the stage, plus a theorbo, offer an otherworldly descant, as do the sounds of the celesta and chimes. Percussion instruments—including a whistle and slap-stick—interrupt and startle.

Mr. Park’s ardent tenor brilliantly evokes the Stranger’s position as an intruder in this world as he insists, “Isn’t reality itself a kind of dream?” Ms. Burgess’s light soprano and plaintive vibrato suggest that Thorn Rose is not entirely convinced that awakening is a good idea, but she goes along with it. As the Court Poet, baritone Brian Major enlists the Stranger into the storytelling—their eerie duet as the voice of the evil fairy Carabosse is a striking musical moment. Four godmothers—Sophia Santiago, Annalise Dzwonczyk, Maren Montalbano and Robin Bier—step out of the texture as a close-toned quartet. Corrado Rovaris was the sensitive conductor.

The production, directed by Jenny Koons, doubles down on the mystery, not always helpfully. Jason Ardizzone West’s abstract set is a construction of curving ramps, accommodating much of the big chorus and festooned with night lights; a large disc hangs above a center platform, occasionally tilting and dipping. Yuki Link deploys dramatically colored lighting to accompany theatrical transitions, though the stage is often in shadow, making Maiko Matsushima’s monochromatic black and gray costumes for the workers, courtiers and townspeople of the chorus hard to distinguish. (The principal characters are dressed in color.)

No one lies down—the chorus members don delicate face veils and hold lighted candles to show when they are sleeping. Ms. Koons uses movement sparingly, in moments such as the arrival of the Stranger and Thorn Rose’s climb to the turret. Sometimes the movement makes a point—in the final dance, paired-off chorus members happily strut between the two reluctant lovers, who haven’t yet managed to hold hands, suggesting the fragility of their union.

While the stage pictures can be alluring, the effect is one of mood rather than storytelling. The production also tries to include the audience in its liminal state. We barely notice the beginning of the performance—a low, rumbling drone accompanies our arrival in the theater, and the actual music begins before the lights fully dim. The puzzling question of whether sleeping and waking are actually the same thing remains unanswered, but the powerful lure of sleep—soothing and with the promise of unknowing—is clear.

The Finnish composer Kaija Saariaho’s final work is an immersive, astonishing achievement, viscerally depicting a group of people affected in different ways by a school shooting.

By 

Heidi Waleson

April 8, 2026 at 5:27 pm ET

Vilma Jää (above) and Joyce DiDonato (below) in a scene from ‘Innocence.’ MET OPERA

New York

Kaija Saariaho’s “Innocence,” one of the most important new operas of this century, finally made it to the Metropolitan Opera on Monday in a superb performance. I have now seen it four times, including the video of its 2021 premiere at the Festival d’Aix-en-Provence, and it feels more remarkable with each experience. Through an alchemical synthesis of music, text and dramaturgy, the audience is immersed in the deepest feelings of its characters. It’s not just a story—it’s a living world, growing out of a violent event that is only too familiar. Through “Innocence,” we understand that world viscerally.

Sofi Oksanen’s crystalline Finnish libretto, translated into multiple languages by Aleksi Barrière, Saariaho’s son, takes place on two levels that gradually meld into one. A wedding is being celebrated in Helsinki in the 2000s; at the same time, seven people existing in the “world of memory” recall a tragic event that took place 10 years earlier. Bit by bit, the connection between the two is revealed and deepened—the Bridegroom’s brother shot up his high school, killing 10 students and a teacher. The Waitress, a last-minute substitution at the banquet, is the mother of one of the dead. On the surface, the wedding-party family has seemingly moved on; the others have not.

Saariaho’s interests are not preachy or didactic. Rather, the opera illuminates the enduring underlying trauma of everyone affected by the shooting and extends that uncomfortable sensation to the audience. The uneasy orchestral writing acts as a collective, disturbed subconscious. The opera begins with a low rumble, and snippets of sound—a bassoon, a celesta, a flute—emerge out of the darkness, like memories fighting their way to the surface, and continues in that vein, as the remembered pain surfaces and grows progressively more explicit over the opera’s 110 minutes. An unseen chorus acts like another orchestral element, echoing the singers and amplifying the music’s insidious power.

Rod Gilfry and Ms. DiDonato MET OPERA

The solo vocal writing is similarly evocative, its mix of styles making each character distinctive. The bright coloratura of the Mother-in-Law (Kathleen Kim) is full of anxiety and denial (she still insists her son’s act was “an accident”). As the Father-in-Law, baritone Rod Gilfry wrestles with his sense of responsibility for the shooting, and the heavy, deliberate bass of the Priest (Stephen Milling) conveys his guilt—he knew “something was wrong with that boy” but said nothing. The Waitress’s agony is ever-present—in mezzo Joyce DiDonato’s blistering performance it manifests as rage, searing the others as she confronts them one by one.

In the “memory” universe, most of the surviving students speak—jaggedly—in multiple languages (it was an international school) as they recount their present circumstances (“I can’t go to work”) and relive the shooting and its aftermath. One of them, Lily (soprano Beate Mordal), sings, her surface insouciance concealing something darker. As the Teacher, Lucy Shelton’s increasingly exaggerated Sprechstimme suggests that she is losing her mind. Most distinctive of all is the Waitress’s dead daughter Markéta (Vilma Jää): Her high, vibrato-less, folk-style leaps and yelps make her seem both eerie and childlike—the “angel” that her mother, inaccurately, insists she was.

Lucy Shelton MET OPERA

Simon Stone’s incisive production, first mounted in Aix, makes visual how the complex strands of the two stories wind together, mirroring the opera’s varied pacing. As Chloe Lamford’s brilliant two-level set rotates, we—and the characters—travel from the banquet room to the classroom, through intermediate spaces like a bathroom, a kitchen and a supply closet. Students frantically flee between the desks and down the stairs; the Bridegroom’s parents argue in a vestibule; the Waitress and Markéta, on different levels, recall that last morning as though in a dream. Markéta slowly walks on a lunchroom table, singing “Frog boy,” the bullying song that set the tragedy in motion.

As the truth is revealed, the spaces transform, almost magically. The entire set becomes the school, and then a series of empty rooms, with blood stains on the walls, as the full impact of the tragedy overtakes the present day. The saddest revelations happen here, against blank walls: The Bride (soprano Jacquelyn Stucker), who had been kept in the dark about the secret, poignantly renounces her hope of a real family; the Bridegroom (the piercing tenor Miles Mykkanen) admits that he was part of the shooting plan but chickened out. “I loved my brother,” he sings, a cappella. “I love him still.”

James Farncombe’s precise lighting underscores the time shifts; Mel Page’scostumes limn character—such as the Goth look of the student Iris (Julie Hega), the shooter’s death-besotted friend and co-conspirator, who also left him to act alone. Arco Renz’s choreography of the students as they haunt the present day makes their distress visible through physical contortions. Timo Kurkikangas’s sound design could use some tweaks—the spoken text was sometimes tinny or drowned out by the orchestra. Susanna Mälkki was the sensitive conductor.

The opera is dark, yet Saariaho offers some light. In the final scene, the haunted students relate how they are starting to regain some normalcy in their lives; the twitching, turbulent orchestra settles a bit, like a calmed nervous system; and Markéta quietly tells the Waitress, “Mom, let me go.” Guilt is pervasive in the opera, Saariaho’s last before her death in 2023, yet it is called “Innocence,” a reflection of its deep humanity, and the idea that tragedy can also encompass survival and forgiveness.