(Note: This post has been updated (1) as of 8:33 PM Eastern on 14 Mar. See below.)
Weblogger Jens F. Laurson of Ionarts has some (lots of) apposite remarks on Verdi's Nabucco, with all of which I'm in complete agreement, although why Mr. Laurson took the time and effort to go on at such length about this repulsive paradigm of the typical post-bel canto Italian opera escapes me.
And my single comment on that same Met broadcast of Nabucco (posted on one of the opera lists in which I sometimes participate)?
It's beyond my feeble capacity of imagination to comprehend why a premier opera company like the Met would give even a thought to, much less spend hard-come-by funding on, mounting such a piece of organ-grinder trash as Nabucco. And beyond my feeble capacity of understanding why audiences would fork over hard, cold cash to attend performances knowing in advance what to expect, and moreover, remain in their seats rather than make a beeline for the exit doors after being confronted with a cast of wobbly-voiced shriekers such as today.
Or as, in an earlier century, the honest and wickedly ever-sharp Rossini quipped after reading one of Verdi's early scores: "If the name of the composer had been kept hidden from me, I should have wagered that he could only be an artillery colonel."
That pretty much says it all about Verdi as opera composer to the masses, the flashes of genius discernable in his later Don Carlos, and the authentic genius on full display in his much later Otello and Falstaff — the latter his greatest achievement in opera, and one of opera's greatest achievements — notwithstanding.
Update (8:33 PM Eastern on 14 Mar): Weblogger Leon Dominguez of Sieglinde's Diaries comments on this and more — hilariously.
It's The Music, Stupid!
Peggy
