I don't know if I should have my ears checked or my eyes

Two critics who've been profoundly charmed by Anna Netrebko's Met Elvira are saying the exact opposite thing. An unexpected twist to this sad critics roundtable.

In this corner, Canada's the Globe and Mail critic Paula Citron declares:

Netrebko does not have the most beautiful voice in the world. In fact, her high tessitura is just this side of thin. Her brilliance is in what she does with her instrument. First of all, Netrebko has formidable technique. Perfect placement of pitch is accompanied by exact coloratura ornamentation. She is also fearless in going for her money notes in singing that is totally without artifice.

And by now we've been thoroughly briefed on what Anthony T. said yesterday:

With the smoky colorings and throbbing richness of her sumptuous voice, Ms. Netrebko was an unusually vulnerable Elvira. Bel Canto purists may find fault with her sometimes imprecise execution of coloratura runs and roulades. But I admired her way of treating florid passagework as organic extensions of an arching vocal line, not as a series of fast notes to be nailed with cool accuracy.

In a recent interview Ms. Netrebko criticized her own tendency to let her pitch turn sharp. She is being hard on herself. She sings with such a focused vibrato that even a slight wavering of pitch stands out more than it would with a soprano whose thick vibrato masks imperfections. At the climax of soaring melodic phrases Ms. Netrebko easily filled the house with shimmering sound. A couple of top notes might have been shaky, but what mattered more was the courageous intensity of her singing.

I'm dumbfounded. These critics are falling all over themselves to starf*ck NetGelbko Inc., but they're pouncing from entirely opposite directions. One thing they agree on is Anna's courage and fearlessness. In the end, it's perhaps the only thing I'd also agree with.

Spin City

The New York Times review of the I Puritani by premier critic and starfucker Anthony Tommasini is full of crap. First, he calls me a purist; thinks fast notes are stupid anyway: "Bel Canto purists may find fault with (Anna Netrebko's) sometimes imprecise execution of coloratura runs and roulades. But I admired her way of treating florid passagework as organic extensions of an arching vocal line, not as a series of fast notes to be nailed with cool accuracy." He lowers the bar without apology: "It is best for Bellini buffs to forget for now that when this production was new, the four leads were Joan Sutherland, Luciano Pavarotti, Sherrill Milnes and James Morris. Today we have Ms. Netrebko to be thankful for." He makes up an excuse even the diva won't touch: "In a recent interview Ms. Netrebko criticized her own tendency to let her pitch turn sharp. She is being hard on herself. She sings with such a focused vibrato that even a slight wavering of pitch stands out more than it would with a soprano whose thick vibrato masks imperfections." Best of all, he admires courage over all other musical traits: "A couple of top notes might have been shaky, but what mattered more was the courageous intensity of her singing." Upon this Met press release, Anna Netrebko's bel canto career takes a decisive push forward. I'm feeling nauseous.

Sub-provincial evening

Bellini I PURITANI, Met 27.XII.2006; c. Summers; Netrebko, Kunde, Vassallo, Relyea.

For Elvira’s mad scene, Anna Netrebko got one of the most passionate ovations I’ve witnessed at the Met in many years. It wasn’t deserved. Her coloratura is smudged, her top notes are suspect, her middle register is tedious (sounding monoish in a bright stereo world), her stage deportment labored (ain’t even campy). She does give a beautiful turn every now and then, a surprising jeweled phrase, a melting note here and there, but then so can dozens of other sopranos, and with much more limited couture. Bel canto is the comfort food of opera, easy on the ears, open, honest, quiet, radiant. Netrebko, with a jigsaw puzzle instrument glued together with an unattractive ad hoc style, does not have the natural talent for it. Thus the evening became an exhausting affair, and I left the house wondering what all the glossy press and hysterical ovations are about. If it’s a work in progress, then what a luxury to do your progressing at the Met. In other words, where the f*ck is the beef, and can I have my money back. There is no excuse for this one. (And let’s not even get into a dissection of the roadkill named Kunde, or the lifeless conducting of Summers.)