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Opera in Europe: Established but Adventurous

Recent productions in Germany and the Netherlands—of classics, curiosities and contemporary works by composers ranging from Strauss to Saariaho—powerfully exemplified the scene’s risk-taking artistic ethos.

Heidi Waleson

April 7, 2025 at 4:43 pm ET

The company of Offenbach’s ‘Die Schöne Helena.’ PHOTO: IKO FREESE

Berlin; Dresden, Germany; Amsterdam

New Yorkers who visit Berlin often feel at home—the German city is busy, sprawling, decidedly unquaint, has efficient public transportation, and is packed with culture. Glass-enclosed malls rub up against Prussian monuments; pierced and tattooed Goth teens ride the U-Bahn with commuters. Unlike New York, however, the establishment opera scene matches that modern vibe. During my recent visit, there was nothing cautious or old-fashioned on view at the city’s three large opera companies, and the houses were packed. In five days of opera-going, which included a day trip south to the Semperoper Dresden, the only standard repertory title was Richard Strauss’s “Elektra” (1909). And the oldest one, Jacques Offenbach’s opera buffa “Die Schöne Helena” (1864), at the Komische Oper, was by far the nuttiest.

The Komische Oper performs operettas, musicals and operas. From 2012 to 2022, it was led by the ebullient Australian stage director Barrie Kosky, who is criminally underemployed in the U.S. “Helena,” a revival of his 2014 production, is Offenbach’s madcap retelling of the roots of the Trojan War as a sex farce, in which the Greek kings are fatuous idiots, Helen is bored with her marriage, and Paris is the answer to her prayers. Mr. Kosky’s wacky adaptation is smart, fast-paced, and outrageous without being vulgar. The spoken sections zip by in a clever German text by Simon Werle, punctuated by musical in-jokes like the thunderous “Agamemnon” chord from “Elektra” when that character is called upon to speak. As in all the theaters, supertitles in German and English mean you don’t miss a word, and the dialogue sections meld seamlessly with the musical numbers.

With its 1892 theater under renovation, the company is based at the streamlined 1,000-seat Schiller Theater; all the German houses are small relative to New York’s 4,000-seat Metropolitan Opera, providing welcome intimacy. The main feature of Rufus Didwiszus’s “Helena” set, a walkway that brings the performers out in front of the orchestra, increases that feeling. In Act 1, the entire cast crowded onto it for the kings’ contest, playing this nonsense farrago of riddles in overlapping, accelerating dialogue practically in the audience’s lap. Later, the six astonishing male dancers cruised it on roller skates (Otto Pichler was the inventive choreographer; Buki Shiff did the riotous costumes, which included 1920s beachwear).

The superb ensemble cast, equally adept at acting and singing, was headed by soprano Nicole Chevalier, a comic volcano as Helena, with the aid of jaunty tenor Tansel Akzeybek as Paris. Adrien Perruchon led the company orchestra, which clearly has this repertoire in its bones.

Mr. Kosky has a continuing relationship with the Komische, and his haunting new production of Philip Glass’s “Akhnaten” (1984), which offers an unusual take on this milestone contemporary work about a forgotten pharaoh, was also on. There are no Egyptian details in Klaus Grünberg’s abstract set (a white box with a turntable) or Klaus Bruns’s mostly modern costumes. The emphasis is on ritual, and seven dancers—who devised the movement sequences with Mr. Kosky—make the music’s repetitive patterns visual and meaningful.

A scene from Philip Glass’s ‘Akhnaten.’ PHOTO: MONIKA RITTERSHAUS

Countertenor John Holiday was poignant in the title part, but the story here was the ensemble: A community follows a leader with an original idea—monotheism—but then violently turns on him when he fails them. Mr. Kosky emphasized that failure, and the company chorus was extraordinary in its starring role, not just singing but moving along with the dancers. The orchestra, led by Jonathan Stockhammer, seemed less comfortable with Glass’s distinctive style. The entire run was sold out; hopefuls scouted tickets outside the theater.

The Staatsoper Unter den Linden’s 1,400-seat house has a traditional-looking horseshoe shape with boxes and tiers. First opened in 1742, it was destroyed and rebuilt several times; a seven-year renovation was completed in 2017. I caught the sumptuous new production of Leoš Janáček’s “The Excursions of Mr. Brouček” (1920) featuring the high-powered artistic team of conductor Simon Rattle and director Robert Carsen. In this seldom-performed satire, Brouček, a landlord who cares only about beer and sausages, gets drunk in a pub and dreams two fantastical trips, first to the moon and then to 15th-century Prague in the middle of the Hussite uprising, where he meets incarnations of people from the pub. Mr. Carsen astutely updated the period to 1968-69—the time of the moon landing and of the Prague Spring and its aftermath—aided by Dominik Žižka’s judicious use of archival video: the Apollo 11 launch and Woodstock; Czech Communist Party leader Alexander Dubček speaking on television; the Soviet tanks rolling into Prague; a heavily attended funeral.

A scene from Janáček’s ‘The Excursions of Mr. Brouček.’ PHOTO: ARNO DECLAIR

The philistine Brouček is out of his depth in both places. In the comic first act, the artist denizens of the moon, who live by sniffing flowers, are here attending “Moonstock” amid colorful Pop art decor; they are appalled when he pulls out a sausage. Designer Annemarie Woods had fun with Twiggy-esque and hippie costumes. The colors are darker in the more serious second act, where Brouček pretends to join a resistance group but won’t put himself in harm’s way.

Tenor Peter Hoare excelled in Brouček’s harsh, choppy music; soprano Lucy Crowe nailed the stratospheric notes and zaniness of Etherea on the moon and the mourning lyricism of Kunka in Prague. The adept ensemble cast also featured the sensitive baritone Gyula Orendt in multiple roles, including Kunka’s father. The chorus captured the rowdy lunar shenanigans and the impassioned hymns of the fighters, as did Mr. Rattle’s nuanced conducting of the superb Staatskapelle Berlin. And although Brouček wakes up back home in a beer vat, Mr. Carsen doesn’t let him—or us—escape: In the opera’s final moments, a tank careens into the pub.

The Deutsche Oper performs in a modern 2,000-seat house that opened in 1961. “Elektra,” a revival of a production by Kirsten Harms, the company’s artistic director from 2004 to 2011, was the most conventional show I saw, though in a German Regietheater mode. Bernd Damovsky’s set is a bare box and Elektra (Elena Pankratova) starts out mostly buried in its dirt floor, doubtless in sympathy with her dead father, Agamemnon. We get the claustrophobia of Elektra’s obsessive quest to avenge his murder, but the production has little visual variety other than lighting changes and the feathery red coat of Klytämnestra (Doris Soffel). Ms. Pankratova had the notes and stamina for the challenging title role, though she often lost the volume battle with Thomas Søndergård’s overly exuberant orchestra. As Chrysothemis, Camilla Nylund had better luck, and Tobias Kehrer’s booming bass made you sit up and pay attention to Orest. He also was the center of the final tableau, bloody and naked to the waist. Typically, Orest commits the murders offstage. Like the other productions, the choice prompted a rethink of the opera—who is the real hero?

