(Photo: Kathy Wittman)

Once every other year, Boston becomes THE city to be in if you are a hardcore early music addict. While many festivals claim to focus on early music, they often stick to the usual crowd-pleasers—Bach, one of the Scarlatti’s, Vivaldi, etc. The Boston Early Music Festival (BEMF) offers something stronger. Under the leadership of Paul O’Dette and Stephen Stubbs, the festival aims to reveal the unknown. Few attendees come to BEMF with much prior knowledge of the works being performed: it is a museum of musical novelties. Discover an opera about a dragon who rhymes “whore” with “before,” or be impressed by Handel’s first opera, “Almira.”

Most of the time, this eccentricity in repertoire selection pays off. So far, the festival’s vocal recitals have been exhilarating, its choral music uplifting, and its lute performances quietly enchanting. But opera is a different beast. This year’s BEMF capstone project is Reinhard Keiser’s “Octavia,” an opera composed in response to Handel’s early successes in Hamburg and, at the time, considered proof of Keiser’s musical stature (comparable, at the time, not only to Handel but also to Telemann). Centuries have passed, and now Keiser is little more than an interesting entry in the Grove Music Dictionary. It falls to festivals like BEMF to resurrect his once-celebrated voice.

That said—is it worth buying a ticket? That’s hard to say. Keiser’s music is certainly not on Handel’s level—at least not in “Octavia.” It is clear that Handel is more elegant in his harmonies and orchestrations. Much of the opera’s pleasure came not from the stage but from the pit, with extraordinary oboe solos performed by Debra Nagy. Still, the opera lacks sparkle—that dazzling, flamboyant quality that makes 18th-century opera so delightful. The coloratura passages are rarely impressive, with few exceptions. The arias and recitatives, mostly in German with a few in Italian, are a bit dull. Most importantly, the libretto—despite its potential to recount one of antiquity’s most dramatic stories (the turbulent, unfaithful marriage of Nero and Octavia)—falls flat with a happy ending that even Enlightenment audiences might have found excessive.

Yet perhaps the opera’s biggest problem lay in its direction. Gilbert Blin, a long-time BEMF collaborator, has a distinct staging style: “traditional” sets and a mimed reenactment of 18th-century theatrical practices. Generally, this works well—especially when presenting obscure repertoire. One can appreciate a staging where things simply represent what they are, without over-interpretation. However, given the political edginess of “Octavia’s” plot and its slow musical pacing, a more provocative approach would have been more appropriate—something that could push the political dimensions of the opera to their limits. While in past years Blin’s direction ranged from solid to outstanding, this time it felt merely dull. Traditional sets look good in photos, but opera demands movement and sound.

Musically, the production was uneven. The orchestra—unconducted but not misled—was under the capable guidance of concertmaster Robert Mealy. Keiser was a refined orchestrator who favored pastel harmonies, like the Arcadian paintings that inspired the set design.

The singing, however, made the absence of a conductor felt. While none of the singers lacked musicality, many seemed unaware that, even when performing with a modest early music ensemble, they needed to project more to reach the audience.

Perhaps the most notable offender was bass-baritone Douglas Ray Williams. Williams seems to have good musical instincts but struggles to align them with his vocal technique. Singing more softly than the orchestra, he often resorted to an airy tone when attempting pianissimo passages. His fortes, though louder, felt strained and occasionally belted. To his credit, he improved significantly in the latter half of the opera (which included part of the second act and the entirety of the third), and his performance in the ghost scene—where Nero is haunted by Octavia’s apparition—was particularly compelling. Still, he remains a singer of great potential performing below the level of his peers.

Emőke Baráth is one of those sopranos who knows exactly when to shine. Throughout the first act, she portrayed a shy and reserved Octavia, only to reveal a poised woman in crisis during her major scenes in the second act, when the character contemplates death. While most of the arias were in German, some were in Italian (as was common in Hamburg at the time). Baráth was perhaps the only singer who fully understood the purpose behind this linguistic blend. Her rendition of “Torna mio sposo” conveyed a level of emotion and drama that somehow feels less potent in German. If Keiser’s music tends toward velvety decorum, Baráth was the one who embodied it best.

Amanda Forsythe sang the cunning Armenian monarch Ormœna. Dramatically, the role gave her limited opportunities to explore her character’s internal conflict, so she opted for a lighter, more comic interpretation. Her arias were sung with a pleasing and appropriate tone.

Sherezade Panthaki (Clelia) and Hannah De Priest (Livia) were the only two singers whose voices easily carried over the orchestra. Though cast primarily for comic relief—Blin directed them as “character actors”—their vocal performances stood out. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer singers whose voices don’t require straining to hear. Both women possess instruments that resonate clearly in the hall, with the limpid timbre so cherished in Baroque music today. Panthaki’s tone is especially beautiful—flexible and capable of expressing tragedy, sensuality, or sacredness. It was unfortunate she was relegated solely to comedy. De Priest demonstrated similar talents and delivered some expressive nuance, notably a lovely decrescendo in a second-act trio.

The always-reliable Aaron Sheehan seemed underutilized in the role of Piso. A tenor who excels in chamber music—his recitals with Paul O’Dette are gems—Sheehan’s operatic qualities are sometimes overshadowed by roles demanding more theatrical presence. Still, his Piso was charming, especially in the recitatives.

Christian Immler portrayed Seneca with a gravity that Nero sorely lacked.

After the performance, my partner and I debated whether Paul O’Dette had been too pedantic in selecting such an obscure work as BEMF’s central opera. After much discussion, we agreed that this was not the issue. Indeed, “Octavia” falls short of other operas from the same period now regularly performed—perhaps due to the staging or the music itself not aging well. But, the Boston audience places its trust in O’Dette because of his consistently excellent curatorial instincts. More often than not, an unknown opera at BEMF pays off. Sadly, this time, it did not quite do so.