“An opera,” says one of the characters in Richard Strauss’s last effort in the genre – his so-called “conversation piece in one act – “is an absurd thing.”  At the heart of Capriccio is an impassioned but exquisitely polite debate over what matters most in opera – the music or the words.  At stake is the favor of Countess Madeleine, a dilettante dwelling in a country villa outside Paris who balances the musician Flamand against the poet Olivier as they create an opera for her amusement.  The artist who makes the better case for his medium will triumph in love as well as in art.  After more than two hours of rumination, intrusion, and glorious singing and versification, Madeleine decides that there is no answer to the dilemma that could not be trivial.  That Strauss and his librettist – the famed conductor Clemens Krauss — could ask such a question as German armies ground their way to defeat at Stalingrad in the autumn of 1942 alone speaks to the power of art.

The Met’s Capriccio first appeared in the 1998-1999 season as a vehicle for the leading soprano Kiri TeKanawa, who was well known for her interpretation of Countess Madeleine’s dominant role.  This rival, the only one since the premiere, is also a vehicle – for the star soprano Renee Fleming.  Some critics charge that the voice has lost its luster, particularly in lighter and bel canto parts if the mixed reviews of her performances in this and last season’s Armida are any guide.  But the Strauss repertoire remains her ravishing own.  Indeed, as the years pass, I only find her more and more at home in Strauss heroine roles and similar parts, such as her triumphant Thais in Massenet’s opera of the same name.  The vocal line is articulated with great care and nuance, while the dramatic personae she delivers are truly aristocratic creations.  Countess Madeleine demands no less.  The finale, a monologue in which she ruminates on the question of which art form matters more, flowed with iconic charm.  Fleming maintained her hauteur throughout, only playfully letting her guard down during the famous Moonlight Music, when Madeleine basks in the romantic situation she masters, clad in a gorgeous silvery gown while twirling a long-stemmed rose.  The cloying artists can only pale before such a woman, but Joseph Kaiser’s Flamand and Russell Braun’s Olivier captured their spirit with excellent performances.  Peter Rose sang the impresario La Roche, whose monologue about theater reminds us, if in a parodic way, of how important management is to the magic.  In his debut season and role, Morten Frank Larsen played Madeleine’s brother, identified only as the Count, as what used to be called a sportsman, a philistine whose interest in art extends only as far as the talented mezzo-soprano Sarah Conolly’s Clairon, his actress love interest.  Olga Makarina and Barry Banks were well considered additions in the short roles of the Italian singers who serenade the Countess and her party of guests.  Sir Andrew Davis may well be the best conductor of the work performing today.  He led a drawn out performance that balanced the score’s harmonies with the dissonant elements that recall the twentienth century musical milieu Strauss did so much to shape.

With such a talented orchestral reading of this complex yet sublime score, it makes sense that the John Cox’s production is updated to the 1920s – nearly the time of the opera’s composition — from the original eighteenth-century setting.  The dialogue that revolves around Lully, Rameau, and other composers whose memories were more present in the earlier era seemed a bit anachronistic in an era when Wagner was the most popular composer in France, but Mauro Pagano’s inviting sets place us well at ease in a milieu where the arts are considered both so seriously and so lightly.  Having Madeleine served a martini added the perfect touch. – Paul du Quenoy

Alban Berg’s only finished opera (Lulu was left incomplete at his death in 1935) has returned to the Met for a short run of four performances.  Despite this discreet revival, the reappearance of the one hour and forty minute work has already created a stunning buzz.  Met music director James Levine has long championed Berg’s oeuvre and has now presided over nearly forty performances at the house, about two-thirds of the total since the opera entered the Met’s repertoire in 1959.  His enthusiasm was very much in evidence last night, although concerns about his troubled health have continued to make news, cause the cancellation of engagements, and led him to end his tenure as director of the Boston Symphony.  Levine clearly laid all those troubles aside as he assailed Berg’s intricate score – which balances atonality with moments of romantic sweep and parodic gestures toward such familiar forms as the military march.  The Met Orchestra played with some of its greatest delicacy of the season.  Indeed, after such a satisfying performance, it is easy to understand why the opera’s premiere in Berlin in December 1925 is regarded as a milestone in the history of Western music.

