Butterfly - Page: 1 of 1

THE STORY
Puccini’s opera of a philandering sailor’s romance, love and abandonment of a young Japanese geisha, is perhaps, one of his most tragic and romantic tales. While the music from Butterfly is not in my judgment consistently good, it has parts that soar, and I am certain it is those moments of sheer poetry, magic and inspiration that have sustained this great story/composition the many years it has played around the world.

Based on a play of the same name by David Belasco, it is hard to image today that this great opera was heckled so badly on its opening night of February 17, 1904 [many believe Puccini was set up by a competitor] that Puccini withdrew it for three months until he could figure out why.

The story is simple and universal in its appeal: Navy Lieutenant B.F. Pinkerton takes up temporary residence in Nagasaki, Japan and is introduced by marriage broker, Goro, to the young, impressionable geisha Cio-Cio-San, Butterfly. Pinkerton is infatuated; Cio-Cio-San misreads his infatuation for true love and falls deeply in love with him. She marries him, changes her religion to Christian, turns her back on family and tradition and devotes herself to becoming a “real American wife”.

Called to duty, Pinkerton leaves with a promise to one day return, and he does, three years later, but with an American wife in hand. Near broke, Butterfly never loses faith that her American husband would return or that she would be welcome into his arms. Her servant, Suzuki, knows better after reading one of Pinkerton’s letters, but can’t find the courage to tell Butterfly that she has been betrayed.

Butterfly would rather commit suicide than return to her former life, especially after she borne a son to Pinkerton while he was away. The day of the meeting, Pinkerton turns coward and leaves the house rather than confront Cio-Cio-San, and only moments before her death realizes what a cad he has been. The duty falls to Pinkerton’s American wife, Kate, and Butterfly’ loyal servant, Suzuki, to tell the truth to Butterfly and ask that Pinkerton’s son be turned over to her. Cio-Cio-San relents and does as asked, and after bidding her son farewell and her guests leave, takes out a knife in the final act and commits suicide.

WHERE I VIEWED IT:
As I have noted in past reviews, and reiterate here, the Metropolitan Opera House at Lincoln Center in New York is about as fitting an opera hall as one can find. If they would just scrape that wad of peeling paint from the left front ceiling, it would be a theater without distractions. I like the Met’s location because it is only ten minutes from the bus terminal on 42nd Street, and if you drive into the city, there is a convenient underground garage. Access to the auditorium is little more than taking a brief escalator ride to the outside lobby.

THE PERFORMANCE:
Friday night, January 16, 2004, on the second coldest night of the century, Chilean born soprano Veronica Villarroel poured out her heart as Cio-Cio-San, to a sold out audience at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City and warmed their hearts in a way only a truly gifted performer can. Her spectacular performance was rewarded with thunderous applause at curtain call. Villarroel’s Butterfly contained both depth and the kind of childlike innocence the part demands. Her voice at moments was as delicate as the cherry blossoms that fall from trees, vulnerable and delicate, and at others so commanding and powerful that the audience was enveloped by it and under her complete control throughout. Indeed, at times her voice soared even above the wonderful Met orchestra, under the able direction of Plácido Domingo. It was a masterful performance that was obviously delivered from her heart and soul, and because of this, it was justly embraced by those in attendance.

Marco Berti as Pinkerton was also in fine form, and while his physical presence when around Butterfly bordered on brutish [I don’t fault the actor for this, but rather the stage director. Pinkerton was a cad, but I felt uncomfortable during those occasions when he was called upon to embraced Butterfly. Was he embracing, or holding her prisoner?] Still Berti’s voice was resonant with the kind of self-assured cockiness one might expect of a young man in his prime, uncaring for anyone and focused single-mindedly on his next conquest, not the hurt his selfish ways might cause.

Three cheers to Bruno Caproni as the U.S. Consul, Sharpless, friend of both Butterfly and Pinkerton, and equal measures of well-done to Jane Bunnell, as Butterfly’s servant, Suzuki. They sang their roles wonderfully. The entire cast performed well and both blended and supported when the music called for it. I am thinking here of Butterfly’s first entrance as one of those special moments I referred to earlier, when Puccini’s music truly transcends the ordinary and touches greatness and soars. “Ecco. So giunte al sommo del pendio”. Does not everyone wait for that entrance? And what of “Vogliantemi bene” -- tell me well -- where the theme is repeated?

I cannot let the set design or technical achievements go unnoticed, either. While the set never really changes, the moods are wonderfully controlled and changed to reflect the different times of day, which are inextricably intertwined with what we are supposed to be experiencing at any given moment. There is a period at the end of the first act when the coloration of the sky as well as the hues coming from behind the rice paper walls and doors of Butterfly’s home changes. The audience is carried along a time line that gradually shifts from day, to dusk, to evening, and then in the second act back to day again. It is this kind of background expertise that makes set designers and lighting coordinators unsung and too often neglected heroes of theater.

On a side note: at the end of the performance two things occurred that I think I will mention. First, was the unseemly way the orchestra bolted from their chairs and left the auditorium, at the very time the performers were taking their final stage bows. If Mr. Domingo wanted to acknowledge the orchestra at this point, there was nobody left to acknowledge when he took his bow. What was that all about? Second, was the comment of an elderly woman who sat beside me. She said she and her late husband had been going to the opera for fifty years. When I noted the obvious affection of the audience toward Ms. Villarroel, the woman commented, almost, as if she was part of a wider plot: “Yes, in spite of what the New York Times said.”