Dresden, two hours south of Berlin, was largely obliterated by Allied bombers at the end of World War II. Many of its historic buildings, including the handsome 1878 opera house, were later reconstructed. Semperoper Dresden’s new Lorenzo Fioroni production of Kaija Saariaho’s powerful final opera, “Innocence” (2021), is less literal than the original Simon Stone staging, which comes to the Metropolitan Opera next season.

Rather than grounding it in familiar reality, Mr. Fioroni gives this story about the aftermath of a school shooting a mythic dimension. In Paul Zoller’s striking set, the survivors of the massacre inhabit a wintry landscape upstage while the wedding of the shooter’s brother to an unsuspecting bride is celebrated downstage at a long table with more seats than guests. As the two worlds meet and secrets are revealed, the emotional devastation becomes palpable and visual, movingly communicated by the outstanding cast. Notable members included the affecting Mario Lerchenberger as the tormented bridegroom; Fredrika Brillembourg, capturing the Teacher’s dislocation in expressive Sprechstimme; and Venla Ilona Blom as the dead student Markéta, haunting her mother (Paula Murrihy) with her childlike, folk-style yelps and costumed by Annette Braun in ghostly tulle like an anti-bride. Maxime Pascal was the capable conductor.

The most unconventional show I saw in Europe was at the Dutch National Opera in Amsterdam—the world premiere of “We Are the Lucky Ones” by composer Philip Venables and librettists Ted Huffman and Nina Segal. The opera is based on interviews with numerous Europeans between the ages of 72 and 82, the generation born during and immediately after World War II. Over 100 minutes, the dynamic singers—four men and four women—describe the building of lives over those early scars in song and speech. There’s luck and prosperity, but also an undercurrent of distress in the music that intensifies as they consider the future and face death. No singer is pegged to any one character, and there is some gender switching, as when tenor Miles Mykkanen becomes an East German woman who remembers the day the wall fell because her husband had just left her.

Vocally arresting in its variety of solos and ensembles, and remarkably immediate in its themes, the opera was enhanced by Mr. Huffman’s crisp direction and spare set, and by Bassem Akiki’s sensitive conducting of the Residentie Orchestra. Like the German shows, it was a thought-provoking evening, not just entertainment.

Ms. Waleson writes on opera for the Journal and is the author of “Mad Scenes and Exit Arias: The Death of the New York City Opera and the Future of Opera in America” (Metropolitan).

‘Moby-Dick’ and ‘Fidelio’ Review: Opera Adrift at the Met

The New York company recently opened two underpowered productions: Jake Heggie’s 2010 adaptation of the Herman Melville classic, and Beethoven’s tale of a political prisoner and his wife featuring the star soprano Lise Davidsen.

Heidi Waleson

March 6, 2025 at 5:31 pm ET

A scene from ‘Moby-Dick.’ PHOTO: MET OPERA

New York

If “operatic” is a synonym for “big,” Herman Melville’s sprawling novel “Moby-Dick” should be ideal source material for the stage. Jake Heggie’s 2010 operatic treatment certainly took up a lot of aural and visual space at its Metropolitan Opera premiere on Monday, but there was an emptiness at its heart.

The composer and his librettist, Gene Scheer, pared down Melville’s gargantuan text—with its digressions into whaling ships, cetology, and philosophy—into a conventional narrative tracking Captain Ahab’s monomaniacal quest for revenge on the white whale that took his leg. Everything happens aboard the Pequod; there is just one whale hunt before the fatal finale, and one encounter with another ship (there are nine in the novel). Crucial character episodes are included: The friendship of the innocent young narrator (here called Greenhorn instead of Ishmael) and the pagan Polynesian harpooner Queequeg; the resistance of the first mate, Starbuck, to Ahab’s madness; the loss and recovery of the cabin boy Pip. They are strung together with big choral numbers as the sailors declare their fealty to Ahab and some orchestral interludes evoking the passage of time at sea.

Brandon Jovanovich (center) as Captain Ahab PHOTO: MET OPERA

But Mr. Heggie’s tuneful music fails to supply any underlying sense of danger and impending tragedy. Nor does it depict Ahab’s madness, even in his lengthy arias, which are set in large part to Melville’s own words. Unsurprisingly, the most effective moments are the quietest ones, such as Greenhorn’s almost a cappella, unmoored “Human madness is a cunning and most feline thing,” as he climbs into Queequeg’s coffin near the end of the opera. When Benjamin Britten made an opera out of one of Melville’s other great sea tales, “Billy Budd,” he captured its essence, not just its surface.

Leonard Foglia’s stark production, which was first mounted for the opera’s world premiere at the Dallas Opera and has been to numerous companies since, was satisfyingly expanded to fill the Met stage. Robert Brill’s set features heavy, dark masts, ropes and sails, along with a curved rear wall that becomes an effective canvas for Elaine J. McCarthy’s evocative projections. Her images of the sea and sky, and the lively animated line drawings of the Pequod, depicting it from different vantage points, provide the roiling movement that the music lacks, though the denouement—as Ahab and the ship have their fatal encounter with Moby-Dick—is visually vague. Gavan Swift’s lighting supplies some color; Jane Greenwood’s historically appropriate costumes do not. Mr. Foglia’s direction is largely static, other than a dance that turns into a fight in Act 1.

Mr. Jovanovich PHOTO: MET OPERA

With his forceful tenor, Brandon Jovanovich did the best he could with Ahab’s bland music, expressing the captain’s madness mostly through glares. Mr. Heggie gave him an opening cry, “Infinity!” that recalled the fervent “Esultate!” of Verdi’s Otello, setting us up for disappointment with what followed. The necessary peg-leg prosthesis did not make Mr. Jovanovich’s evening easier. Tenor Stephen Costello, the single holdover from the opera’s premiere, brought a wistful gentleness to Greenhorn; Ryan Speedo Green’s rolling bass-baritone made Queequeg the most straightforward character on the stage. Peter Mattei, who was to sing Starbuck, was ill; his replacement, baritone Thomas Glass, sounded pretty but callow, missing the complexity and gravitas of this character. As the cabin boy Pip, Janai Brugger’s radiant soprano shone in the otherwise all-male texture; she was touching in Pip’s demented scene with Captain Gardiner (Brian Major), who fruitlessly begs Ahab for help. As Stubb and Flask, Malcolm McKenzie and William Burden animated the lighthearted scenes with brio, and the Metropolitan Opera Chorus was at its stalwart best. Conductor Karen Kamensek ably sculpted Mr. Heggie’s grand orchestral statements, which occasionally disguised the fact that there’s little underneath them.

