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Was she the top, or the bottom?
"Powder Her Face' at the Perelman
Steve Cohen
If you were reluctant to attend Powder Her Face because you fear a noisy, unmelodic score, relax. Thomas Adès wrote intriguing music that contains many short melodies that intertwine to provide emotionally gratifying climaxes. Powder Her Face, written near the start of his career in 1995, supplies more melodic pleasure than his more recent The Tempest, seen last year at the Met and on cinema screens.
On the other hand, if you tend to be shocked by sexual conduct on stage, then stay away. Powder Her Face is the story of Margaret Campbell, the Duchess of Argyll (1912-1993), whose husband's divorce suit in 1963 produced photographs of the duchess engaging in sex with numerous partners. He said she had 88 lovers, including two government ministers and three royals. It's all disclosed in the opera libretto, including an on-stage simulation of fellatio.
Margaret was the daughter of the millionaire chairman of Celanese Corporation. She lost her virginity at age 15 to the actor David Niven, was presented at Court in London in 1930 and then married the American golfer Charles Sweeny and embarked on a glamorous and elegant lifestyle. In 1951 she became the third wife of Ian Douglas Campbell, the Duke of Argyll, who was himself sexually promiscuous.
"I had wealth, I had good looks," Margaret wrote about herself. "I was mentioned by Cole Porter in the words of his hit song, "'You're the Top'."
Actually, Porter did not name her among the superlatives in that song; it was P. G. Wodehouse who added these words to a British production of Porter's Anything Goes: "You're Mussolini/ You're Mrs. Sweeny." Margaret's fib provides a key to Margaret's personality.
Fading looks, fading wealth
As Powder Her Face demonstrates, Margaret was a thoroughly nasty person— deceitful, self-centered, arrogant, anti-black, anti-Jewish and anti-gay. Which isn't to say she's not interesting, especially when she encounters disgrace and poverty later in life.
The judge at Margaret's trial called her a female Don Juan, but that's too kind. Don Juan had much more charm.
Philip Hensher's clever libretto opens with the aging Margaret living in a hotel, then flashes back to her youth, her marriage to the duke and her affairs. Act II is more emotionally involving as it portrays Margaret's divorce trial and then her years of fading looks and fading wealth.
At the end, a hotel manager serves an eviction notice for non-payment. He clearly implies that the end of her life is at hand, and the projection of a skull underlines the point: No matter how desirable you once may have been, it must end sometime.
Moment of loneliness
Adès's music includes snatches of tangos and of waltzes, which set the tone and the period. He attempted a Cole Porter-type song that fails to replicate the sauciness of the original. Adès also wrote a paean to wealth that's sung by a maid (Ashley Emerson) with high-coloratura sparkle, but it pales beside "Glitter and Be Gay," Leonard Bernstein's brilliant aria on that subject from Candide.
Adès's score in Act II was much improved, especially in a pair of anguished arias for Margaret as she comments on her fate. "No one ever loved me unless they were paid for it," she sings in a moment of loneliness.
Corrado Rovaris skillfully conducted the 17-piece chamber orchestra, whose many percussion instruments provided arresting effects, like the sound of fishing reels slowly turning.
25 naked men?
As the duchess, soprano Patricia Schuman was haughty but elegant and sang the difficult score with full-bodied sound. Ashley Emerson was endearing as the maid, a society reporter and other soubrette characters. Christopher Tiesi appealingly sang a collection of tenor roles— electrician, lounge lizard, waiter and delivery boy. Bass Ben Wager was an impressive hotel manager, duke and judge.
William Kerley directed with discretion, especially in contrast to a New York City Opera staging last year that placed 25 totally naked men in the duchess's bedroom. And that above-mentioned fellatio scene revealed only the man's bare butt.
Hensher's libretto itself is unnecessarily restrained. At Margaret's trial the judge sings that she "loved men she didn't even know," a polite way of saying she had sex with men she didn't even know. If Hensher's libretto had to mince words in 1995, surely they should be made more direct now.
Which is all well and good. The point of this opera isn't this woman's sexual appetite but the pathos of her life.♦
To read a related commentary by Naomi Orwin, click here.
