Opera Company's "Otello' (1st review)

Otello, Shakespeare's classic tragedy about the poisons unleashed by anger and jealousy, as set to music by Verdi, is often rightly acclaimed as the ideal example of musical fidelity to a text: Even with your eyes closed and no understanding of the words, the music gives you a pretty good idea of what's transpiring on stage. Desdemona's ethereal voice proclaims her innocence throughout; and when Otello pledges his trust in Iago at the end of Act II, you need no translation: The dark minor notes alone provide the necessary goosebumps.

You know the old joke about what God could have accomplished if only He'd had money? Verdi's Otello demonstrates what Shakespeare could have achieved if only he'd had music.

But Verdi and his librettist Boito actually contributed more than music to Shakespeare's work: The beautiful love duet between Otello and Desdemona at the close of Act I is nowhere to be found in Shakespeare's version; where Shakespeare merely asks us to accept the existence of devotion between the Venetian general and his bride, Verdi added this duet so we could see for ourselves the deep affection that Iago's manipulations destroy. Similarly, Act II opens with Iago's mock Credo, in which the villain at least attempts— as he didn't in Shakespeare— to explain what makes him so doggone villainous.

Otello's modern-day iterations, in turn, demonstrate what Verdi could have achieved (at least outside of Italy) if only he'd had supertitles: English-speaking audiences now become so engrossed in the plot that, at Sunday's performance, when Norah Amsellem sang Desdemona's beautiful final "Willow Song," nobody applauded— so riveted and horrified was the audience by her impending doom.

A cane as prop

The Opera Company's current production does more than justice to this masterpiece. Artistic director Robert Driver, who last attempted to transfer La Traviata to the Roaring "'20s, here resists the temptation to move Iago from 16th-Century Cyprus— for which, dear Lord, make us truly grateful. The crowd scenes— the opening shipwreck, the Act II chorus of children and sailors serenading Desdemona, the Act III reception of the Venetian ambassador— demonstrated the coordination necessary to deliver the appropriate emotional punch. But so did the intimately effective finale of Act III, when Otello collapses in helpless fury and Iago triumphantly settles himself upon Otello's throne.

Even limping after arthroscopic surgery, Mark Delavan made a suitably intimidating Iago, twirling his cane menacingly (although, to be sure, the use of that cane prevented Delavan from drinking during Iago's Act I drinking song). In our concern lest Delavan trip on one of the steps in Paul Shortt's elaborate sets, the audience tended to cut Delavan some slack, much like the characters onstage who trust Iago implicitly.

Tenor Allan Glassman, one of two Otellos in this production, put me in mind of Placido Domingo a few decades back— that is, more a vocal artist than an athlete. The clear tones of Norah Amsellem reinforced the extent of the wrongs done to Desdemona.

Too evil, too naÓ¯ve, too pure

But if you see this very capable production of one of the greatest works in the operatic repertoire, I hope you will reflect, as I found myself doing at Sunday's matinee, on the unsung heroine of this particular opera.

Otello's trusted counselor Iago, as portrayed by both Shakespeare and Verdi, is a figure of such consummate evil as to be almost inhuman. At the outset, Iago explains that he hates Otello for having bypassed Iago for a promotion, but you can't help feeling that Iago wouldn't have made a happy camper, promotion or not. Otello, for his part, is so naÓ¯ve and trusting, and Desdemona so pure and innocent (more so than in Shakespeare), that they prove utterly defenseless against Iago's schemes. Cassio and Roderigo are likewise easily duped by Iago.

Serving two masters

That leaves one character in this tragedy who is made of something more than cardboard. Emilia— Iago's wife and Desdemona's attendant— finds herself forced to serve two conflicting masters. As Iago's long-suffering spouse, Emilia perceives her husband's dark nature all too well, and consequently she's the only character in this opera who's invulnerable to Iago's conniving. Yet as Iago's wife she is duty-bound to obey him, and so she reluctantly provides the incriminating handkerchief that Iago uses to "prove" Desdemona's infidelity.

Nevertheless, in the end Emilia chooses to obey her conscience rather than her husband: When Otello, having murdered Desdemona, explains that Desdemona's faithlessness was confirmed by Iago, Emilia cuts to the heart of the issue with a single devastating line: "You believed Iago?" From that moment, the ball game is over for Iago, and Otello too.

If ever an opera provided a character worthy of the attention of a Tom Stoppard, Emilia is it. In Hamlet, after all, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were merely peripheral to the story (which was Stoppard's point in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead). But Emilia, for all the short shrift she receives in Verdi's Otello, is central to the action: Without Emilia, there is no story— no means by which Iago can undermine Desdemona, and no means by which Iago can subsequently be brought to justice.

Margaret Mezzacappa sings Emilia's role capably, what little there is of it: Aside from the haunting handkerchief quartet in Act II, Emilia gets only a few scattered lines of recitativo. I cling to the hope that we in the 21st Century haven't reached the end of operatic history. If Verdi and Boito could improve on Shakespeare, is it not possible that some future composer could improve on Verdi— by writing this intriguing character (intriguing to me, at least) an opera of her own?♦


To read another review by Robert Zaller, click here.
To read another review by Steve Cohen,click here.
To read a response, click here.