Idomeneo Opera Synopsis. Background. Helen, the beautiful wife of King Menelaus of Greece, was carried off by Paris, son of King Priam of Troy, triggering the Trojan War. One of Agamemnon’s allies was King Idomeneo of Crete, whose army helped to deliver a victory over the Trojans. After ten long years of war, Idomeneo is finally on his way home. The ship carrying Ilia was hit by a storm and sank, but she was rescued from the waves by Idomeneo’s son, Idamante. Upon his own return from war, Agamemnon was murdered by his wife, Clytemnestra, and her lover, Aegisthus; Elettra’s brother, Orestes, took revenge on the unfaithful by killing them both. ![]() At the palace, Ilia is grieving for her father and brothers, who were killed by the Greek army in the siege on Troy. But while she hates Idomeneo, she has fallen in love with his son, Idamante, who has ruled Crete in his father’s absence (“Padre, germani, addio!”–Father, brothers, farewell!). Although Idamante proclaims his love for her, Ilia, cannot bring herself to admit her feelings for him (Non ho colpa–I am not guilty). As a gesture of goodwill, Idamante releases the Trojan captives; they join the Cretans in rejoicing this newfound peace (“Godiam la pace”–Let us enjoy peace). The king’s advisor, Arbace, brings the news that the king’s returning fleet was shipwrecked in a storm and that Idomeneo has drowned. Elettra does not approve of Idamante’s decision to free the prisoners, and upon hearing the news of Idomeneo’s ruin, she realizes that her aspirations of marriage have been similarly dashed (“Tutte nel cor vi sento”–In my heart I feel you, Furies of bitter Hades). On the coast, sailors make their way ashore, begging the gods to show mercy (“Piet. As the storm subsides, Idomeneo staggers onto the sand alone. Spared a watery grave by Nettuno (Neptune), god of the sea, Idomeneo laments his vow to sacrifice to the god the first person he meets on land. Plagued with guilt, he imagines the ghost of his innocent victim (“Vedrommi, intorno”–I shall see about me a lamenting ghost). Eventually he sees a man approaching, his own son, Idamante. ![]() The world of classical music owes much to the prolific output of Austrian composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Learn more at Biography.com. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Soundtrack: The King's Speech. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart grew up in Salzburg under the regulation of his strict father Leopold who also was a. D'Abbadie, Arnauld. See: Abbadie, Arnauld d', 1815-1894? Dabney, Robert Lewis, 1820-1898 ¶ A Defence of Virginia And Through Her, of the South, in Recent and Pending. After ten years, the two men do not initially recognize each other, but when Idomeneo realizes the horrible truth of his son’s fate, he rushes away from their reunion, leaving Idamante—who knows nothing of the promise to Nettuno—terribly confused. The surviving troops and their families rejoice over the return of their king (“Nettuno s’onori”–Let Neptune be honored). Act IIIdomeneo looks to Arbace for advice as to how he might spare his son’s life. They agree that another victim could be sacrificed if Idamante is in exile; to get him out of the country, he will be sent to escort Elettra back to Argos. Idomeneo meets with Ilia, who is comforted by his kind words to her. Ilia declares that since she has lost everything, she accepts Crete as her new home (“Se il padre perdei”–Though I have lost my father). Idomeneo begins to suspect that she is in love with Idamante, and it dawns on him that all three of them will be victims of the gods (“Fuor del mar”–Having escaped from the sea). It seems that only Elettra, who has heard that Idamante is to escort her home to Argos, is happy: she sees that she might yet win his heart, once she has gotten him away from her rival (“Idol mio”–My dearest). Before Idamante and Elettra can set sail for Argos, a storm breaks out and an enormous monster emerges from the sea, a sign of Nettuno’s fury (“Qual nuovo terrore!”–What new terror!). The people of Crete are terrified, and without divulging his secret vow, Idomeneo confesses that it is he who has caused the god’s displeasure (“Corriamo, fuggiamo”–Let us run, let us fly). Act IIIIlia hopes that the breezes will carry her message of love to Idamante (“Zeffiretti lusinghieri”–flattering breezes). When he arrives to say that he is going to fight the monster, she finally admits her love directly. Idomeneo and Elettra find them together, and Idomeneo (still unable to reveal his reasons) commands again that his son leave Crete. Idamante resolves to do his father’s bidding, and they each express their individual sorrows (“Andr. ![]() Don Giovanni ( Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart): Synopsis, Libretto, Highlights, MIDI, Noten, Sheet Music. Synopsis of The Magic Flute (German title: Die Zauberflöte) An Opera by W A Mozart. Mozart's classic is a brilliant combination of stark human tragedy and touching comedy, set. Idomeneo, re di Creta ossia Ilia e Idamante (Italian for Idomeneus, King of Crete, or, Ilia and Idamante; usually referred to simply as Idomeneo, K. 366) is an. Arbace reports that the people are demanding that the king deliver them from the monster, and he laments that Crete has become full of sadness (“Sventurata Sidon!”–Poor, unhappy Cydonia). The High Priest describes the destruction and death caused by the monster (“Volgi intorno lo sguardo”–Look around you) and demands that Idomeneo name the victim who must be sacrificed to appease the gods. The king confesses that the victim is his son, Idamante. The people are wracked with grief (“O voto tremendo”–Oh, dreadful vow). The king and his priests prepare for the forthcoming sacrifice (“Accogli, o re del mar”–Receive our offering, oh king of the sea) but are interrupted by news that Idamante has slain the monster. Idamante at last understands why his father has been cold to him: out of love, not hatred. He demands that the sacrifice proceed, as this is the price for peace in Crete. As Idomeneo is about to sacrifice his son, the voice of Jove is heard proclaiming that if Idomeneo will yield the throne to Idamante and Ilia, the gods will be satisfied. Everyone rejoices except Elettra, who is plunged into despair at the prospect of her beloved in the arms of her rival (“D’Oreste, d’Ajace”–Orestes and Ajax). Idomeneo agrees to give up the throne, and pronounces his blessing on the union of his son and the Trojan princess. The chorus celebrates the happy couple (“Scenda Amor, scenda Imeneo”–Descend love, descend god of marriage). My colleague Alex Ross reviewed the production in the magazine last week. I saw it, too, and—likely influenced by the cinematic references that Richard Eyre’s staging and the vocal casting brought to mind throughout—found in it a synesthetic splendor that revealed to me the depth of thought that Mozart’s glorious melodies contain. The note in the program indicating that the action of the opera (which was written in 1. Seville in the nineteen- thirties made me worry; updatings were new and provocative when Peter Sellars did them, thirty or more years ago, and I wondered whether the Spanish Civil War would be dragged in (it wasn’t). The bustling of supernumeraries on the elaborate round and rotating set while the overture sounded was another cause for concern; even more so was the slight busyness and overemphatic gesturing that marked the opening duet between Figaro (Ildar Abdrazakov) and Susanna (Marlis Petersen), the servant couple who see the happiness of their impending marriage marred by the designs of their master, Count Almaviva, on Susanna. But the action quickly fell into place as the production’s tone crystallized and unified. Before long, the nineteen- thirties setting made perfect sense: it rendered the social roles and codes of the upstairs- downstairs action immediately, viscerally clear. Just as there’s something essentially Mozartean about the contemporary ch. Count Almaviva is played by Peter Mattei, whose suave, rolling tones communicate a debonair yet imperious manner that would be apt for a Whit Stillman film. The Countess is sung by Amanda Majeski, whose large, overtone- rich voice captures the character’s grand and refined ardor. There’s even an undertone of incipient baritonal huskiness in the rounded forthrightness of Isabel Leonard’s adolescent Cherubino (a male role for a female singer). In a way, it was like watching an ideal movie of the opera, a sort of “Letter to Three Wives” with music in the place of images. Levine’s conducting sets tempi that allow the cast to luxuriate in Mozart’s astonishing outpouring of melody while coaxing from the singers the turn of dramatic interest in every musical phrase. He doesn’t let the orchestra get too loud, so the singers never seem to raise their voices except as the action requires; the singing has an unforced, intimate flow. Eyre’s staging contributes greatly to the effect: though he keeps the drama in motion and doesn’t stint on the slapstick or the broad gesture where it’s appropriate, he never lets the action conflict with the vocal delivery. Rather, the staging is a singers’ staging—he lets the performers stand (or sometimes sit) and deliver, letting the music to do the dramatic work. And what exquisite work it does! The libretto, by Lorenzo Da Ponte, based on the play by Beaumarchais, tells the story of a young servant couple whose master, Count Almaviva, has shown a glimmer of enlightenment by voluntarily repudiating the droit du seigneur, the right of the feudal lord to have sexual relations with the women in his service. But Almaviva lusts mightily after Susanna, and, though he has apparently renounced force, he seeks to win her favors by persuasion and seduction—that is, by an abuse of power via insinuation. Meanwhile, his wife, Countess Rosina, loves him, and is deeply pained by his pursuit of Susanna. There are many other complications and characters, of course—situations and types worthy of screwball comedy, complete with disguises and surprises. But the biggest surprise to emerge from the Met performance is something that perhaps should have been obvious from a virtual lifetime of listening to recordings of “Figaro”: despite the title, the emotional core of the drama is the relationship of the two aristocrats. The Count’s grand soliloquy at the beginning of Act III, in which he expresses his suspicion (aroused through tricks meant to dissuade him from pursuing Susanna) that his wife is unfaithful, is nearly Shakespearean in its intensity as well as its complexity. And Susanna’s exquisite, postmarital but pre- consummation aria, “Deh, vieni, non tardar” rings like an extended musical build to orgasm. Petersen brought to it a soft, swelling range of sighs and purrs; it’s the most erotic scene I’ve experienced in opera, reminiscent of Jean Simmons’s performance of “If I Were a Bell” in Mankiewicz’s “Guys and Dolls.”By contrast, Figaro gets two of the greatest arias in the history of opera—the bluff, swaggering “Se vuol ballare” and “Non pi. But when the dramatic side of the comedy heats up, in the third and fourth acts, his big solo aria, “Aprite un po’ quegl’occhi,” a man’s complaint about women’s inconstancy, comes off as the complaint of a Johnny One Note (he even often literally repeats the same high note with an unpolished monotony)—the relatively simple grievance of a relatively simple man, an ordinary man whom Mozart presents with love and tenderness, but whose cunning falls just short of heroism. It’s actually the Countess, with a simple stroke of moral nobility, who turns, with the suddenness of revelation, into the opera’s heroine. Mozart, though, is a true democrat: Figaro may not have the same intricate music, maybe not even the fine words, but his emotions, his desires, and his love have no less value or importance than those of his suave, sophisticated master. The marriage of Figaro and Susanna has the same moral and aesthetic merit as that of the Count and the Countess. That’s the story of the opera and of the current of world history that thrusts it, as timely as ever, into the twenty- first century. P. S.: Da Ponte’s astonishing life story would make for a great costume film. He was born to a Jewish family in Venice in 1. Catholic priest and a writer, and got to Vienna thanks to a favor from Mozart’s rival Salieri. After collaborating with Mozart, he moved to London, then made his way to the United States, in 1. He taught literature at Columbia University and founded an opera company in New York. I’d start and end it in New York, and tell it in flashbacks.
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