The spectacular Norwegian soprano Lise Davidsen, who is fast becoming the darling of the Met, has made several company role debuts in recent seasons. Last Tuesday, she essayed Leonore in Beethoven’s “Fidelio” in a revival of the 2000 Jürgen Flimm production, which felt undercooked in every respect. Ms. Davidsen’s gleaming instrument is always beautiful, but she seemed to recede here, underplaying the role of the passionate wife who disguises herself as a young man and takes a job in a jail in order to free her husband Florestan, a political prisoner. Her big aria “Abscheulicher!” lacked explosive fury; she sounded more like the awkward boy she is pretending to be than an avenging angel.

Susanna Mälkki’s conducting also missed the propulsive energy of this rescue thriller—it was smooth, deliberate and often slow. The most exciting moments of the evening belonged to David Butt Philip as Florestan, who displayed heldentenor power without strain. As Marzelline, the jailer’s daughter who has fallen in love with Fidelio (Leonore’s alias), Ying Fang’s bright soprano sparkled. René Pape was low energy as Rocco the jailer, playing the amiable paterfamilias; the harshness of Tomasz Konieczny’s bass-baritone worked well for the villainous Don Pizarro; Magnus Dietrich, in his house debut, was a nicely petulant Jaquino, Marzelline’s suitor; and Stephen Milling brought a weighty authority to Don Fernando, who arrives to save the day and put an end to tyranny.

The production, designed by Robert Israel, updates the action to modern times. In the first scene, Marzelline and Jaquino are cleaning guns that are later collected by Pizarro’s soldiers, watched by the prisoners in three levels of cells on stage left; during the exuberant finale, soldiers hoisted the blood-streaked Pizarro onto a horse statue, suggesting that the new regime may well be as violent as the old. Gina Lapinski’s direction of the revival was haphazard—the busy activity of the Rocco-Marzelline-Fidelio scenes was hard to follow. Ms. Davidsen was also required to climb down a ladder from the very top of the stage into Florestan’s dungeon—she is visibly pregnant, and her extreme caution was notable. She returns next season in a new role and a new production, headlining Wagner’s “Tristan und Isolde,” which may show her in a better light.

Ms. Waleson writes about opera for the Journal and is the author of “Mad Scenes and Exit Arias: The Death of the New York City Opera and the Future of Opera in America” (Metropolitan).

‘Salome’ and ‘Morgiane’ Review: Reinvention and Excavation

Heartbeat Opera presents a radically stripped down and re-orchestrated version of Strauss’s classic in Brooklyn; in Manhattan, Opera Lafayette and OperaCréole staged the world-premiere production of what is thought to be the oldest existing opera by a black American.

Heidi Waleson

Feb. 11, 2025 at 11:45 am ET

Melina Jaharis, Patrick Cook and Jeremy Harr in ‘Salome.’ PHOTO: ANDREW BOYLE

New York

Heartbeat Opera, now in its 11th season, radically rethinks classics, and its new “Salome,” adapted by Jacob Ashworth and Elizabeth Dinkova and playing at the Space at Irondale in Brooklyn, is no exception. It’s sung in a sharp English translation by Tom Hammond and slightly trimmed—the squabbling Jews and Nazarenes are eliminated, a few of their lines reassigned. But the biggest adjustment is Dan Schlosberg’s typically maverick orchestral arrangement, which distills Richard Strauss’s enormous orchestra to eight clarinetists and two percussionists. All play multiple instruments (bass clarinet, recorder and saxophones are in the mix), but the overall timbral similarity creates a weird, claustrophobic, even threatening atmosphere, exacerbated by the smallness of the theater space, with the performers hemmed in by the audience on two sides. The singers need not fight to overcome a vast orchestral sound as they might in a traditional production, yet their voices seem to ricochet desperately off the walls. It’s “Salome” unfiltered, uncushioned by strings, exposed with a naked ferocity. All the characters are on the edge, and there is no escape for them.

Summer Hassan PHOTO: ANDREW BOYLE

Ms. Dinkova’s staging updates the piece to contemporary times. In Emona Stoykova’sgritty scenic design, Narraboth and the Page monitor security cameras showing the rooms inside Herod’s grand house (one image features the inaudibly arguing Jews). Jokanaan is always visible in his prison, a clear-walled cube at center stage. Watching and surveillance are the central motifs, taken to extremes—Herod ogles Salome; Salome drools over Jokanaan’s pale skin and red mouth; Jokanaan, holy prophet or not, is seriously tempted by her allure. Ms. Dinkova’s detailed direction of the Salome-Jokanaan encounter is unusually steamy (and mutual) with soprano Summer Hassan sporting prom-dress layers of pink tulle and baritone Nathaniel Sullivan in only a shredded T-shirt and underpants. (Mika Eubanksdesigned the costumes; Emma Deane the precise lighting.) The Dance of the Seven Veils, choreographed by Emma Jaster, neatly includes all the characters in its objectification and sexual violence. No one is innocent, and Salome’s demand for the head of Jokanaan seems perfectly understandable in context.

The splendid cast displayed absolute theatrical commitment. Ms. Hassan’s fierce, clarion soprano found Salome’s humanity, whether as a flirty teenager, corrupted siren, or wounded victim lashing out; she was mesmerizing, even sympathetic, in the grotesque final scene of necrophilia. Mr. Sullivan’s lyrical baritone underscored Jokanaan’s vulnerability, as did his near-nakedness and poignant gaze. Tenor Patrick Cook was a frantic, untrammeled Herod; Manna K. Jones a disgusted Herodias. David Morgans (Narraboth), Melina Jaharis (Page), and Jeremy Harr (Soldier) were persuasive in the supporting roles; having the Soldier be a Christian convert here provided good musical and theatrical options. Jacob Ashworth was the fine conductor, drawing out the subtleties of this unconventional but potent adaptation.

Joshua Conyers, Mary Elizabeth Williams, Chauncey Packer and Patrick Quigley PHOTO: JENNIFER PACKARD

One of the more interesting musical resurrections of recent years is Edmond Dédé’s opera “Morgiane, ou, Le Sultan d’Ispahan,” performed in concert on Wednesday at Jazz at Lincoln Center’s Rose Hall by Opera Lafayette in partnership with OperaCréole of New Orleans. Born in New Orleans to a free family of color, Dédé (1827-1901), a violinist, studied and performed in his hometown and in Mexico City; in 1855, he went to France in search of safety and greater opportunity. For three decades, he found success as a conductor and composer in Bordeaux’s music-hall scene, writing over 250 songs, ballet scores, and one-act operettas; after retiring, he moved to Paris.

“Morgiane,” completed in 1887, was never staged; it is thought to be the oldest existing opera by a black American. Its 545-page manuscript was unearthed in 2008 by a cataloger from a collection at Harvard University, and the two opera companies collaborated on the expensive task of preparing the work for its first-ever performances.

