It is official: Britten is in now. It is not as if the Master of Snape was ever ‘out,’ but Aix’s adaptation of “Billy Budd” — along with Deborah Warner’s “Peter Grimes” from a couple of years ago — reiterates the timeliness of his work and theater. Watching Britten today, it feels like his works have just been waiting for us truly to appreciate how important they are. Unlike other masterpieces, which may seem to us to have been better understood, perhaps even fully understood, in the past, Britten today feels fresher — so fresh that is it almost not even opera.

Spurred by intense excitement about Aix’s new production of “Billy Budd,” I must also write all my reservations. It is not that I did not enjoy it — I left the theater with a sense of having had an artistic encounter that is not common in my life as a critic — but what I saw and heard was not necessarily Britten. In some aspects, it was not Britten at all. All these driving forces should be accounted for.

Britten is in — sure. But Britten is out, too. This Aix production, under the stage direction of Ted Huffman, decides to embrace the ‘minimalist’ reinvention of operas, opting to replace the massive and rich orchestration of the score (according to the two-act version of the opera from 1964) with an intimate arrangement for no more than three keyboards and percussion. The composer responsible for the task, Oliver Leith, took a great risk, but most of the vocal lines are fully preserved. What they took away from the orchestra, they put into the opera title. I wrote that I saw “Billy Budd,” but that is not precise. I actually saw “The Story of Billy Budd, Sailor” — a bit closer to Melville’s
original title, “Billy Budd, Sailor (An Inside Narrative).”

The inspiration for such a dramaturgical intervention and orchestral reduction to the score is, first and foremost, Peter Brook and his “La Tragédie de Carmen” where Bizet’s music is preserved primarily for the purpose of theater. Brook’s project has found more than a few belated followers because of the financial possibilities promised: to stage an opera without all the many members of the orchestra in times when public funding for opera houses is already thin is an appealing idea for opera programmers, both those with and without scruples. While, to me, the orchestra is essential, it is undeniable that many works, under new minimalist guidelines, manage to raise some core questions about what opera is and what opera can do. If we can tentatively agree that opera demands operatic singing (normally unamplified, but not necessarily), these ‘minimalist opera productions,’ for lack of a better term, often promote a more intimate relationship with the operatic voice. The dramatic reduction of the orchestra makes voices appear louder and allows the singers to compose their characters with many more possibilities within dynamics and timbre, especially in smaller theaters. Big voices are great, and if Lise Davidsen were to sing the Queen of the Night tomorrow in Narnia Opera House, I would be there in a minute. However, it is also true that, especially with a certain kind of dramaturgically compelling cast, the smaller orchestral setting offers them space to showcase their dramatic range more comfortably. It even makes non-opera singers sing operatically. One of the most compelling things done in Parisian theaters were “La Traviata” and “Mélisande” by Judith Chemla at the Bouffes du Nord. She is no opera singer, but in her eerie operatic singing, she actually achieves something that reminds us of Maria Ewing, Teresa Stratas, and Ljuba Welitsch.

Digressions aside, the reductions by Leith are compelling, but they are in no way close to the work of Brook or Chemla. In Bizet, the orchestral richness is often represented by his sylphic melodies, hence the many fantasias and adaptations of “Carmen.” In Debussy, the orchestral texture is so rich that, in Chelma’s adapation, the solution was to construct a completely different sound, preserving just the idea of the orchestral textures. In “Billy Budd,” however, Britten’s orchestral soundscape emulates the nautical breezes. The lyrical play happens through a mellifluous interaction between the voices and the many orchestral instruments. Leith makes everything bland — there are allusions to the sea sounds, but they are significantly more subtle. His choice to deploy electronic keyboards, especially with an organ-like sonority, alludes more to another Britten — the one of Christian sounds and smooth choral songs — and less to the Britten of opera. Also, in preserving some of the melodic lines that originally belonged to the clarinet or strings, the organ or piano makes them sound more tame and ordinary than they are in Britten.

