Tchaikovsky’s rarely performed sixth opera The Maid of Orleans, a nineteenth-century adaptation of the story of Joan of Arc loosely taken from the Schiller play of the same title, continued the Russian emphasis in the Washington arts community this season. Like the Mariinsky Theater’s January visit, much of the best talent to be heard in this production – including no fewer than five soloists — came from St. Petersburg. With the unfortunate exception of the nasally Ukrainian tenor Viktor Lutsiuk, they brought life to a work that even for opera is dramatically unbalanced and romantically improbable. This is not the first time that Washington audiences have heard Evgenii Nikitin (Joan’s father, Thibaut d’Arc), Vladimir Moroz (the knight Dunois), Feodor Kuznetsov (the callow pretender to the French throne, somewhat prematurely set down in the opera as King Charles VII of France), and Sergei Leiferkus (the enemy knight and Joan’s astonishingly sudden love interest Lionel), but all were memorable and aided by Stefano Ranzani’s fine conducting.
By far the most significant voice in the production, however, was that of the last great performing prima donna of opera’s golden age, Mirella Freni. It is neither polite nor, at least among serious opera goers, necessary to mention her age, which is something beyond “certain,” but there can be no doubt that she is still capable of astonishing audiences with her meticulous musicianship, radiant upper register, and fine Russian enunciation. Although the years have been less kind to her dramatic abilities, Freni’s abilities in Tchaikovsky remain to this reviewer’s mind singular among Italian singers. Featured more than a decade ago on well-received recordings of Eugene Onegin and The Queen of Spades, the composer’s two greatest works, Freni has lost none of her powers for Joan’s aria “Prostite kholmy” (usually known by its French name, “Adieu, o fôrets”) or in her Act III duet with Lionel, probably the most powerful musical moment of the evening.
Lamberto Puggelli’s production, borrowed from the Teatro Reggio of Turin, was less impressive than the voices it enveloped. With only one intermission, overlap among all four acts was probably inevitable for Luisa Spinatelli’s set and costume designs. Yet her heavy reliance on colorful silken curtains to mask scene changes and suggest other moods only became tiresome over the course of the evening. The first act alone had six such drapings. More impressive and meaningful was the last scene, in which the condemned Joan meets her end at the stake. Featuring a simply clad chorus with coordinated movements and stage blocking that suggested bas-relief, it hearkened evocatively to the innovative modernism of Russian theater productions from the early twentieth century. Regardless of the other flaws, the Washington National Opera should be congratulated in its ambition to present a rare work well enough to attract what appeared to be a sell out audience.