The four-act piece, set in an imaginary Persia, is an intriguing amalgam of a pair of classic French traditions, grand opera and operetta. Louis Brunet’s libretto could have gone either way. Amine, a young bride, is abducted by the cruel Sultan to be his consort. Her parents and husband set off to rescue her; when they are threatened with death, her mother, Morgiane, reveals that Amine is the Sultan’s daughter, and all ends happily. Dédé’s musical organization leans in the direction of potential tragedy rather than operetta romp, with a big orchestra, rhythms smoothed into dirges, and arias and choruses extended beyond their logical ending points, for a total of about 2 1/2 hours of music.

However, the piece is really about the tunes, which are appealing but slight, not helped by Dédé’s efforts to give them extra heft. While a few numbers stand out—there’s a touching a capella quartet for Amine and her family as they prepare to die; an eloquent woodwind and horn accompaniment for the Sultan’s musings about love and power; and Morgiane’s revelation aria that is pure operetta—the whole doesn’t cohere into a satisfying musical-dramatic arc.

Nicole Cabell (center) PHOTO: JENNIFER PACKARD

The star of the all-black cast was soprano Mary Elizabeth Williams in the title role—big-voiced, utterly committed, with excellent French diction. As Amine, soprano Nicole Cabell made the most of her agile coloratura; tenor Chauncey Packer was fervent but ran out of steam as Amine’s husband, Ali. Baritone Joshua Conyers sounded woolly as Morgiane’s husband, Hassan; bass Kenneth Kelloggwas glued to his score and missed any dramatic subtleties in the rumbling role of the Sultan; bass-baritone Jonathan Woody was vibrantly nasty as Beher, the Sultan’s henchman. The OperaCréole Ensemble chorus sounded under-rehearsed, as did the Opera Lafayette Orchestra, under the efficient leadership of conductor Patrick Dupre Quigley.

Ms. Waleson writes on opera for the Journal and is the author of “Mad Scenes and Exit Arias: The Death of the New York City Opera and the Future of Opera in America” (Metropolitan).

‘Eat the Document’ Review: The Prototype Festival’s Musical Fugitives

This year’s edition of the festival opened with a compelling rock-influenced opera, based on Dana Spiotta’s novel about two 1970s radicals who go underground after a protest bombing goes awry.

Heidi Waleson

Jan. 13, 2025 at 5:04 pm ET

The cast of ‘Eat the Document.’ PHOTO: MARIA BARANOVA

New York

According to its co-founder and co-artistic director Beth Morrison, the Prototype Festival is a place for music-theater pieces that defy categorization. “Eat the Document,” which opened this year’s festival on Thursday at HERE, is a case in point. John Glover’s score, which takes many of its cues from pop and rock music of the 1970s and 1990s, is like a concept album, shaped into a compelling narrative by Kelley Rourke’s smart, well-distilled libretto.

Based on Dana Spiotta’s 2006 novel, “Eat the Document” is the tale of Mary and Bobby, two radicals who go underground separately when their Vietnam War protest bombing goes awry. The action toggles between the early 1970s, following Mary as she changes her name to Caroline and tries to figure out her future, and the late 1990s, when she is living as Louise, with Jason, her 15-year-old son. Also in the 1990s, Bobby has become Nash, who runs an alternative bookstore and meeting place for a new generation of activist youths.

Different singers play the two protagonists as their younger and older selves, and the production’s eight performers embody multiple roles, reinforcing emotional resonances between the eras. Most notably, soprano Danielle Buonaiuto is both Mary/Caroline and Miranda, a principled young woman with a crush on Nash, while tenor Tim Russell is both young Bobby and the questing teenager Jason, who is obsessed with the outtakes and bootlegs of the music of his mother’s youth. All the passionate young people contrast with the older ones: Nash (Paul Pinto) is wry and a bit cynical; Louise (Amy Justman) is worn down with living her cover.

The music also binds the two eras. The first half of the show plays with their relationship in a series of vivid musical set pieces. “No More,” the opening choral anthem of protest, which could apply to either era, has a whiff of “Les Miz”; when Jason drops the needle on a precious vintage record, what comes out is the hymn-like ensemble “On Repeat,” Mr. Glover’s musical response to “Our Prayer” from the Beach Boys’ unreleased album “Smile.” There’s a critical stance as well: Caroline, listening to the song in a later scene, notes the loneliness in its sweetness—“Like slightly off, rancid America.”

The bookstore hosts a series of musical manifestos. Sissy, a ’90s radical (Natalie Trumm), performs an almost comically explosive rock ’n’ roll rant, “Unsustainable,” protesting animal cruelty; Miranda’s more insidious, a cappella number suggests that to make a difference, “you have to put yourself on the line.” Nash, pushing back against the “burn it down” enthusiasm of the young, leads a waltz, playfully proposing entertainment instead of violence as resistance to contemporary wrongs, while back in the ’70s, Mel (Adrienne Danrich) delivers “Write On,” a stirring feminist declaration. Quick plot scenes are deftly sandwiched between—and sometimes within—the songs.

In the second half, plot dominates. The turning point comes when Louise tells Jason that she once danced in a bar with the Beach Boys’ Dennis Wilson, one of his musical heroes, and Jason starts investigating her past. After that, the music is less striking, except for the poignant duet in which Caroline turns into Louise and leaves her old life—and the promise of a reunion with Bobby—behind forever, until Jason’s probing reaches its inevitable conclusion.

The terrific cast handled the variety of vocal demands skillfully. Michael Kuhn showed off fine pop styling in “On Repeat”; in the role of hippie chick Berry, who meets an on-the-run Caroline, Ms. Trumm’s sweet soprano sounded like a totally different voice from that of her ranting Sissy. Bass Paul Chwe MinChul An supplied a savage rasp as Henry, a man in perpetual agony over the ravages of chemical weapons used in Vietnam; in one creepy number, he was backed by a male trio sweetly chanting lines like “Phosgene gas smells of new mown hay.” The septet of string quartet, drums, guitar and piano, led from the keyboard by music director Mila Henry, segued easily between rock band and classical ensemble.

Kristin Marting, who also developed the piece, directed a cohesive production. Peiyi Wong’s set—bookstore shelves hung with string lights, blending into a living room and incorporating the band—made the time transitions seamless with the aid of Ayumu “Poe” Saegusa’s lighting. Rashidah Nelson’s costumes evoked the periods—Mel’s crocheted ’70s sweater; Berry’s peasant skirt and beads; the striped button-down shirt (worn open) and khakis of Josh (Mr. Kuhn), the “hacktivist” who goes to work for the corporate enemy, devising a “franchised alternative community.”

The opera’s title name-checks the unreleased film of a 1966 Bob Dylan tour, mentioned in the novel though not the libretto. Like “Smile,” it’s one of many anchoring references to artistic arcana beloved (and hunted down) by aficionados, just as Jason hunts down his mother’s buried past—which she, like the artists, has rejected as unsuitable for release. Knowledge of the underpinnings helps, but even without it, “Eat the Document” conveys the tragedy of its protagonists’ blighted lives along with the ongoing fervor of protest by a newer, savvier generation of activists, who are perhaps too self-interested to make the mistakes of their predecessors.