Composer Francesco Filidei once emphasized how he came to admire Britten and Puccini more and more precisely for their ability to write both transgressively and conservatively. It is through a full understanding of operatic rules that Britten deconstructs the operatic institution. Leith somewhat acknowledges this in the opera’s program: ‘[Britten’s music] is something very distinguished, and yet very experimental.’ The fact is that a great part of Britten’s experimental soundscape, in Leith’s version, has vanished. It is still experimental, even in the strict sense of the word, since this production offers an experiment in adaptation, but it is an experiment in a different sense: an experiment in theater and voice. The orchestra, at times, was almost a soundtrack. And the singing, for those who are less magnetized by Britten than I am, might come across as an extended recitative. And here comes the production’s ace in the hole. Within the small walls of the cozy Théâtre du Jeu de Paume, most voices resonate well: one that once sounded merely fine could suddenly feel like a competitor of Birgit Nilsson and Jess Thomas in vocal size. That means the most magnetizing thing in opera — the uncanny experience of hearing the human voice overwhelm our ears — is expanded by cubic scale.

There is an intense relationship among auditory capacity, the pleasure of hearing the uncanny operatic voice, and joy. We are joyful when listening to opera, even when things are extremely tragic, because we can hear the voices. That joy, according to some, is not so unlike sexual pleasure. In fact, this was an argument made by many popular academics in the 1980s and 1990s: especially Terry Castle and the so essential Wayne Koestenbaum. In the heyday of opera, even before these critics pointed it out, this was the case. José de Alencar — Brazil’s major Romantic writer — called himself a sybarite because of his luxurious love for Verdi’s and Donizetti’s operas.

What this almost “Billy Budd” does is actively embrace all the sensuality and eroticism that is often subdued in Britten. Gone are the days when people would downplay Britten and Pears’ relationship — when I was in the conservatory, even a gay voice teacher would refer to them as friends. Soon, those who circumvent issues of sexuality for the sake of maintaining a closet that, in the case of Britten’s work, actually never fully existed, will be gone, too.

Huffman does not make homosexuality the center of the opera, but he is not afraid of representing it as one of the main motivations behind both the justice and injustice within the opera. He does not deny that Claggart’s affections are not so different from those of Captain Vere or the Novice: what can be virtuous (or not) is how each handles that desire.

Also essential to Huffman’s conception is the fact that his cast is mostly composed of a group of singers who are young, talented, and the closest thing you can get to a ‘BelAmi’ type in opera casting, in both the positive and negative sense, given the lack of racial diversity. For decades, “Billy Budd’s” casts are filled with male handsomeness — a theatrical case of ‘I am sexy and I know it.’ A few years ago, Nathan Gunn commented that he might have sung in every production of the opera and that he was, always, bare-chested (thankfully). Huffman does not avoid male sensuality on the stage. Although there is never complete nudity in this production, the cast changes clothes at the back of the stage, where even those in the second balcony corner seats could see them. What I find more important is how these images of eroticism are combined with an embrace of the lyrical aspect of “Billy Budd.” All those charming passages in which we hear the sailors chanting are still as beautiful as they were in the fully orchestrated version of the opera. The voices sound even more virile and eloquent because of the minimalist accompaniment — an effect similar to that of sunset’s angular light, in which even ‘the smallest ant appears to be a Polyphemus.’

Another central aspect is the genius way that Huffman abolished the orchestral pit. As if on a sailing ship where everyone has dual responsibilities, most of the cast plays an instrument and sings — often more than one role. They are continuously moving within the space, on a stage where we are all intimately connected with the drama but also luxuriously attached to the backstage. The poverty of the set pieces, the minimalist orchestra, and that ambiance made things even more subtle, even more dramatic, and, most importantly, made the production ‘competent’ — a main ambition of theater according to Peter Brook’s “The Empty Space.”

I saw this production in just one sitting — there were no intervals or breaks. Usually, that is a problem for me. I think opera needs its intervals to work — I am always upset when they chop off the breaks in “Carmen” and “La Bohème” for the sake of time. But, in this case, the thrill of the plot made it impossible to stop the scenic flow for even a single minute. The energy was enough to keep me plugged in for two hours. They said it was one hour and 40 minutes, but it is more like two and it feels like no more than 45 minutes.

