ARTS The New York City Opera, which traditionally plays David to the Goliath of the Met next door, has gone through hell. Mismanagement, fiscal disaster and a dangerous liaison with a disappearing impresario from Belgium have endangered the company’s survival. But the doors reopened cautiously on Thursday under the direction of a novice boss, George Steel.
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| Radiant: Lauren Flanigan, with James Maddalena |
The inaugural was a tacky pops concert labelled American Voices. Amid much brouhaha, the management had announced that the renovated auditorium was no longer electronically amplified. The voices tended to be drowned out by the orchestra in an enlarged pit, however, and the timbre was tinny, or seemed so from an uncomfortable new seat in the first ring.
Rufus Wainwright stumbled through “That’s Entertainment” as a prelude to a gooey excerpt from his faux-French opera, Prima Donna. Samuel Ramey wobbled through a scene from Susannah. Marc Kudisch strangled on the Carousel Soliloquy. The New York City Ballet offered an irrelevant diversion. Lauren Flanigan as Barber’s Vanessa and Joyce Castle as Bernstein’s half-arsed Old Lady mustered fleeting distractions, but blandness ruled until Joyce DiDonato closed the affair, sweetly and simply, with “Take Care of This House” from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. 
Matters improved dramatically on Saturday with Hugo Weisgall’s Esther, not seen anywhere since its premiere in 1993. This is a grand, grand opera, a quasi-biblical extravaganza that speaks a romantic language in a bravely atonal idiom. The complex score may seem crass to ears conditioned by the minimalist mush in vogue today. But even at his most ponderous, Weisgall knew how to order contrasting set-pieces, knew how to support the human voice, and knew how to juggle rhythmic and melodic tensions.
Radiant and powerful in spite of some wavering pitches, Flanigan once again triumphed in the title role. Roy Cornelius Smith introduced a gutsy heldentenor as Haman, deftly seconded by Margaret Thompson as Zeresh. Stephen Kechulius savoured baritonal fervour as Xerxes while James Maddalena sustained sympathy as Mordecai. Beth Clayton summoned pretty pathos as Vashti. George Manahan conducted with no-nonsense savoir so it faire, as always. His orchestra untied Weisgall’s knots with bravado, and the chorus exuded unaccustomed resonance.
The understandably skimpy production, directed again by Christopher Mattaliano, proved more functional than illuminating. Jerome Sirlin’s sets, predicated on primitive projections and moving scrims, remained decorative.
The greatest surprise involved the acoustics. The sound for Esther emerged loud, bright and clear, neatly balanced between stage and pit. It was almost as if someone had turned those blasted microphones back on, a blasphemy steadfastly denied by the management. 
