People shove their way through the doors of the Athenaeum Theater, removing scarves and stamping the snow from their feet. The lobby, drab and badly in need of painting, is filled with opera lovers in a mix of clothing styles, ranging from fur coats to pantsuits, from lettermen’s jackets to tuxes to an occasional tweed sport coat. No one seems eager to leave the lobby and go inside, but many turn to watch Alan Stone, artistic director of the Chicago Opera Theater, wend his way through the crowd, a cane on one arm and Ardis Krainik of the Lyric Opera on the other. People make way for them, others stop in their conversations to stare, smiles forming: the symbolism is perfect. Krainik for many is the embodiment of Chicago’s grand opera tradition and on this night she is here to support Chicago’s other opera, not so grand perhaps, but equally important to anyone who loves opera as a living, dynamic art form. They pass through the theater doors and people return to their conversations. Soon the overhead lights blink once and then again, and the crowd squeezes through the doors into the theater.
Alan Stone is the Chicago Opera Theater, not only its founder and artistic director but an active participant in every show, with the final say about what will and will not be produced. “All the operas I choose. I am the first and last word on repertoire and that will stay that way as long as I’m able. I built the audience. I know what they want.”
If you visit Alan Stone in his office, you can’t help but be struck by how it reflects the traditions from which he’s sprung. The walls are covered with black and white photographs; some show a young Stone in costume for the many roles he sang in the 50s; some show him schmoozing with celebrities and benefactors; even more show other singers who have been involved in his artistic life in one way or another. But as you sit across the desk from him, listening to him speak of this world with the delight of a little boy, you can easily miss the most important photo of all, because it’s behind you, in a spot where Stone can, at any moment of the day, simply look up and remember. When he speaks of the photograph (and he invariably will), his voice verges on veneration. “That,” he says, “is Lola d’Ancona, my mentor.” The reason COT has begun its season with Orfeo and Euridice starts with this picture.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
A tall black figure in glimmering silver robes rushes onto the stage, stares wildly at the figure on the bier, then turns away in anguish and back again. The line of robed figures files by the bier, draping the body with large stylized necklaces. Some approach Orfeo with consoling touches, but he shrugs them off, rushes across the stage, clutching at his throat, eyes wide in the madness of grief. He sings in broken phrases of his loss, turning to the audience as if the answers are waiting beyond the stage lights. Of course no answers come back. The voice rises in pain and anger. The robed figures hang their heads; some turn away, unable to look on the defeated Orfeo.
In the midst of Orfeo’s grief a short boyish figure approaches and reveals that he is Amore, the god of love, who has come to offer Orfeo a way to regain his lost Euridice. At first Orfeo is angered by the interruption, but he listens as Amore, his voice light and almost playful, tells him what he can do. Amore says that he must tame the furies in the cave of Tartarus, and when he leads his beloved back to life, he must never look back or he’ll lose her forever. The figures on the stage begin to weave a pattern, and when they are done the body of Euridice is no longer on the bier and Orfeo is staring at the writhing bodies of the furies. Amore approaches, hands Orfeo the harp, and steps back; a smile takes form on his face, as though he is pleased by the splendid sport he is having with this naive mortal.
Larsen’s involvement with this opera began in Saint Louis. He says that he and Alan Stone saw the Saint Louis production at different times, “and that’s where the idea began to get kicked around.” They started to look for librettos, but at this point the production was just a possibility. “There are lots of operas we decide to do that we don’t end up doing for one reason or another. Maybe the right singers aren’t available or we can’t find a good English translation or for whatever reason it just doesn’t work out. But the final impetus to do this opera, although Alan always wanted to do it, was when the Nevelson sets were made available to us. Who could resist?”