One of the issues is, of course, the transparency of the language. More often than not in opera, we cannot understand the text that is sung — partially because opera singers prefer to focus on phrasing rather than comprehensibility, especially in 19th century repertoire, or because their language skills are simply not that great. Who can actively sing in German, French, Italian, Russian, and sometimes Hungarian without having an accent or, perhaps, parroting the text a bit? But in Britten, the English was meant to be understood. He actively reduces much of the vocal range in the score for the sake of clarity (though one might argue that Billy is too high of a role for a baritone). For native English speakers, that can be either a blessing or a curse.

On the one hand, it means that, for the first time, they can watch an opera without frenetically moving their eyes toward the subtitles — after all, Britten’s musicalization of the verses of E.M. Forster (yes, the Forster of “Maurice” and “A Room with a View”) and Eric Crozier is thousands of miles away from the English translations we hear at the English National Opera or in the holiday version of “The Magic Flute” at the Met. On the other hand, the newly acquired transparency of language makes the drama more accessible, causing the opera to sound a bit like a long recitative. It is not a recitative — not entirely, at least. In some ways, it has more in common with Monteverdian and Cavallian opera than with Mozart’s recitatives in “Don Giovanni” and “Le Nozze di Figaro.” But I can see how the ability to follow the drama directly, for the first time, might overwhelm those who always understood opera as a place where language is, intentionally, foggy. I know more than a few people who even avoid putting their Met subtitles in English, simply to preserve that opaqueness in the drama. Watching opera for the plot is a completely new experience. I personally love it — but, to be fair, I was not born speaking English at all.

The mostly youthful, anglophone, and spirited cast proved itself with no weak links — a rare thing to say. Although some of the minor roles were sung by minor voices, their artistic intention was evident. Also, if one overcomes the issue of linguistic transparency, it becomes clear how much Britten is actively toying with the sonic aspects of language in a way that allows great singers to show their talents. Another great quality of the cast was the freshness of the voices, associated with an exquisite sense of tuning. Often, when dealing with more novice casts, the voices present some insecurities or sonic tensions. That was not the case here. They all sounded young, but none sounded unlyrical, unmanly, or insecure.

At first, I was mostly struck by the vocal and scenic quality of Ian Rucker as Billy Budd. Sporting an inked shoulder, he burst onto the stage as a lovable giant. His voice was secure, idiomatic, and perfectly capable of sustaining the continuous play between song and speech in the score. But what inspired me most was how a singer with a high and yet very baritonal voice managed to achieve that rare quality of ingenuity and honesty so essential to the role. To do so, Rucker walked the stage like a tormented golden retriever — perfectly capable of smiling, but still not fully in control of his body or instincts. The two physical outbursts on stage (against Squeak and later Claggart) seemed closely linked to his muteness — it is the absence of voice (or, perhaps, of language) that drives him to violence. When singing, he possessed that enviable beauty of tone, the handsomeness that is diegetically addressed by Claggart in his private confessions. Also, even with a reduced orchestra, it is impressive to hear a baritone who can sing such a high part while preserving such beauty of tone — especially considering his recent participation in this year’s Neue Stimmen, singing more bread-and-butter Italian repertoire, though perhaps with microphones that were less generous than my ears of the other night.