Levine cast some of the best suited singers working today.  Baritone Alan Held, who has grown considerably over the years and now counts a credible Wotan among his parts, took the title role.  Capturing all of Wozzeck’s insecurities and vulnerabilities, he easily moved from humiliated buffoon to murderous killer.  Waltraud Meier’s Marie showcases some of this talented artist’s best singing.  At 55 and on the verge of receiving the Lotte Lehmann Memorial Ring from the Vienna State Opera, she looks young and agile enough for the part – an unfaithful mistress who is tortured by feelings of guilt and fear.  Her piercing soprano will not please everyone, but it overcame the difficult orchestration to deliver her music without once descending into shrillness.  Tenor Stuart Skelton, in his debut role for the Met, captured the Drum Major’s arrogant pride with consummate skill.  The seduction scene – an upskirting against a wall – defies Marie’s standard luring of him into the house and only adds to Skelton’s allure.  In the roles of Wozzeck’s tormentors, Gerhard Siegel and Walter Fink, cut excellent figures as the captain and the doctor.  F Siegel’s pinched tenor perfectly conveyed the cruel captain, a martinet who abuses Wozzeck while chiding him for his immoral life.  Fink’s baritone rolled out almost too beautifully to allow one to believe that he is a social oppressor great enough to pay the impoverished Wozzeck to take part in his medical experiments.

Mark Lamos’s stark, stylized production – based on walls placed askew – captures both the degenerated psychology that dominates the piece and the intimacy that we need to understand it well.  The stage direction by Gregory Keller spares nothing by way of cruelty.  Wozzeck’s humiliation is egregious yet captures our sympathy.  His murder of Marie is not a conventional operatic stabbing, but a full-on throat slashing.  The children’s mockery that ends the opera packs a full emotionally disturbing effect.  – Paul du Quenoy

The latest casualty in the Met’s effort to replace its heavily traditional roster of productions is Franco Zeffirelli’s second consecutive production of this Verdi favorite.  A somewhat cumbersome effort dating from 1998, it succeeded his earlier effort, of 1989.  Having done away with Zeffirelli’s Tosca, Tales of Hoffmann, and Carmen, on New Year’s Eve the house replaced his Traviata with Willy Decker’s stylized Salzburg production, available on DVD with Anna Netrebko, who was originally scheduled to sing the Met premiere.  Moving away from the opera’s nineteenth-century milieu, we find ourselves in a minimalist present.  Violetta enters in a red cocktail dress and her party guests, men and women alike, appear in identical dark suits.  The overcoated figure of Doctor Grenvil, normally confined to the final act (the only time he has lines to sing), serves as a cautionary presence to the heroine, who is obviously conscious of her mortality and impending death.  In case we forget or are uninterested in subtlety, a giant clock dominates sets (by Wolfgang Gussmann) that are sparse if at times cleverly lit in passionate shades of red and purple.

Marina Poplavskaya was chosen to replace Netrebko.  Her notable appearance in Prokofiev’s War and Peace with the company a few years ago anticipated her star-quality Elisabeth in Verdi’s Don Carlo earlier this season.  Accompanied by a fascinating if less than flattering article in the New Yorker, the young Russian soprano appeared poised for celebrity.  Alas, she did not quite arrive in this production.  Her overall performance was nothing to despair.  Her lower and middle register tones were full bodied and appealing.  She captured real pathos in her parting from Alfredo, in the despair of the gambling scene, and in her deathly finale.  The part’s essential coloratura flourishes, however, noticeably eluded her.  The attacks were often awkward, the notes sharp, and the pitch wavering.  Undoubtedly a fine career awaits her, but not in the early and middle Verdi roles that still required a bel canto voice.

As Alfredo it was heartwarming to witness the continuing growth of tenor Matthew Polenzani, once a comprimario singer now promoted to leading roles.  His robust voice delivered the part with verve and superbly articulated skill.  I first encountered Polenzani in the role opposite Renee Fleming in the 2007-2008 season and simply revel in thus young artist’s impressive growth.  Andrzej Dobber’s Germont has also grown in stature and interpretive nuance.  He is not a true Verdi baritone, but the wooden qualities that once limited his performances seem to be gone.  The strong impressive cast included notable contributions from Jason Stearns as Baron Douphol and Luigi Roni, a most stentorian bass, as Doctor Grenvil.  Gianandrea Noseda’s conducting drew an inspired performance from the Met’s orchestra and chorus.

Decker’s production avoids descent into Eurotrash, but there are some tricks that seem overplayed.  Our introduction to Violetta brings to mind an immature teenaged alcoholic, hardly the type to find soaring compassion for the Germont family or the ladylike virtues of renunciation and forgiveness that the role ultimately demands.  Alfredo is an uncharacteristically jittery suitor.  His jump from timid infatuation to the building Act II outrage and public humiliation of Violetta seems out of character.  The hide-and-seek pantomime the couple carries out in their happier scene rings untrue.  Future direction might harmonize the characters better.