Fava Beans and a Nice Puccini

Photo: Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera

I’ll freely admit that I went to the Met’s revival of Tosca last night (in descending order of importance) to finally see Roberto Alagna sing an Italian role live and in person, rekindle my love for Patricia Racette’s Puccini prowess and experience the continuing Finnish invasion with conductor Mikko Franck’s Met debut.

All three of those elements held up in spades—Alagna’s “Vittoria”s didn’t disappoint, Franck held a sure hand over the orchestra and Racette unfurled an entire galaxy in her “Vissi d’arte”—but what stuck with me most was, unexpectedly, tenor Joel Sorensen’s Spoleta (pictured, with George Gagnidze as Scarpia). Spoleta is one of those roles that fascinates me, because he has so few lines but plays such an essential part. There wasn’t anything particularly revelatory in Sorensen’s interpretation, but he was no less mesmerizing to watch. His is a Spoleta intoxicated by power and sadism, gleefully signaling Cavaradossi’s torturers to continue and looking as let down as a pauper boy on Christmas morning when Scarpia calls a halt. Whether it was planned or not, he took no fewer than three spills, being thrown across the stage by Scarpia, falling down the stairs in Act II and tripping up the steps leading to the roof in Act III (I’d say the roof of the Castel San’Angelo, but no one needs to reiterate the point that this production is more “Blah, Tosca” than “Va, Tosca”) and made each one look convincing.

Like most of the audience members, Sorensen is almost developmentally disabled around his employer’s prostitutes, but then sneaks some lascivious sniffs of Tosca as she enters. There’s a lot going on in that second act from the three leads, and to compete with not only that but the dismally-dull menstrual and lavatorial set of piss yellow, shit brown and blood red and remain one of the most intriguing visual aspects of the performance is no mean feat. I often wonder if Spoleta is happy with his lot in life or not, and here Sorensen made us see how disturbingly enamored he was of his work, even if his inability to shrewdly see the big picture would prevent him from ever rising to Scarpia levels of power. It was like watching Hannibal Lecter as a Roman lackey. It may even be enough or me to watch this production again on DVD.