(Photo credit: SF/Marco Borrelli)

The ending of “Capriccio” has often been praised; less has been said out loud about how never ending the rest of the opera is. Performed in a concert version, with little to no theatrical movement, it lasts for almost an eternity.

Perhaps I am being too harsh. Although “Capriccio” is far from a magnum opus, it is pretty clever—sometimes even too clever. A debate about music and lyrics, which progresses in dialectic fashion, is intercalated with a love affair between a composer and a poet— basically stressing an erotic dynamic between text and music, a dichotomic love affair between the effable and ineffable.

Moreover, the opera embraces much of the uncanniness of its medium—the insanity of having the text shouted in the incomprehensible language of operatic singing and the resulting syncopated relationship between the musical and textual meaning.

In spite of the interest of these maneuvers, the opera often sounds a bit self-indulgent compared to Strauss’s earlier works, and overly erudite (in all its references to other operas), without a clear philosophical pay-off. I have a better time reading Wagner’s “Opera and Drama” or Nietzsche’s “Birth of Tragedy” than listening to most of “Capriccio.” Judge me.

The lack of scenic staging was also tough. Although there was some competent work in the lighting—especially in the final scene—, it became evident that much of the comedy of “Capriccio” is lost without a dramaturgical element. According to Deutsch Welle, concert-version operas will be a norm for Salzburg—foreseeing an un-scenic season in 2027, due to major architectural renovations. If that is the case, I hope subsequent titles will be more concert-friendly than “Capriccio.”

The opera’s major debate may be “prima la musica—dopo le parole” or vice-versa, but the truth is, when the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra (VPO) plays, it is often: “prima la orchestra—dopo la voce.” As an opera-queen, it is not hard to know how I feel about it. Few orchestras have played more Strauss than VPO—perhaps Dresden’s?—, and they know what they are doing. The sextet was impeccable, and the orchestral texture in many moments—especially in Flamand’s scene—elevated the night. Nevertheless, do they always have to fiercely swamp the singers?

Truth be told, of all the conductors, Christian Thielemann is perhaps the one who best tames the VPO in Salzburg—and who best understands Strauss’s late style. Thielemann’s reading emphasized Strauss’s orchestral references to many other musical works and embraced the VPO’s darker sonority—especially in the winds. The famous horn solo in the final scene, despite some clumsiness, had the merit of being significantly more melancholic and slower than usual—being almost an Apollonian ideal—without ever permitting any inch of its cheesy cheerfulness: a dazzling moonrise.

Elsa Dreisig innovates by singing a Countess who is more of a Sophie than a Marshallin. The French-Danish soprano has a lighter voice than we expect in such a role—especially considering that it was originated by Viorica Ursuleac—; however, in her subversion of expectations, she manages to bring a sense of ingenuity and naiveté that is much needed.

There is something special about a singer who can, with a thick vibrato and a lighter voice, reinvent some roles to emphasize their youth and, sometimes, even their adolescence. A few years ago, Dreisig released a recording of Salomé’s final scene (in French!) that was, for me, completely unexpectedly great. Now, in her countess, I saw how she is even better shaping readings of roles that are usually dominated by a different kind of lyric soprano. Her readings are less melancholic and more solar than is customary—making her rendition of Strauss extremely contemplative—but not necessarily willful. In her smooth phrasing in her final line (“is there a way of not ending it trivially?”)—slow and tender—, she expressed a happy contemplation of a first understanding of the beauty of dialectical relation of text and music, instead of the more usual rendering of a seasoned wise woman of the Marshallin’s sorrowful “ja, ja.”

Another singer who is, to my mind, always very exciting to hear is Mika Kares. The Finnish bass sang La Roche with much quality—and his usual huge voice. Not even when he complained “No melody can be retained, no word can be understood in the tumult of the orchestra!” was he covered by the instrumentalists. But not of big voice alone shall a Kares performance live; there is also his very beautiful phrasing. Even my partner—whose distaste for “Capriccio” might be greater than mine—admitted that, even though he didn’t care much about the music, it was hard to be indifferent at Kares’s phrasing.

Christoph Pohl replaced an ill Bo Skovhus as the Count, doing a fine job, especially in having much fun in the most gobbledygook moments of the opera when the musical confusion, intentionally, ruled.

I was particularly impressed by how Eve-Maud Hubeaux sang the role Clairon with a certain sense of dignity, avoiding easy jokes. Her voice, particularly beautiful and generous, made the role always interesting to hear, as if, even though she was an actress, her craft was one of the melodies. Even her textual readings were very lyrical.

Although the loud sonority of the orchestra made it difficult fully to appreciate his voice, German tenor Sebastian Kohlhepp’s Flamand was the most charming of the two lovers—no shade on poetry. His lyrical tenor voice preserved a certain Mozartian quality in the opera, especially in his solo scene, which was—to my mind—a highlight of the night.

Charming baryton Konstantin Krimmel was a perhaps grumpy poet. His voice is quite charming, but there was a seriousness in his textual delivery, especially when he had to rely solely on his spoken declamation skills.

In the perhaps most ungraceful of the roles, Tuuli Takala and Josh Lovell shone as the Italian singers. Their task is hard because, unlike in “Der Rosenkavalier,” Strauss made the irony of their Italian singing extremely explicit. In spite of that, the duo still managed to make it sound both funny and charming, preserving that uneasiness that most of “Capriccio’s” music ought to have.

After all, I am a bit divided. Although the performances were very good, and some moments extraordinary special, I would recommend this production soley to those who are tremendously in love with Strauss’s music and with “Capriccio” in particular. It seems that it is easier to love the opera if one is fluently versed in the Germanic letters. Indeed, even in the best of hands—and throats—, some operas in concert version are demanding.