The Coronation of Poppea
Opera had many antecedents, among them medieval mystery plays and Renaissance intermedi (musico-dramatic interludes between acts of plays) and masques. Jacopo Peri’s Euridice of 1600 is celebrated as the first surviving opera, the product of a determination to re-create the drama of ancient Greece. A Florentine group, the Camerata, decided that Greek plays must have been sung–which actually makes a certain amount of sense, considering the form’s outdoor amphitheaters. As the clergy and street vendors have known for centuries, the sung or chanted word carries far better than the spoken word and is much easier on the voice than shouting. The words, in this view, were of primary importance; they were to be set meaningfully and sung intelligibly. The members of the Camerata, including Peri, were at particular pains to avoid the inevitable distortions of polyphony, which stretched words out and blended voices in such a way as to lose clarity of text.
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The earliest operas reflected not only the art form’s supposed Attic roots but the Renaissance fascination with mythology: they were largely concerned with the doings of ancient heroes and Olympian immortals and frequently featured a deus ex machina. Different composers used the same libretti–and pretty lame libretti they seem today, even by operatic standards, often so silly that they make La sonnambula look Wagnerian by comparison. Monteverdi, that master madrigalist and grand polyphonist, used Rinuccini’s libretto for Euridice for his own La favola d’Orfeo of 1607 but set it to music that worked far better, with a much grander orchestra. By 1642, when his last work for the stage and greatest masterpiece L’incoronazione di Poppea was first produced, operas were being written for the public and not just academics and aristocrats. Poppea has much more of the flavor of what we think of as opera today, including a coherent story line (Monteverdi rearranged Busenello’s libretto) and expressive music that calls for outstanding singers. There are still allegorical characters taking up space and assorted deities saving the day, but the libretto is based on actual historical figures.
The cast was very large and mostly very good. Emily Magee as Poppea revealed a big, rich, seamless voice. When she relaxed, most notably in her scene with Ottone, she conveyed the triumphant, calculated sexuality the future empress requires–that if-you-got-it-flaunt-it quality of the successful courtesan. But too often she remained polite and slightly nervous, a bit like the Countess awaiting the arrival of Susannah in Le nozze di Figaro. She was well partnered by Gloria Banditelli as Nero. Nero, like several other parts, was written for a castrato; castrati being in short supply these days, mezzo-sopranos or countertenors have been cast in the roles or they’ve been rewritten for tenors and baritones. The mezzo voice is probably the happiest choice when a singer can be found who’s believable as a man. Banditelli has a dark, androgynous vocal quality and a fine range. Her Nero was more spoiled brat than monstrous tyrant, but she made the switch from ardent lover to irascible ruler convincingly. The final duet between Poppea and Nero was absolutely devastating in its sensuality and ardor.