Perhaps the most psychologically challenging role in the opera is that of Captain Edward Fairfax Vere. Clearly composed with Peter Pears’ vocal qualities in mind — his idiosyncratic timbre and sorrowful upper range, especially just above the passaggio — Vere is one of those characters who, after Pears’ death, was often taken over by more gorgeously voiced tenors. It is striking to think that one of the biggest advocates for Pears’ legacy today is Ian Bostridge — a singer also with an idiosyncratic voice, though a pure, silvery (and nearly vibrato-less) one. Christopher Sokolowski embraces the task of singing both the despicable character of Squeak and the honorable Captain Vere in a manner closer to Pears. By all measures, Sokolowski is a more versatile singer than Pears. He already has performances of Lohengrin, Tito, and the tenor part in “Das Lied von der Erde” under his belt. Although Pears’ mark in music history is immense — Britten would not be Britten if Pears were not Pears — even his greatest admirers might confess that the English tenor was not as compelling outside his partner’s works. His Schubert recordings, for example, are, at best, sufferable, even though they exude personality. Sokolowski has a big voice and an impressively young appearance — he was born in 1991! However, I would not say his ‘heldentenor’ voice is necessarily the most honeyed on the market. It is, for lack of a better word, a complex voice. Like Pears, his tone is rounded and carries, over the passaggio, a tragic atmosphere: almost a deconstruction of heroism. Tenors like Vickers, Schager, or Thomas compel listeners through sheer vocal strength against the fateful end of 99 percent of all operas. Others can present a certain sense of virility and ‘pointiness’ that is truly heroic, especially the ‘Italian’ ones, from Corelli and Di Stefano to even Martin Muehle and Jonathan Tetelman. Sokolowski, on the other hand, really does his own thing. He always sounds like a victimized man — either by himself or by circumstance. His opaque and even dispersed sound makes him a man so full of inner turmoil, so terribly tormented, that his Vere seemed to be the most ‘Brittenian’ thing possible. Vere does not have moments to sing diegetic songs like the other characters, and yet, sometimes, he seemed to sing the most. What a prologue and what an epilogue! I do not know how his voice would sound in a big hall with a big orchestra, and I do not know what his Wagnerian roles are like live — only through recordings. But just imagine how precious it is to have a singer who compels us through lyrical artistry not by a blatant beauty of tone, but by his ability to convey vocal strength and projection while still allowing us to see, with painful clarity, the frustration and guilt of a man who, knowing what was right and necessary, still chose the worst path.

The oldest man on stage — at least in appearance — was the great Joshua Bloom. Playing two roles deeply imbued with vocalized homoeroticism — John Claggart and Dansker — Bloom actually captured my attention through the sly way he managed to sing the villain. Taking advantage of the good acoustics of the house, he eagerly embraced subtle decrescendos in his voice when he meant to be disingenuous in a way that made me melt. We all knew that Britten’s villain is almost cartoonish, with a Scarpia-like quality. But the way Bloom rendered that deceitfulness was so elegant, so cinematic, so masterful. It was almost as if we, the audience, were the only ones who truly understood how terrible he is.

Hugo Brady was a charming Novice, tormented but also responsible for one of the most beautiful scenic moments of the opera. In the middle of the first act, Huffman made the love affair between him and Budd explicit, having the two kiss on stage. Operatic kisses are the easiest thing to make look bad. In the few times I have witnessed a gay kiss on stage, more often than not, I have been filled with vicarious embarrassment. Either they are performed as gimmicks, or they are simply a showy way for two not-so-great actors to seem supportive of ‘the cause.’ That problem extends to theater in general — and to most straight kisses in opera, too. Brady and, of course, Rucker actually made it work. It was, in fact, beautiful. Although not a vocal moment, I believe the beauty of Brady’s kiss is fully linked to the beauty of his character’s vocal composition: a character who could be pure and moral, and who mesmerizes us with the possibilities of what he could have been, but who later disappoints us with his frailty. His attempt to betray Budd had, in his voice, that kind of shame — heard in the withheld vibrato, the hesitancy in the attacks — that was everything we needed.

The rest of the cast, Noam Heinz and Thomas Chenhall, were as charming as they could be, especially when singing the parts usually performed by the chorus. Part of the success of “Billy Budd” lies in how a massively male cast can be transformed into the most docile sounds when necessary. Many choral moments linger in the memory as if they were the only way such verses could be uttered: ‘Blow him away’ and ‘Over the water,’ to name a couple. The reduction of the orchestra and chorus could have weakened this inner power of the score — but it did not, partly because of Leith’s competent musical direction, but mostly because this ‘chorus’ embraced the cooperative work of constructing vocal fluidity.

The expansiveness of my review reveals how deeply moved I was by this performance of “The Story of Billy Budd, Sailor.” The reasons vary. It might be because of my great enthusiasm for Britten’s music, even when distorted. Or it could be because I truly enjoy opera when the theatrical side of things works smoothly. But I think it is evident that the theater succeeded only because the voices were so imperatively present. Not only the voices, but the full bodies of the singers.

Although a definitive “Billy Budd” with a great orchestra in the pit still remains to be made — if the Boston Symphony Orchestra is ever interested in programming it, I would be more than happy to help — what I think this staging truly managed to do, for me and for most of the audience, was to spoil every future “Billy Budd” to come. It makes you want the opera to be more and more performed because, as I said at the beginning, it feels like the time of Britten is come.