On the other hand, if you tend to be shocked by sexual conduct on stage, then stay away. Powder Her Face is the story of Margaret Campbell, the Duchess of Argyll (1912-1993), whose husband's divorce suit in 1963 produced photographs of the duchess engaging in sex with numerous partners. He said she had 88 lovers, including two government ministers and three royals. It's all disclosed in the opera libretto, including an on-stage simulation of fellatio.
Margaret was the daughter of the millionaire chairman of Celanese Corporation. She lost her virginity at age 15 to the actor David Niven, was presented at Court in London in 1930 and then married the American golfer Charles Sweeny and embarked on a glamorous and elegant lifestyle. In 1951 she became the third wife of Ian Douglas Campbell, the Duke of Argyll, who was himself sexually promiscuous.
"I had wealth, I had good looks," Margaret wrote about herself. "I was mentioned by Cole Porter in the words of his hit song, "'You're the Top'."
Actually, Porter did not name her among the superlatives in that song; it was P. G. Wodehouse who added these words to a British production of Porter's Anything Goes: "You're Mussolini/ You're Mrs. Sweeny." Margaret's fib provides a key to Margaret's personality.
Fading looks, fading wealth
As Powder Her Face demonstrates, Margaret was a thoroughly nasty person— deceitful, self-centered, arrogant, anti-black, anti-Jewish and anti-gay. Which isn't to say she's not interesting, especially when she encounters disgrace and poverty later in life.
The judge at Margaret's trial called her a female Don Juan, but that's too kind. Don Juan had much more charm.
Philip Hensher's clever libretto opens with the aging Margaret living in a hotel, then flashes back to her youth, her marriage to the duke and her affairs. Act II is more emotionally involving as it portrays Margaret's divorce trial and then her years of fading looks and fading wealth.
At the end, a hotel manager serves an eviction notice for non-payment. He clearly implies that the end of her life is at hand, and the projection of a skull underlines the point: No matter how desirable you once may have been, it must end sometime.
Moment of loneliness
Adès's music includes snatches of tangos and of waltzes, which set the tone and the period. He attempted a Cole Porter-type song that fails to replicate the sauciness of the original. Adès also wrote a paean to wealth that's sung by a maid (Ashley Emerson) with high-coloratura sparkle, but it pales beside "Glitter and Be Gay," Leonard Bernstein's brilliant aria on that subject from Candide.
Adès's score in Act II was much improved, especially in a pair of anguished arias for Margaret as she comments on her fate. "No one ever loved me unless they were paid for it," she sings in a moment of loneliness.
Corrado Rovaris skillfully conducted the 17-piece chamber orchestra, whose many percussion instruments provided arresting effects, like the sound of fishing reels slowly turning.
25 naked men?
As the duchess, soprano Patricia Schuman was haughty but elegant and sang the difficult score with full-bodied sound. Ashley Emerson was endearing as the maid, a society reporter and other soubrette characters. Christopher Tiesi appealingly sang a collection of tenor roles— electrician, lounge lizard, waiter and delivery boy. Bass Ben Wager was an impressive hotel manager, duke and judge.
William Kerley directed with discretion, especially in contrast to a New York City Opera staging last year that placed 25 totally naked men in the duchess's bedroom. And that above-mentioned fellatio scene revealed only the man's bare butt.
Hensher's libretto itself is unnecessarily restrained. At Margaret's trial the judge sings that she "loved men she didn't even know," a polite way of saying she had sex with men she didn't even know. If Hensher's libretto had to mince words in 1995, surely they should be made more direct now.
Which is all well and good. The point of this opera isn't this woman's sexual appetite but the pathos of her life.♦
To read a related commentary by Naomi Orwin, click here.
What, When, Where
Powder Her Face. Music by Thomas Adès; libretto by Philip Hensher; William Kerley directed; Corrado Rovaris conducted. Opera Philadelphia production through June 16, 2013 at Perelman Theater, Kimmel Center, Broad and Spruce Sts. (215) 893-1018 or www.operaphila.org.
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