Ms. Waleson writes on opera for the Journal and is the author of “Mad Scenes and Exit Arias: The Death of the New York City Opera and the Future of Opera in America” (Metropolitan).

‘Aida’ Review: Glum Grandeur at the Metropolitan Opera

Starring Angel Blue and Piotr Beczała, Michael Mayer’s new staging of Verdi’s Egyptian classic favors monumentality at nearly every turn, but it struggles to come to fiery dramatic or musical life.

Heidi Waleson

Jan. 2, 2025 at 5:19 pm ET

Angel Blue PHOTO: KEN HOWARD / MET OPERA

New York

You know you’re in trouble when a grand new production of Verdi’s “Aida” only catches fire midway through the second act, after the “Triumphal March”—when Amonasro shows up. The Metropolitan Opera’s show, directed by Michael Mayer and unveiled on New Year’s Eve, was announced as a fit replacement for the large-scale Sonja Frisell staging from 1988: No radical updating and lots of lavish stage pictures, replete with Egyptian iconography, to delight traditionalists. The pictures were indeed pretty, but the music-making struggled to infuse them with life.

The first sign of problems appeared early: Radamès, the Egyptian general besotted with Aida, the Ethiopian slave, launches the evening with the difficult “Celeste Aida” and tenor Piotr Beczała sang it with extreme caution rather than ardent abandon. His performance deteriorated from there, with cracks on high notes and in loud passages, and spots where he held back rather than singing out. Something was clearly amiss, and the Met’s general manager, Peter Gelb, made a curtain announcement after intermission that Mr. Beczała was recovering from a bad cold but wished to continue. This was an unfortunate call. The strangled sounds got worse, leaving the audience to worry about the damage this fine artist was doing to his instrument rather than concentrating on the show.

The challenge of “Aida” is to balance the monumental with the intimate, as the human emotions—love, jealousy, patriotism—of the four principal characters are mangled and crushed by the demands of a martial, priest-dominated state. Monumentality had the upper hand here. Yannick Nézet-Séguin’s forceful conducting and the massed sound of the excellent Met chorus worked in grandiose moments like the “Triumphal March” (complete with costumed trumpeters in the boxes adjacent to the stage). However, Mr. Nézet-Séguin also powered through the more personal scenes without shaping their tragedy.

Along with the ailing Radamès, this meant peril. As Aida, Angel Blue was affecting in her opening aria, but her soprano lacked the warmth and bloom to be persuasive as the conflicted heroine, torn between her love for Radamès and her longing for her homeland. By contrast, Quinn Kelsey, as her father Amonasro, commanded the stage with the vocal authority of a true Verdi baritone; unfortunately, he has only two scenes. Mezzo Judit Kutasi, as the princess Amneris, burning with unrequited love for Radamès and fury at Aida, grew in strength and complexity all evening. Her despairing scene when she realizes that she has destroyed the man she loves was a highlight. It was much more potent than Radamès and Aida singing their subsequent death duet in the vault, which should be the opera’s most wrenching moment. Dmitry Belosselskiy was insufficiently lethal as Ramfis, the High Priest; Morris Robinson sounded garbled as the King.

Quinn Kelsey, Morris Robinson and Dmitry Belosselskiy PHOTO: KEN HOWARD / MET OPERA

Monumentality was also the production’s theme. In Mr. Mayer’s concept, early 20th-century archaeologists discover an Egyptian tomb, and the story of its people comes to life. Sets by Christine Jones and projections by the design studio 59 cleverly depicted the familiar architecture and iconography; Kevin Adams’s lighting deftly limned the transitions: As the “story” scenes began, the bright colors on the walls faded and the focus moved onto the singers and Susan Hilferty’s sumptuous costumes, most notably the black and gold regalia of the priests and Amneris’s richly copper-colored gowns, contrasted with Aida’s simple white dress.

A buried civilization also meant that there were no outside scenes on the Nile or in front of the city gates, which reinforced the theme of how the characters are imprisoned—literally in the case of Aida and Amonasro, but also metaphorically, by the macho, warlike state. Oleg Glushkov’s choreography furthered that impression: During the triumph scene, a large cadre of buff male dancers enacted a curious intermezzo of warrior bonding and battle, and in the temple scene, as Radamès was consecrated as the leader of the Egyptian army, child priests were lifted by adult ones in a ritual of continuous domination.

Like the conducting and the set, Mr. Mayer’s direction defaulted toward the grand—all too often, the principals lined up at the front of the stage with ranks of motionless choristers behind them, and the characters didn’t connect in their intimate scenes. In one imaginative beat, the archaeologists carried off their recovered plunder during the triumph scene, a subtle reminder that war is not the only form of pillage. A knife unearthed by an archaeologist at the beginning also makes a Chekhovian reappearance in the finale, giving Amneris the last word. But these small, thematic hints couldn’t compensate for the musical and dramatic shortcomings of the whole.

Ms. Waleson writes about opera for the Journal and is the author of “Mad Scenes and Exit Arias: The Death of the New York City Opera and the Future of Opera in America” (Metropolitan).

‘Lucidity’ and ‘Tosca’ Review: Sopranos of Two Generations

Lucy Shelton plays a renowned singer with dementia in Laura Kaminsky’s chamber piece at On Site Opera; Lise Davidsen stars in Puccini’s melodrama at the Met.

Heidi Waleson

Nov. 18, 2024 at 5:07 pm ET

Lucy Shelton in ‘Lucidity.’ PHOTO: DAN WRIGHT

New York

Like “As One” (2014), her much-performed first opera, Laura Kaminsky’s “Lucidity,” given its world premiere on Thursday by On Site Opera at the Abron Arts Center, tackles a fraught contemporary problem. The elderly Lili (Lucy Shelton), once a renowned singer and teacher, is slipping into dementia, cared for by her adopted son, Dante (Eric McKeever); Claire Klugman (Blythe Gaissert), a neuroscientist, is running a study on the effects of music in dementia patients, aided by Sunny (Cristina María Castro), a young clarinetist. The miseries of dementia and the struggles of family caregivers are real, but Ms. Kaminsky’s 90-minute chamber piece is tidy and formulaic, only occasionally capturing the emotional devastation of this situation. The work begins a five-performance run at the Seattle Opera on Thursday.

In David Cote’s over-determined libretto, everyone has a trauma demanding resolution. Claire, once a voice student of Lili’s, worries that choosing science over music has stunted her life. Dante, who is black, gave up his career as a pianist because of racism in the classical music business. Sunny had an abortion, putting her at odds with her religious family. Each dilemma is neatly stated and resolved.

The only believable character is Lili. As played by the 80-year-old Ms. Shelton, a superb actress and a former leading exponent of avant-garde music, Lili’s anguish, confusion and moments of clarity are intensely felt. Ms. Kaminsky’s best writing is for her, deftly incorporating Sprechstimme as a bridge for Lili as she grapples her way from speech into what remains of her singing voice. Also affecting is the integration of Schubert’s “The Shepherd on the Rock” for voice, clarinet and piano into both the story and the score.

