Rysanek Sings Her Swan Song

Opera devotees are a sentimental lot. They really savor a sensational debut. But there’s one thing they adore even more: a sensational farewell.

They got what they adore Tuesday night at the Met. Leonie Rysanek, a beloved bigger-than-life diva in residence since 1959, was singing her operatic swan song in America.

The vehicle was a splendidly somber new production of Tchaikovsky’s “Pikovaya Dama,” a.k.a. “The Queen of Spades,” at the end of its first run. The soprano from Austria, now 69, was cast as the spooky old Countess. Rysanek will add a few performances of Klytamnestra in Richard Strauss’ “Elektra” in faraway Salzburg this summer. After that, all, as they say, will be silence.

The curtain fell on “Pikovaya Dama” at midnight. Then the pandemonium began.

Rysanek took her initial bows together with the rest of the cast and the stellar conductor, Valery Gergiev. Everyone was warmly received by the standing-room-only crowd. But this, without question, was the lady’s night.

For an eternity clocked at 23 minutes, she came before the curtain to wave, stagger, blow kisses, clutch her heart, wipe away tears, embrace her colleagues, bring her husband onstage and make a little speech.

“Thank you for 37 heavenly years,” she gushed. “I love you. Bless you. Goodbye.”

The cheering audience waved back. Everyone stood. Fans in the upper reaches of the house tore up their programs and showered the stage with paper. Bouquets flew in from every direction. So did streamers. An eager young man in the grand tier held up a big banner bearing a simple message: “Brava Rysanek.” The audience chanted the singer’s name in unison. It all seemed almost spontaneous.

Rysanek left the Met in amazingly good form. The old Countess is an acting challenge more than a vocal tour de force, and the tessitura is low. Still, Rysanek’s tone remained fresh, even lustrous, and, wherever possible, she mustered poignant lyricism to counterbalance the macabre nuances.

Elijah Moshinsky, the director, had obviously created this production as an ode to the retiring star, enlarging the mime episodes and even glamorizing the Countess’ character for a valedictory flashback exit. As always, Rysanek made the most of the opportunities at hand, and then some. Discipline and restraint never were hallmarks of her art, but her self-indulgence was always reinforced--one might say justified--by her generosity of spirit.

An ungallant, stubbornly unsentimental critic might recall Rysanek’s imperfections--her tendency to swoon and swoop, slide and scoop, for instance, when ecstasy bordered on hysteria. Even so, one had to admire her radiant top notes, her extraordinary stamina and her expressive warmth.

For one longtime observer, she remains incomparable in four great roles: Senta in Wagner’s “Fliegende Hollander,” Verdi’s Lady Macbeth, the Kaiserin in Strauss’ “Frau ohne Schatten” and the protagonist of the same composer’s “Aegyptische Helena” (which she sang in Munich, but never in the United States).

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The Metropolitan Opera used to be known as a singers’ house, a house in which opera was better heard than seen. In “Pikovaya Dama,” music and drama are equally well-served. It is startling.

Moshinsky may be faulted for allowing the return of a not-so-old Countess to diminish the climactic plight of the tortured, demented hero, Ghermann. Even so, the British director focuses the confrontations of the Pushkin plot brilliantly, striking a picturesque balance between realism and stylization, yet avoiding easy cliches at every spectral turn.

Mark Thompson’s sparse, shadowy decors reflect the ominous moods deftly and define the period neatly. The raked unit set, not incidentally, enhances acoustical impact by constantly forcing the action downstage.

At the opening performances in October, the central roles were entrusted to Ben Heppner and Karita Mattila, both much praised. They were succeeded on this occasion by Gegam Grigorian and Maria Guleghina. The Armenian tenor, who made his unheralded U.S. debut six years ago with the Yerevan Opera at the Wiltern in Los Angeles, sang with enough ringing fervor and stylistic savoir-faire to compensate for a rather phlegmatic temperament. The Ukrainian soprano, who looks and sounds much like the young Galina Vishnevskaya, capitalized on theatrical thunder as well as vocal lightning; if only she were this effective in the Italian repertory.

The secondary roles were luxuriously cast. Dmitri Hvorostovsky sang Yeletsky’s noble aria in one long glorious breath, and even did it slowly. Birgitta Svenden brought a luscious mezzo-soprano and histrionic sympathy to the duties of Paulina. Nikolai Putilin introduced a dark and lusty, wide-ranging baritone as Tomsky.

In the marvelous Met pit, Gergiev let the Tchaikovsky rhetoric seethe, soar and surge with heroic intensity. The brave singers kept up with him most of the time.