It's tough being a critic.
opera reviews
Ismene Brown
Of course she isn't now the watchful, learning 29-year-old who premiered Covent Garden’s opulent, sensually loaded production in 1995, but Gheorghiu’s varicoloured voice - a rainbow of tears, sobs, scoops, warbling runs and top notes that seem to rack her body with pain - has if anything added more colours since then (including a less fetching jeune-fille timbre in the middle that sounds as if it’s hiding a problem).
David Nice
John Adams thinks his and poet June Jordan's fantasia on love in a time of earthquake flopped at its 1995 Berkeley premiere for two main reasons. The characters - three blacks, two whites, a Hispanic and an Asian - were deemed too self-consciously multiculti: odd when America knew that was just how LA was then, even more so than Stratford East today (for once, the audience reflected the cast in this co-production with the Barbican). And Adams was shocked to find the pop and classical worlds so rigidly defensive. I've spoken to plenty of folk who hate the piece, trapped as they are behind the barriers its 24 vernacular numbers try to break down. Yet it seemed no problem for anyone in the theatre last night, chiefly because the ensemble of seven brilliant young singer-actors was totally on top of their tricky music. They'll never have to master anything as complex again, so they have every reason to be proud.
David Nice
The first time I saw David McVicar's production of Strauss's hypersensuous shocker, I gaped in horrified wonder at the Pasolini Salò-style mise en scène but didn't find the action within it fully realised. When it came out on DVD, the close-ups won greater respect but there was still the problem of Nadja Michael's singing, hardly a note in true. Now it returns with Angela Denoke, an even more compelling actress with a far healthier soprano voice.
David Nice
With several replicas of Mozart's libertine stalking the country this summer, there had to be a good reason for seeking him out in the cinema. I had two. One was a curiosity to see how the TV channel Arte and the French Institute in South Kensington would handle a medium so successfully exploited around the world by New York's Metropolitan Opera.
Jasper Rees
I once sat in a rehearsal room in a brick-box theatre on the outskirts of Cape Town. The cast was warming up for Carmen. First, the choreographer put 40 mostly black South African singers through a gruelling physical warm-up. Opera singers are rarely slender, and they were all in a muck sweat by the time the vocal coach stepped forward to lead them through a vocal warm-up. But when they opened their mouths it was as if someone has strapped you to a chair in a wind tunnel. The noise was transforming, majestic, all-powerful. So I knew roughly what sound to expect in Singing for Life, a documentary about the miscegenation of the black township choral tradition and the white man’s most exclusive art form, opera.
jonathan.wikeley
It seems somehow wrong to come away from a Don Giovanni feeling a bit noncommittal about the whole thing. It’s the sort of opera that should raise you from your seat – that should fire and inspire – but this performance, directed by Jonathan Kent, never truly got off the ground. The set – a sort of Rubik's Cube of a building designed by Paul Brown that opened in ever more ingenious ways, and morphed from chapel to party house to graveyard – was clever and satisfying and mirrored the steady disintegration of the characters as we progressed.
igor.toronyilalic
David McVicar's revival production of Handel's oratorio-cum-opera Semele isn't terribly clever or beautiful or impressive, or fecund with ideas or detail or emotion. But it does work. It does tell the story. And what brings colour to its initially rather pasty, unappealing face, and fire and heft to its anaemic belly, is sex and - best of all for those of you who will only be able to catch it in concert at the Barbican next week - one of the most impressive Handel casts I've heard for years.
David Nice
Yes, it's still him all right. Hovering around a disputed seventysomething and bouncing back from a serious operation, Plácido Domingo puts into seemingly smooth gear that beaten-bronze voice in a million and still sounds like the tenor we've known and loved for decades. Which might be a problem in a classic Verdi baritone role, beleaguered Doge of Genoa Simon Boccanegra, were grizzled authority not the keynote. That works, but if only Domingo's towering stage presence had been better harnessed in the umpteenth revival of what was never a very human production by Elijah Moshinsky. This is a singular opera which can seem slow to kindle and then a bit stagey if no truth is to be found in its many confrontations. And sadly there was very little of that last night.
Peter Culshaw
The question remains why Mozart never finished Zaide. One immediate reason is he got a well-paid commission for Idomeneo, and Zaide was written on spec. Another reason, at least on last night’s evidence, was that it seems as likely he didn’t finish it because he realised he had a turkey on his hands. On a beautiful summer's evening when, if you wanted drama or entertainment you could be (to take a few examples) watching the World Cup or Wimbledon or the fabulously operatic Muse at Glastonbury, you would in any case have to have a pretty compelling night in the theatre to compete. This turgid gallimaufry wasn’t it.
The question remains why Mozart never finished Zaide. One immediate reason is he got a well-paid commission for Idomeneo, and Zaide was written on spec. Another reason, at least on last night’s evidence, was that it seems as likely he didn’t finish it because he realised he had a turkey on his hands. On a beautiful summer's evening when, if you wanted drama or entertainment you could be (to take a few examples) watching the World Cup or Wimbledon or the fabulously operatic Muse at Glastonbury, you would in any case have to have a pretty compelling night in the theatre to compete. This turgid gallimaufry wasn’t it.