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This imaginative Barcelona production of Massenet's tearjerker about a woman gone wrong in the dissolute world of 18th-century Paris features a brilliant performance of the title role by Natalie Dessay and an abundance of fine vocalism from most of her colleagues. Dessay's expressive face makes Manon's thoughts instantly accessible to the viewer, the way she holds her body, light in Manon's good moods, heavy when the tragedy unfolds. Her singing intensifies the drama as well, her opening aria innocent, her remembrances in Adieu mon petite table touching, the coloratura in her waltz song thrilling, the pathos of her demise fully captured. Rolando Villazón is the Chevalier Des Grieux, and he's his usual openly emotional self, the epitome of puppy love at the first encounter with Manon, convincing as her lover, and in the Saint Sulpice scene, he makes a seamless transition from rejecting her to re-igniting his obsessional love. But Villazón does have moments where his customary smooth vocalism gives way to inappropriate verismo style and its attendant strains. As Manon's cousin, Lescaut, Manuel Lanza plays up the character's nasty side while displaying a neatly textured baritone while Didier Henry is appropriately creepy in his portrayal of Brétigny. Smaller roles are well done but the singing of veteran bass Samuel Ramey as Des Grieux's father exhibits considerable vocal wear and tear. Victor Pablo Pérez who chooses apt tempos throughout, expertly directs the Orchestra and Chorus of the Gran Teatre del Liceu. David McVicar's staging plays well in Tanya McCallin's traditional costumes and unconventional sets. Manon enters wearing functional, boyish traveling clothes, later graduating to a gold, green, and cream gown, and finally, a ragged shift for the finale. The aristocrats are in foppish outfits, wigs, and beauty marks, underlining McVicar's apparent subtext of Manon as a condemnation of 18th-century French high society, something that would likely have surprised Massenet. That theme is carried throughout the opera, as the stage is often littered with onlookers, sometimes in the on-stage tiered amphitheatre and even in the intimacy of the room shared by the lovers, where extras not only appear in the wings but also arrange themselves in awkward positions that divert the viewer's attention. To the degree such stagings lessen the sentimentality of the narratives, they're a plus; but McVicar's viewpoint does take something away from the story's intimacy. His production does succeed mightily in suggesting where each scene takes place with minimal props--a table here, some chairs there, and we are in a room, a gambling hall, a dark quayside. Francois Roussillon's TV direction is also smoothly functional, letting us take in the scenes while also getting close to the characters. --Dan Davis
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