Much of the other vocal writing is unremarkable, though Ms. Castro’s high soprano enlivens the ardent Sunny with youthful passion, and the other two singers soldiered capably through their parts. The most effective moments of the busy chamber orchestration (for violin, cello, piano, clarinet and percussion) involved clarinet solos and percussion effects, especially mallet instruments, bar chimes, and a wood block. Geoffrey McDonald was the able conductor.

This being On Site Opera, an ordinary proscenium staging wouldn’t do. Sarah Meyers, who became the company’s artistic director in January, arrayed the audience on the small theater’s stage, looking out toward the house. The characters played their scenes on the apron, among the seats, and in the balcony. The musicians were positioned on the auditorium floor, with the clarinetist and pianist occasionally coming onto the stage to step in for their singer avatars.

This setup helped put the audience inside Lili’s fragmentary memory of her life in the theater, especially in those moments when she stepped forward into the spotlight. Cameron Anderson was the scenic consultant; Tláloc López-Watermann designed the lighting; Beth Goldenberg the costumes, with Lili’s attire, including a flower-embroidered coat for the final scene, subtly affirming her diva status.

The opera ends on a hopeful note as Lili, who was also a composer, sings her previously unperformed song, “Chosen Son,” demonstrating that music reaches into otherwise impenetrable darkness, and not just for her. Yet as anyone who has had any brush with dementia knows, happy endings are momentary, and the opera’s tidy tying up of loose ends doesn’t ring true.

Lise Davidsen in the title role of ‘Tosca.’ PHOTO: MARTY SOHL / MET OPERA

Since her debut as Lisa in “The Queen of Spades” in 2019, Lise Davidsen has become a Metropolitan Opera favorite—her opulent, powerhouse soprano a must-hear in the works of Strauss and Wagner. Last season, she ventured further afield, trying out Verdi in “La Forza del Destino” with mixed results; now it is Puccini’s turn. Last Tuesday’s gala performance of “Tosca,” commemorating the coming centennial of the composer’s death, was not her highest and best use. Conductor Yannick Nézet-Séguin was cautious and deliberate rather than energetic and dramatic, and Ms. Davidsen followed suit, going for subtlety rather than intense, fiery expression. Her ringing high notes were enjoyable, but her middle voice receded, nothing built, and climaxes slipped by unnoticed. “Vissi d’arte” was pretty, but unmoving.

Ms. Davidsen and Quinn Kelsey PHOTO: MARTY SOHL / MET OPERA

As Tosca’s lover Cavaradossi, Freddie De Tommaso, making his house debut, was at the opposite extreme—all blaring tenorial noise without warmth. In “E lucevan le stelle,” Cavaradossi’s farewell to life, he even inserted some sobbing effects, like an old-fashioned Canio in “Pagliacci.” For his first Met Scarpia, baritone Quinn Kelsey fared the best of the principals, but his suave, lyrical sound made for an insinuating villain rather than a weighty, scary, libidinous one. On Site’s Ms. Meyers, who is on the Met’s directing staff, was responsible for this revival of the representational David McVicar production from 2017; her clumsy staging didn’t help. Ms. Davidsen looked alternately stiff and pouty, catching fire only as she murdered Scarpia in Act 2, and Mr. De Tommaso, left to his own devices, gesticulated and posed.

With no evidence of smoldering passion and uninhibited desire, this was a neutered “Tosca” all around.

Ms. Waleson writes on opera for the Journal and is the author of “Mad Scenes and Exit Arias: The Death of the New York City Opera and the Future of Opera in America” (Metropolitan).

‘Ainadamar’ Review: Fascism and Flamenco at the Met Opera

Osvaldo Golijov’s work about the murder of the Spanish poet and playwright Federico García Lorca in 1936 tells its haunting story with ferociously contemporary musical style.

Heidi Waleson

Oct. 17, 2024 at 5:39 pm ET

Daniela Mack PHOTO: MARTY SOHL / MET OPERA

Operagoers who think that Bizet’s “Carmen” is Spanish should be sure to catch Osvaldo Golijov’s “Ainadamar,” which had its Metropolitan Opera premiere on Tuesday and runs through Nov. 9. Directed by Deborah Colker, this 85-minute phantasmagoria plunges into the death-haunted essence of flamenco, its gritty harshness underpinning even its moments of lyricism. Mr. Golijov, who was born in Argentina, manipulates flamenco’s rhythms, wails and melismas and integrates recorded sounds to create his own ferociously contemporary musical world. The opera had its world premiere in 2003 at Tanglewood; the revised 2005 version is heard here.

Mr. Golijov translated David Henry Hwang’s English libretto into Spanish. His musical language matches the darkness of the story, which concerns the Spanish poet and playwright Federico García Lorca, murdered by fascist Falangists in Granada in 1936 at the start of the Spanish Civil War, as seen through the eyes of actress Margarita Xirgu, who performed Lorca’s works until her death in 1969. The opera, in three “Images,” shuttles back and forth in time. It begins in 1969, as Margarita prepares to go onstage in Lorca’s play “Mariana Pineda,” about a Granada folk heroine who was executed in 1831 for her revolutionary sympathies. The play’s opening ballad—“Ah, what a sad day it was in Granada / The stones began to cry”—sung by a chorus of women at the beginning of each Image, anchors the opera, linking these two political killings a century apart. Margarita recalls her first encounter with Lorca in a time of hope for Spain; vividly imagines his murder; and then, as she is dying, understands that her performances have helped keep his spirit alive.

The opera’s dramaturgy is impressionistic rather than narrative, and Ms. Colker, directing her first opera production—she is best known as a choreographer in her native Brazil—leans into that character with a dance-centered production. Jon Bausor’s set features a hanging curtain of strings around a circular playing area; its rippling surface suggests the haziness of memory as well as the water of Ainadamar (Fountain of Tears) where Lorca was killed. Locations are not specified; we are inside Margarita’s haunted memory, with help from Tal Rosner’s soft-edged projections, Mr. Bausor’s period costumes, and Paul Keogan’s dramatic lighting.

A female chorus of 18 “Niñas” (girls), bolstered by several dancers, moves like a corps de ballet around Margarita; as Lorca sings a rhapsodic aria about the statue of Mariana Pineda that inspired him, we see a dreamy vision of four women dancing on pedestals; two solo flamenco dancers, choreographed by Antonio Najarro, offer striking images at crucial moments, as if to embody the intensity of Lorca’s verse with their exaggerated postures. For Lorca’s confession before his murder, the staging subtly suggests Christ’s Passion, a thematic thread in the opera.

