The Raven was performed at the Gerald Lynch Theater at John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan on 59th Street. The theater was nice with an art gallery at its entrance, which displayed artistic photographs of previous performances. Each provided for me a portal into a show I had missed, which made me glad I made it to this opera performance, but also eager to see what the staging and costuming would be like. On its medium-sized stage was an off-set square platform and off to stage right in the shadows were a few rows of empty chairs. All this with a shell behind it looming tall at just the right angle for sound projection. Of all this, what struck me most was the program. To me, it seemed fancy with its clean, perfectly pressed paper, and thick paper, that was larger than a book and smelled as new books do- good. Much like the off-kilter yet minimal stage, it had its own flair with its precisely torn corner at the bottom of all pages. In today’s digital age, this program seemed elaborate and much enjoyed as I thumbed through it, while waiting for the show to begin.
In those spare moments before the show, I read again the poem in the program. Before reading it, I had vague memories of the poem, but I think with any amount of time, I will never forget the line: “Nevermore,” croaked by the raven, along with an image of this dark bird perched at the home of the bereaved narrator. After reading the poem, I couldn’t help but wonder how an opera on such a famous poem, and a story that had already drawn me in, would make me feel. I’ve only seen operas in mostly other languages, on stories that are near ancient, erring on melodramatic, and with no personal connection to me at all. So, I couldn’t help but feel excited to hear an opera with modern tonalities and instruments with a story that I not only knew but liked. And a story that seems timeless in its depiction of the unbearable loneliness of those grieving, or those lost in its darkness.
My musings were answered when the opera began with a short overture played by a small combo of woodwinds and brass along with a string quintet and a percussionist. The atmosphere created by the ensemble in the overture and for much of the piece, I think, was mostly mysterious or ethereal in nature: air on a lonely, dark night. Not to suggest it was unchanging, the accompaniment flowed with the singer and her mental projections, as air can be cool and refreshing, cold and uncomfortable, still and calm, or windy and worrisome. These ideas were conveyed especially well in the woodwinds and brass. I have to say I really enjoyed all the sounds from the alto and bass flute- what a beautiful sound! And, the solos from the saxophone were played very unjazzlike and lent a heft to the flute sound, sometimes punctuating the more nebulous sounds of the ensemble with slap tonguing; this punctuating was heard from the percussionist as well. And, when warmth was needed, the trombone chimed in with just enough blat.
As for the mezzo-soprano, Fredrika Brillembourg, she began the opera in a sprechstimme style; she began switching between this and singing operatically within a stanza or two. Eventually, she was mostly singing and what a deep sound she created, sometimes meaty. Her sound filled the room and reverberated my head; I could feel my ear drums vibrating. As much as the singer touched the audience through her voice, she also spoke to us with many questioning or pleading glances as well as reaching out to us.
On the other hand, the dancer, Alessandra Ferri, never danced to us or for us, but always with and for the narrator solely. She danced with bird like gestures; her legs and feet were bent and flexed talon-like. As the narrator became more intrigued by her, the raven entwined herself around the narrator with gangly and bony gestures. The narrator would not only be standing but lying down, kneeling or moving across the stage. This dance of the raven did not look beautiful nor comfortable, but always performed gracefully. At a point when the narrator seemed the most confused or lost, the raven perched on the back corner of the platform and on the shell was the shadow of the raven projected as a female figure, who was dancing. I’m still thinking of this: the dancing shadow as thoughts of Lenore or the allure of the raven? I’m not sure.
Throughout this performance, I felt my original interpretation challenged and new ones formed. This is thanks to the performers being female. Due to this, I thought the dancer at times was the raven and other times Lenore. This was an intriguing ambiguity, since I had never thought of the raven as a visitation by Lenore in another form nor a memory of Lenore. Also, I liked the narrator sung as a woman. When reading and without much thought at all, the narrator was a man; I never questioned this. And as quickly, the raven as a bearer of darkness was a masculine entity. To consider for the first time the relationship of the narrator to Lenore as something other than that of lovers was refreshing, or if lovers then not heterosexual lovers. And, I welcomed the opportunity to reconsider that a somber, dark entity does not imply a masculine entity.
With female performers and the opening up of possibilities in this old story on grief, it definitely made the poem new and without former performances created something as fresh as ever. By now, I can’t help but wonder if Lenore represents the narrator, who is lost in yesteryears as in memories of herself, or if the opera represents a woman so afraid of her own death that she is preoccupied with it. With all these questions and changes in perspective, I read the poem again to ponder and I think I just have to see the opera again!
-Sally
