San Francisco Classical Voice

The opera's librettist, Tovmas Tersian (or Terzian) drew from an episode in the history of the Armenian nation during the late years of the Roman Empire that was rife with the ingredients of historical-melodramatic grand opera. The willful, domineering Armenian King Arshak combines traits of Macbeth, Henry VIII, Boris Godunov, Nebuchadnezzar, and Sardanapalus. Devoted to his country, he is nonetheless a helpless victim of his own whims, fears, and appetites, torn between the claims of two queens (here named Paransema and Olympia). (Historically, Arshak and his fellow Armenian rulers were likewise torn between forced alliances with the Roman West and the Persian East.)

The historical model for Paransema was said to have attempted to murder her rival, Olympia, by poisoning the Communion host (obviously too much for any 19th century censor; in the opera it is merely a friendly goblet of wine). Fratricide, imprisonment, madness, and a procession of vengeful ghosts fill out the proceedings.

But for all these promising ingredients, and despite Chukhadjian's manifestly capable absorption of Verdian operatic melodrama, the end product reveals all too clearly the inexperience of its creators. Perhaps the politics of the late Ottoman Empire prevented them from exploiting fully the nationalistic potential of their material. In any case, after a slightly tepid opening chorus in praise of Armenia's victory over the Persians, any political dimension of the story is completely lost, giving way to old-fashioned, opera-seria-style domestic wrangling between kings, queens, their relations, and their retinues. (In this regard, the Italianized names of the cast, such as Arsace [for Arshak], Valinace, Olimpia, and Polisena, appropriately conjure up the world of Metastasio.)

Despite moments of conventionally effective Romantic dramaturgy — arias and duets of vengeance, with chorus, the largo concertato while the dying Knel curses his brother and murderer, Arshak, the laments of the imprisoned Olimpia, the avenging spirits, and a closing scene of madness and mayhem, including Arshak's assassination by the deranged Paransema) — the drama as such never really comes into focus.

With any sense of Arshak's political dilemmas between Romans, Turks, and Persians completely sidelined, the story turns on his mistreatment of father, brother, wives, etc., which comes across as merely erratic. Since Paransema, at first betrothed to the king's brother, is wedded to Arshak by force, her status as rival to the original queen, Olimpia — she goes so far as to murder Olimpia's child by Arshak — is similarly unclear.

Here and there Chukhadjian manages to work up some effective orchestral atmosphere, for example, a Verdian tiptoeing conspiratorial prelude to Act 2, some stormy graveyard music in Act 3 (followed by the series of ghostly apparitions, right out of Verdi's Macbeth), and a dream-pantomime sequence for the imprisoned Olimpia in Act 4 delicately scored with solo cello cantilena over harp and woodwind chords.

More often though, and not surprisingly, the score falls short of its Verdian models. It consists disproportionately of slow, lyrical movements, sometimes embellished with instrumental interludes in the manner of 1840s Verdi or overlaid with decorative tracery in the manner of grand-opera ballet. (There is also a hint of operetta melody among the tunes comprising the potpourri-style overture, alternating with somber, oracular brass chords and a lively galop finale.)

Melodically, the numerous cantabile movements tend to remain short-breathed, seldom attaining a moving or otherwise convincing larger contour. The more energetic cabaletta-style movements are fewer and shorter than I would expect, failing to balance the preponderance of slow numbers. Several Risorgimento-style choruses for the itinerant band of Armenian soldiers never quite catch fire.

Apart from Anita Yavich's lavish and lovingly crafted Orientalist costumes (the flat-topped headdress being the most evident Armenian signature), the production did little to compensate for the slightness of the music. Several monumental ziggurat-shaped wooden structures made up the bulk of John Coyne's sets and did duty for the whole evening, framing doorways, outlining walls, or (draped Christo-like with white cloths) intimating palace interiors. An Assyrian-style lion sculpture and several oversized gravestones for the apparition scene in Act 3 were about all that was added to this basic set. Like much of the music, these sets were always serviceable, without contributing much to any satisfying dramatic effect.

Nor did Francesca Zambello's merely functional direction seem to know how to breathe life into the stilted material. One nice touch, though, was a vast, elongated cage descending from above in Acts 3 and 4 that construed the imprisoned ex-Queen Olimpia as a sort of pathetic songbird, delivering a series of effective laments.

As Olimpia, Armenian soprano Hasmik Papian provided the one impressive performance of the evening, modulating between dark, velvety tones and penetrating, perfectly focused high notes. Mezzo-soprano Nora Gubisch infused the role of Olimpia's rival, Paransema, with a certain zest, especially in the closing scene, where she (apparently?) poisons both herself and Olimpia before stabbing Arshak. Philip Webb delivered a strong performance of the small tenor role of Knel, who expires at the end of Act 2 on an impressive soaring phrase that caps the opera's one grand-opera style slow ensemble.

Baritone Christopher Robertson did what he could, perhaps, with the title role. A remorseful aria in the last act (following the scene of Olimpia's dream-vision) and a duet with Olimpia stood out somewhat. The willful, rapacious, and lustful sides of the King implied by the drama are only faintly realized in Chukhadjian's score, so I can't really blame Robertson for failing in this regard. The other main roles were capably filled: San Francisco Opera regular David Okerlund as Arshak's right-hand man, Vartan, and tenor Gordon Gietz in his San Francisco debut as Arshak's somewhat mild-mannered antagonist, Valinace. (Gietz ably negotiated a short aria sung to Olimpia in Act 2 while stretched out lengthwise on the floor, his head tilted to the audience.)

Although the chorus sounded underrehearsed in the first act, they managed well enough after that. The conducting of Loris Tjeknavorian wasn't able to overcome the prevailing dramatic inertia of the score. With no notably Armenian element to the music, it's not clear that he would have any special insight to impart here. The numerous decorative instrumental solos were well dispatched, as were some of the delicate textures in several ballet numbers and orchestral preludes. The text, sung in an Armenian retranslation of the original Italian libretto, contributed a touch of the ethnic color that was otherwise relegated to the costumes, being mostly absent from the music.

Arshak II may be no undiscovered masterpiece, then. But as an experimental foray outside the operatic mainstream, the project is not without value. With its expanding season, the San Francisco Opera should be able to afford the occasional repertory experiment, beyond newly commissioned works (all the more so if extra community funding is at hand). My hope is that Arshak's admittedly limited appeal will not dissuade audiences from sampling other unfamiliar but perhaps less exotic operatic fare (for example, the "other" operas of Ponchielli, Mascagni, and Leoncavallo), should it appear on the menu at some point. There are certainly many works in Verdian and post-Verdian orbit that might still find a place in the continuing repertoire, but not Arshak.

(Thomas Grey is chairman of the Music Department at Stanford University. He is author of Wagner's Musical Prose: Texts and Contexts and editor of the forthcoming Cambridge Opera Handbook on The Flying Dutchman as well as the Cambridge Companion to Wagner.)

©2001 Thomas Grey, all rights reserved