Though arresting and viscerally expressive of Mr. Golijov’s score, the production does less well by the principal characters, who are underdirected and sometimes lost in the overall imagery. Angel Blue’s plush soprano seemed out of place for the ululating wildness of Margarita’s vocal anguish; she was most comfortable in the purely lyrical, almost Puccini-esque moments. Mezzo Daniela Mack was eloquent as Lorca, handsome in an all-white suit and plaintive before the execution. Elena Villalón brought a pure, fearless soprano to the role of Nuria, Margarita’s student and interlocuter. The most electrifying vocal contributions came from Alfredo Tejada as Ramón Ruiz Alonso, the Falangist who pursues and arrests Lorca, singing the howling flamenco cante jondo. The vocally protean Niñas were affecting in styles from edgy harshness to ethereal water music—Jasmine Muhammad and Gina Perregrino were standout soloists as the Voices of the Fountain.

Led by Miguel Harth-Bedoya, the orchestra is a potent force in “Ainadamar,” encompassing jagged flamenco rhythms with guitars, serene strings, and trumpet calls; there is a host of expressive percussion, from eerie vibraphones for the fountain music to folk drums and castanets. The principal singers and some of the instruments were amplified, and at times Mark Grey’s sound design favored the orchestra at the expense of the singers. Mr. Golijov ingeniously builds pre-recorded sound effects—including hoofbeats, water, the voices of praying children and gunshots—into the score; in one especially chilling series of interpolations, recordings of Falangist radio broadcasts blare out, each ending with the words “Viva la Muerte!” (Long live death!). Violence, death and apotheosis are certainly operatic staples, but “Ainadamar,” using atypical musical and theatrical modes to depict a real event that is not far in the past, powerfully excavates those conventional themes for a very different kind of impact.

Ms. Waleson writes on opera for the Journal and is the author of “Mad Scenes and Exit Arias: The Death of the New York City Opera and the Future of Opera in America” (Metropolitan).

‘Grounded’ and ‘Indra’s Net’ Reviews: Modern War and Ancient Legend

At the Metropolitan Opera, Jeanine Tesori’s work about an American drone pilot proves eerie and emotionally resonant; Meredith Monk’s performance piece at Park Avenue Armory takes inspiration from Asian religions to affirm our interconnectedness.

Heidi Waleson

Oct. 7, 2024 at 5:21 pm ET

Emily D’Angelo (center) and company in ‘Grounded.’

PHOTO: KEN HOWARD / MET OPERA

New York

When Jeanine Tesori’s “Grounded” had its world premiere at Washington National Opera last year, it was slack and overstuffed. For its Metropolitan Opera season-opening premiere in September, the composer and librettist George Brant wielded their red pencils to admirable effect. With 45 minutes cut from the score, the new “Grounded,” which runs through Oct. 19, is tighter, clearer and more emotionally resonant.

Based on Mr. Brant’s 2013 one-woman play about a fighter pilot who is reassigned to flying drones after she becomes pregnant, “Grounded” now delves more directly into how remote warfare undermines Jess’s sanity. Scenes were trimmed, events consolidated or resituated, and some episodes eliminated entirely; the opera now has 32 scenes instead of 46. This was particularly helpful in Act 1, which had spent too much time setting up Jess’s pivot to marriage and motherhood. The shorter version actually does a better job of establishing her attachment to her husband, Eric, and her daughter, Sam, so in Act 2, we feel what she is leaving behind as she becomes increasingly unmoored from reality.

Consolidating the drone-warfare scenes intensifies the trauma of Jess’s new job. As a fighter pilot flying in “the Blue,” she had the community of other pilots; in Las Vegas, as an operator endlessly tracking convoys halfway around the world on a gray screen, she has only the cacophony of the supervising “Kill Chain” (five offstage male voices) in her headset, and perpetual surveillance makes her feel watched as well as a watcher. It is clearer now that the drone’s cameras show her the faces and body parts of the people she kills, helping explain her crucial act—she crashes the drone to avoid killing the target’s young daughter. In the original version, she thought the child was Sam; in the revision, she knows it isn’t, which is less psychologically interesting but more operatic.

Mezzo Emily D’Angelo has worked her way deeper into the principal role; her Jess was more potent and acute in New York than in Washington. Several singers were new to their roles: Tenor Ben Bliss brought lyricism and authority to Eric; Ellie Dehn’s bright soprano supplied a contrasting timbre as Also Jess, Jess’s dissociated self and the only other adult female in the opera; bass-baritone Greer Grimsley was a gruff Commander. Baritone Kyle Miller ably repeated his portrayal of the irreverent Sensor, the 19-year-old gamer who operates the drone camera. The Met’s much larger chorus was a shadowy, ominous presence as the Drone Squad that Jess imagines; Yannick Nézet-Séguin brought out the military bravura and eerie menace in the orchestration.

Michael Mayer’s Met-scaled production looked imposing in the house. Mimi Lien’s two-level set situates the world of war above and the home front below. Vivid LED projections by Jason H. Thompson and Kaitlyn Pietras create the contrasts between Jess’s beloved Blue and the gray she now lives in, along with pixelations, blinding explosions, the green simulations of a control screen, and one horrifying, super-size appearance of the Reaper drone itself. Kevin Adams’s lighting delineated the abyss between the warmth of Jess’s home and the chilly drone trailer. At the end, court-martialed and imprisoned, Jess sits in a small pool of light in the darkness. Deprived of the flight suit (designed by Tom Broecker) that once told her who she was, she declares that she is free—perhaps to become something new.

Meredith Monk in ‘Indra’s Net’ at Park Avenue Armory.

PHOTO: MARIA BARANOVA

There’s a shamanistic quality to Meredith Monk, who has been creating her unique form of multidisciplinary art since the 1960s. Her aim for “Indra’s Net,”which had its North American premiere at the Park Avenue Armory in September, was to “create an immersive installation/performance work evoking both vastness and intimacy and affirming the interconnectedness of life,” an antidote to the “fragmentation, disconnection and uncertainty of contemporary life.” The title refers to a Buddhist/Hindu legend about a king who stretches a boundless net across the universe; faceted jewels at every intersection are unique yet reflect all the others.

For the 80-minute piece, staged on a circular white space in the cavernous expanse of the Armory’s Wade Thompson Drill Hall, Ms. Monk and seven white-clad singers from her Vocal Ensemble worked to embody those principles physically and through Ms. Monk’s distinctive wordless vocal style. One singer welcomed the others; two strolled arm-in-arm around the perimeter, seemingly in conversation; Ms. Monk started a call-and-response with one of the male singers; two others had an impassioned debate. In one extended section, individual instruments (there were 16 players) launched a six-note sequence; others took it up, as did the voices, creating a richly layered, meditative tapestry. A singer and a trumpet duetted; later, two percussionists joined a jaunty symphony of tongue clicks and clucks and got their own solo riffs—one drumming on a metal can, the other on what looked like a ping-pong paddle.

The simple, organic staging, directed by Ms. Monk, complemented the musical variety of vocal techniques, syllabic utterances and instrumental timbres. Yoshio Yabara designed the costumes and scenery; Joe Levasseur the lighting. Video shot from above and projected on a white circle behind the stage emphasized the netlike movement patterns; a “mirror chorus” of eight singers in black occasionally enriched the visual design as well as the sound. For the final sequence, orchestra members with portable instruments joined the singers on the stage, completing the interconnectedness. Even without words, some of Ms. Monk’s idea reads. But for the full effect it’s a good thing she told us what it was in advance.

