Sometimes I wonder if the human race has made any progress at all. Then I encounter a masterpiece of storytelling such as Nico Muhly's opera Marnie, libretto by Nicholas Wright, based on the novel by Winston Graham. The Metropolitan Opera broadcast Marnie to movie theatres around the world live in HD a couple weeks ago, when I saw it in Atlanta. Whatever else is wrong with the world, Marnie shows that we're getting better and better at creating musical theatre.
Marnie's music carries us from scene to scene with constant motion and constant variety of textures and timbres. We often hear the kind of repetitive figure in the orchestra that was the hallmark of music called "Minimalist" in the 1970s and 80s. Muhly worked awhile with pioneer minimalist Philip Glass, and his music follows composer John Adams' path out of the minimalist camp. For Muhly, the pulse establishes a floor; the orchestra dances on it, with sounds that glitter, chatter, stab, or rumble. We also hear Muhly's appreciation for Anglican choral music when he gives the chorus a sonorous a cappella piece "Guilt" early in Act One. Near the end, he quotes the Anglican hymn "Sing, My Soul, the King of Heaven" for an emotional effect. This music, lovely, rich with subtext, constantly involves us in the story.
The librettist and director use all the best modern techniques to draw us into that story. Mundane office talk mixes with gossip about the posh client Mark Ryland, recently a widower, who instantly makes a connection to a meek - but - efficient secretary named Muriel. Moments later, we know that Muriel is a secret identity for Marnie, disgusted by men, who has stolen from earlier employers under other names, whose mother berates her from some dark deed in her past. The rest of the opera opens up the material in that first scene. Transitions from the office to another location or time are accomplished smoothly, instantly by the shifting of lights and panels, each scene specified sometimes by a single piece of furniture. Backlighting conjures flashbacks to the unnamed misdeed of Marnie's childhood. [See photo] Everything and everyone is colored in shades of gray, except for Marnie and a chorus of look - alikes, her other identities, all dressed in primary colors, who amplify her thoughts.
The transitions, the flashbacks, the gray - and - color scheme, the chorus of subconscious selves -- I've seen all of these before, but they all work so well, here.
After Marnie makes one misstep, joining the company where the boss is that wealthy widower Ryland, the collaborators Muhly, Wright, and director Michael Mayer keep the tension building as her risks mount. At a pub with all her co-workers, she fends off the attentions of a man who remembers her as "Martine." The librettist gives her a clever way both to deflect suspicion and to justify her ways to us, as she sings that we're all different people at different times, different to friends, to the head teacher, to our parents. They write a subtext - laden poker game with the boss's odious brother Terry, who presses himself on her for a kiss. Then Ryland confronts her, trapping her into marriage. The build up to his forcing himself on her, sung through, is intensified by the presence of a chorus of leering men in gray suits pressing around her on the bed. Artificial as it was, it seemed real. Breathless at the climax, I wept when act one was over. Not because it was sad; because it was just so well done. Even if the characters were all pretty sordid, it made me feel good about the human race.
Interviewed on screen during intermission of the HD broadcast, the artists involved demonstrated the care and imagination that went into making this piece so strong. Muhly explained how he associates each character with a different instrument that will sometimes echo the sung lines, amplifying the lies that the characters tell -- for all characters in this story are liars. The countertenor Iestyn Davies, playing the character "Terry," observed that he is the cast's lone truth - teller. When he pronounces the naked truth, his instrument, the horn, drops away.
We saw an interview with Soprano Isabel Leonard and the woman who directs costume changes. As "Marnie," Leonard has as little as 40 seconds to change her outfit. We saw backstage footage of the soprano's costume changes, her frantic running to make her entrance for that seamless flowing effect so important to the opera.
Baritone Christopher Maltman, who plays Ryland, admits that his character behaves abominably, but Maltman tries to convey what Ryland claims, that he truly loves Marnie. That shows in a tense scene in the second act, as Ryland and wife Marnie dress for a dinner party. She is icy to him. They're physically close enough to kiss when she helps him tie his bowtie, but she leaves the bathroom to dress. He sings after her words to win her over, his story about startling a deer behind their home, trying to call the deer back. The opera's action has proceeded so fast that this aria, with its metaphorical flavor, stands out for sadness and thoughtfulness. She returns, perhaps softened up by the words. She sings of her horse Forio, "the only thing I ever loved." When Ryland offers to pay to bring Forio to their manor if she'll go to counseling, she agrees.
That sets up another piece of musical story - telling, a fox hunt. We understand from the music, when she stands facing forward, that she is riding the horse. We understand, as she describes the frightened fox, that she identifies with it. And when she sings of the hunting dogs, we see the men in gray climb over each other in a slow - motion ballet that suggests the dogs roiling in their bloodthirsty pursuit. [See photo] The conclusion of that tense scene is not less gripping for being inevitable.
Near the end, there's a clunky bit of psychoanalysis, outdated and facile, but it still leads to another moment that's no less wonderful for being inevitable. Under arrest, Marnie is supported by the brothers Mark and Terry, and psychologically liberated from a false guilt. We knew what the inevitable, fitting, paradoxical, and beautiful last words of our handcuffed protagonist's story would be.
The opera conservatives around us in the movie theatre were audibly moved, chatting about it enthusiastically in the lobby.
And I was weeping again, with gratitude, to see the integration of so much creative thought and plain old hard work.
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