Overwhelmed by the Underworld, or, Wherefore Art, Thou Orfeo?

An old Popeye cartoon from the subpar 1950s King Features period – when Bluto became “Brutus” – finds the Sailor Man dragged by his best girl to a jazz club in full 1950s beatnik mode (the club, that is, not Popeye’s evening wear). Decked out in berets and black-and-white striped sweatshirts, the bohemian crowd snaps its fingers as one listener after another murmurs “Cool!” amid the bongos and cascading plucked-bass solos . Olive accuses Popeye of being uncultured. He mutters gruffly, “Oooggghhh, I doesn’t know much about artk, but I knows what I hatesgeh.”

At least he made an effort, and maybe even scored enough points thereby with his well-Oyled love to mutter an “Eat your heart out, Brutusk!” after an après-jazz nightcap with his boshemian, bean-polar opposite.

I suspect any opera-hating male who holds his tongue while taking his missus to the nearest big-screen HD simulcast (January 24; encore February 4)* of the Met’s stunning new production of Gluck’s Orfeo and Euridice

Sara Krulwich/The New York Times

Danielle de Niese, left, as Euridice and Stephanie Blythe as Orfeo in the Metropolitan Opera production of “Orfeo and Euridice.” More Photos >

might well validate my knowing finger-to-nose word-to-yo’-mama; Anthony Tommasini in The New York Times for January 12, which links to an audio clip, 18:58 in length, from the production:

With each performance the American mezzo-soprano Stephanie Blythe gives, it becomes increasingly apparent that a once-in-a-generation opera singer has arrived. Ms. Blythe’s latest triumph came on Friday night at the Metropolitan Opera: a vocally commanding and deeply poignant portrayal of Orfeo in a revival of Mark Morris’s 2007 production of Gluck’s sublime masterpiece “Orfeo ed Euridice.” This was Ms. Blythe’s first performance of Orfeo, a touchstone trouser role for many mezzo-sopranos, and she already owns it.

Returning to the podium from the production premiere, James Levine elicits an articulate and majestic performance of this landmark work, presented here in its original 1762 version, running a compact 90 minutes without break…

Yet this is Ms. Blythe’s show, as Mr. Levine acknowledged during curtain calls when he prodded her to take an extra solo bow to acknowledge the ecstatic ovation.

…Ms. Blythe seems able to sing anything…

Ms. Blythe commands the stage and though she has a big body, moves with agility and grace, exudes charisma and conveys piercing emotional subtleties with every glance and phrase…

Who knows what roles Ms. Blythe might take on next. I would hear her sing absolutely anything. How about a new opera written expressly for this exciting artist who is just entering her prime?

It ain’t over till the fat gentleman from the Terry Gilliam animation  sings Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries melody to a glacial, molassean mortar shell (2:48 – 4:46):

Ho-ho-ho-HO-ho, Ho-ho-ho-HO-ho, Ho-ho-ho-HO-ho, Ho-ho-ho-HO…

*In The Wall Street Journal last June, novelist Ann Patchett rhapsodized over the magic of these nationwide Met simulcasts (”The Best Seat in the House“):

Are there words for this? I was in Nashville watching the Metropolitan Opera. I was seeing it on a screen so large that the smallest gesture of a hand, the delicate embroidery on a skirt, was clearly visible. I could see Ms. Netrebko’s tongue inside her mouth and see how it shaped the air that made the note. I could see the conductor, yes, the crisp gesture of his wrist, but my God, I could see the French horn player as well. I could look into the eyes of the chorus one by one, every man and woman focused in their part. It was Opera Enormous, every note utterly human, simultaneously imperfect and flawless…I was right there on the stage.

If the opera itself wasn’t enough there were perks besides: not having to wait in the ridiculous lines at the Met to get a drink and use the facilities. While patrons killed time between acts, rereading the program or staring aimlessly at the heavy velvet curtain, those of us in the Regal Green Hills 16 got to go behind the curtain where Renée Fleming, armed with a microphone, stopped the soprano and tenor as they came off the stage and asked them why they liked Bellini and how hard it was to sing bel canto. Imagine getting to see Cézanne interviewing Pissarro over a half-finished canvas, getting to see them talk casually, intelligently, about technique. Imagine then Cézanne pointing to a small smear of light on a pear and saying, “I love how you did that! I always struggle with the light on a pear!”