Ms. Waleson writes on opera for the Journal and is the author of “Mad Scenes and Exit Arias: The Death of the New York City Opera and the Future of Opera in America” (Metropolitan).

‘The Listeners’ and ‘Silent Light’ Review: A Cult and a Community

In Missy Mazzoli and Royce Vavrek’s work at Opera Philadelphia, a group of people all suffer from hearing a mysterious hum; at National Sawdust, Paola Prestini and Mr. Vavrek’s adaptation of a 2007 film immersed the audience in the daily routines of Mennonites in Mexico.

Heidi Waleson

Oct. 2, 2024 at 2:47 pm ET

Kevin Burdette (center) in ‘The Listeners.’

PHOTO: STEVEN PISANO

Philadelphia

Composer Missy Mazzoli and librettist Royce Vavrek are a potent operatic team. “Breaking the Waves” (2016) and “Proving Up” (2018), their chamber operas about anguished people in impossible situations, had searing, visceral immediacy. “The Listeners,” which had its U.S. premiere at Opera Philadelphia on Sept. 25 (the world premiere was in Oslo in 2022; the work will also be presented at Lyric Opera of Chicago in the spring), ventures into similar territory with larger forces, but lacks the ferocity of those earlier scores.

“The Listeners” is about a cult. In an American suburb in the Southwest, Claire, a high-school teacher (the powerful Nicole Heaston), hears a mysterious hum that no one else does. It isolates her from her family, costs her her job and drives her mad until she finds a similarly afflicted group of people led by the charismatic Howard (the raspy-voiced Kevin Burdette), who promises a solution to their suffering. “I alone can harness the hum,” he tells them.

The opera’s sharpest moments explore how the hum affects those who hear it differently. Claire’s opening aria of misery—“an electric drill driving into my brain”—builds into a howl; the paranoid ex-soldier Dillon (John Moore) delivers a jittery rant about “disguised cell towers” and “big dogs in D.C.”; Vince (Daniel Taylor) smokes weed to tolerate the noise. Ms. Mazzoli then ingeniously layers these voices and welds them into a murmuring chorus as Howard instructs them, “Let us all give voice to our personal relationship with the hum,” a musical demonstration of how a seductive leader can pull such a disparate group of people together and quell dissent.

A scene from the show at Opera Philadelphia.

PHOTO: STEVEN PISANO

But the Act 2 revelations of Howard’s nastier qualities, which disrupt the group, were abrupt and obvious, and Claire’s adoption of his leadership role should have been musically creepier. Mr. Vavrek’s expletive-laden libretto (based on an original story by Jordan Tannahill) was carefully set for intelligibility; Ms. Mazzoli’s orchestral writing was too smooth throughout, even with the electronic noise of the hum. We needed to feel more tension and disturbance.

Other standouts in the large, impressive cast included soprano Rehanna Thelwell as Angela, Howard’s “second in command,” poignant in her aria of loneliness; tenor Aaron Crouch as Kyle, the hum-afflicted student who has an uneasy romance with Claire; and soprano Lindsey Reynolds as Ashley, Claire’s resentful daughter. Corrado Rovaris was the sensitive conductor.

The neutral tones of Adam Rigg’s versatile set, subtly lighted by Yi Zhao, evoked a sun-baked, bland background for people whose torments are invisible. All the color was in Kaye Voyce’s costumes—when Claire took over at the end, everyone was in shades of pink and orange. One effective touch was to have the “confessions” of the cult members captured on live video and displayed in giant, looming projections. Director Lileana Blain-Cruz sculpted the group meditation scenes effectively; some more intimate moments—Angela’s manic first appearance; Howard’s sleaziness—were overdone. Raja Feather Kelly provided the undulating choreography for dancer Sydney Donovan, the Coyote with whom Claire finds common cause and a howl to counter the hum.

A scene from ‘Silent Light.’

PHOTO: JILL STEINBERG

Brooklyn, N.Y.

“Silent Light” by Paola Prestini and Mr. Vavrek, given its world premiere at National Sawdust on Sept. 26, is an unusual piece of theater. Based on a 2007 film by Carlos Reygadas, it is as much an immersion experience as it is an opera, with noises, speech, cooking smells and lengthy silences carrying as much weight as the music. By submerging the audience—the space was very small—in the daily routines of members of a Mennonite community in Mexico, the creators and director/designer Thaddeus Strassberger invite us to identify with these people and comprehend the deep feelings that lie beneath their oddly placid exteriors.

The plot is bare-bones. Johan (Daniel Okulitch), a married farmer with five children, has fallen in love with Marianne (Julia Mintzer), another member of the community. His wife, Esther (Brittany Renee), knows about the relationship. Johan asks his friend Zacarias (Anthony Dean Griffey) and his father (James Demler) for advice. Esther dies, but Marianne kisses her, bringing her back to life.

Mr. Vavrek’s minimalist libretto eventually supplies some information, but the opening 10 minutes have no words or music. There’s just the sound of insects, a loudly ticking clock, and Esther and her mother (Margaret Lattimore) preparing breakfast for the family—you can smell the bacon—who sit around an unfinished-pine kitchen table. Only when Johan says grace does the music begin—the instrumental ensemble is an eccentric quintet of violin, cello, trumpet, trombone and percussion, mostly playing solos, led by Christopher Rountree. The 12 choristers, initially seated on benches and facing upstage as though they are the front row in the audience, intone a hymn with the interpolated words “The only thing we cannot do is turn back time.”

Daniel Okulitch and Julia Mintzer

PHOTO: JILL STEINBERG

The delivery of the sung solo music was dispassionate and formal; characters often interacted without looking at one another. Other elements filled in. Nathan Repasz, a Foley artist, supplied sound effects like crunching footsteps and the pumping of milking machines (having female choristers in cow masks being milked was an unsettling choice); there was a video clip of a young Jacques Brelsinging “Ne me quitte pas.” Bruce Steinberg’s subtle lighting shadowed Johan and Marianne as they undressed (Amanda Gladu designed the traditional Mennonite garb) and made love in an upstage pool; a rain shower deluged Esther as she fled the family car and collapsed.

The strongest musical moments were choral. A mourning hymn “There’s a city of light ’mid the stars,” set with jarringly dissonant intervals, was followed by a hypnotic choral echo of “White linens,” an aria sung by Esther’s mother, as the women washed and laid out the body. The resolution of the story seemed almost beside the point, and the clock—which Johan stopped when he first left the house after breakfast—was started again, implying that life goes on. If you entered into the community mindset, as invited by the show, presumably it was all God’s will.

Ms. Waleson writes on opera for the Journal and is the author of “Mad Scenes and Exit Arias: The Death of the New York City Opera and the Future of Opera in America” (Metropolitan).