Promoter Ellen Kent's regular presentations of opera productions from the backwaters of Eastern Europe are filling a clear niche in the musical life of Dublin and other centres around Ireland. It is not just that the Chisinau National Opera is prepared to set itself up in either theatre or concert hall situations, using as much or as little of its stage setting as will fit in any particular venue. It's that in terms of style - vocal, musical and theatrical - the company's work harks back to an earlier era.
The Chisinau style is dominated neither by conductors nor directors. And it is not even the singing that matters most. It's the voice. In the pit-less National Concert Hall, with the small orchestra seated at the front of the stalls, this is more evident than it would be in an opera house proper. Stage movement, the dramatic essentials of the plot, balance with the orchestra, and precision of ensemble all bow before the necessity to let the voices sound with all available glory. It's a style you might expect to serve Verdi's Nabucco (heard on Monday) better than Mozart's Nozze di Figaro (heard the following night). But actually, it was the Mozart which proved the more rewarding. Simply put, Figaro is the better opera, and it shows, even in the context of the not exactly style-sensitive approach of the Chisinau company.
For me, the highlight of the Nabucco was the straight and unsentimental handling of the famous chorus, "Va, pensiero" - whether in gentle or imploring mode, the singers carefully avoided loading the music with syrup. Ludmila Magomedova was a prima donna-ish Abigaille, idiosyncratic, thrilling on top, but weak in her lower register. Vladimir Dragos's Nabucco was solid and imposing, and a lot more consistent than the vocally more appealing Zaccaria of Valeriu Cojocaru.
Alexandru Samoila conducted Verdi with rather more control than Nicolae Dohotaru the Mozart, where the overture quickly established the orchestra's ability to tumble through the notes without actually gaining speed. The recitatives were accompanied by a dreadfully false-sounding electronic keyboard, and the sung Italian often sounded more Slavic than Mediterranean. Yet in spite of all this, the work managed to remind one of its sparkle.
The major disappointment was the Countess of Ludmila Aga, whose singing was marred by an intrusively heavy vibrato. Iure Gisca made a stiffly venal Count, Petru Racovita an altogether more flexible and winning Figaro and Vera Draganiuc a Susanna whose effectiveness increased as the evening progressed.
