Christophers, soloists, orchestra and chorus take a well-deserved bow.

Hub Review readers are no doubt getting a little bored with my continual praise of the Handel and Haydn Society. But if you were hoping that at last Harry Christophers and Co. had slipped up last weekend in their performances of Mozart's Requiem and Handel's Dixit Dominus, and that the critical monotony around here might finally be broken by a snarky little pan, I'm afraid I have to disappoint you: Harry & Co. were just as terrific as ever. Sorry!

Indeed, H&H (and the chorus in particular) has gotten so consistent of late that the only thing I wonder going into their concerts is: will the soloists measure up this time? Not quite all of them do, I'm afraid, although most of the line-up last weekend was splendid. Met power-bass Eric Owens, who recently triumphed as Alberich in the Met's new Das Rheingold, was on hand, as was rising lyric soprano Elizabeth Watts, who usually busies herself at Covent Garden or the Welsh National Opera, and who also boasted plenty of power, as well as a ravishing blush of radiant color. She was flanked by another rising British star, tenor Andrew Kennedy, who sang with passionate attack; the only slight gap in this luminous line-up was mezzo Phyllis Pancella, who had sumptuous tone but a lot of vibrato, and not quite enough volume to keep up with her cohorts.

But frankly, the chorus was the real star anyhow, particularly in Handel's Dixit Dominus, which I think many in the hall left feeling was the highlight of the program - and perhaps even a greater piece than the famous Requiem (sacrilege, I know, but I feel the Requiem is only truly brilliant in those passages we have complete from Mozart's own hand - the work was completed after his death by his student Franz Sussmäyr).  Dixit Dominus, by way of contrast, is thrilling throughout - indeed, its stern authority is pregnant with a sense of trembling foreboding only hinted at in the pronouncements of its text. And technically, it's almost stunningly complex - yet the H&H Chorus was always on point, both technically and emotionally (all the more remarkable given the urgent tempi favored by Christophers). Indeed, the solos from within the chorus - particularly those by Margot Rood, Teresa Wakim, and Woodrow Bynum - seemed as strong as anything we heard from the headliners. 

Judgment seems to have been on Mozart's mind, too, in the composing the Requiem, which in Christophers's hands rang more with warning than mourning, and which he also often took at a sometimes-blistering pace (for some sense of the committed connection this conductor brings to the stage, check out the photo at left). He slowed down, however, for some truly threatening moments in the Dies irae, while Owens triumphed in the forceful Tuba mirum and the string section broke the judgmental mood with a piercing rendition of the famous Lacrimosa.

These two titanic, back-to-back statements dominated the concert, but it would be wrong to ignore the beautiful pieces that filled out the program: Mozart's  Ave verum corpus, a short motet which I'd never heard before, but which was surpassingly lovely (with more exquisite work from the chorus), and the charming Por questa bella mano, which bass-baritone Eric Owens essayed with resonant feeling. As is sometimes the case in a period music concert, we also got to hear some unusual instrumentation - "basset horns" sang out during the Recordare of the Requiem, and  Por questa set Mr. Owens against an even deeper sound, that of the double bass obbligato - one of those early instruments you really think must have been designed by Dr. Seuss. Just watching bassist Rob Nairn attack this giant with his bow brought a sense of comedy to the performance that Owens seemed to eschew - which may have been just as well; somehow the contrast between the singer's sincerity and the player's struggles seemed wonderfully Mozartean all on its own.

Mostly mild Mozart

The magic Kristian.

Kristian Bezuidenhout (left) is probably the most interesting period pianist on the planet; I'll never forget his interpretation of Beethoven's Third Piano Concerto with Handel and Haydn some years ago, and people still speak in awed tones of his local performances of Schubert.

I was surprised then to find myself pleased, but not thrilled, with his concert last Friday for the Boston Early Music Festival. Perhaps this is only because - after hearing him all but re-invent the Third - I now bring almost absurd expectations to any Bezuidenhout concert; coming from this particular pianist, superb musicianship and impeccable playing - both of which were on display in abundance last weekend - actually count as a slight disappointment.

Which is, I admit, unfair! And to be honest, in the latter half of his program - here and there in the Fantasia in C Minor (K. 396), and through most of the Sonata in B flat Major (K. 333) - you could hear Bezuidenhout's startling originality spark to life.  It was in the opening pieces - the familiar Sonata in F Major (K.332) and the variations on “Ein Weib ist das herrlichste Ding” ("A Wife is a Glorious Thing") that the pianist seemed content to merely color (albeit beautifully) within the lines.

The biggest surprise of the first half of the program, in fact, was the performer's appearance. Bezuidenhout has slimmed down, and his trademark glasses are gone; the jolly musical companion of old is now a sleek modern monk. I was seated in the very first row (which in Sanders Theatre translates to maybe four or five feet from the performer; so close I could hear him breathe), and thus caught every subtlety of expression that passed over this sweetly intense performer's face - for the friend seated next to me, this ongoing double performance was almost distracting (he had to look away to concentrate on the music); for me, however, it was like being offered a magic key to the psychological states informing the playing.

So what was on Kristian's mind during the Sonata in F Major? Mostly intense reverence, it seemed to me - reflected in his impeccable playing. And it was easy to be seduced through this craftsmanship into a kind of musical dream, in which he and I had been magically transported to some eighteenth-century Austrian salon on a particular date in say, 1784 (I think the entire program came from the early 80's).

A word at this point about the piano, however. Built by the estimable R. J. Regier of Freeport, Maine, Bezuidenhout's instrument was modeled after pianos of Mozart's period by the noted Viennese builder Anton Walter. I'm sure it was quite an accurate copy, and I was fascinated to watch its pedal mechanism up close (pianos of that period only had two "pedals," which were actually nestled up against the body of the instrument, and controlled by the knees).

Still, I wasn't crazy about it. The piano had a pearly upper register (particularly under Bezuidenhout's subtle pedal work), and a resonant middle one - but its bass tended to thud, as many bass registers do in early pianos. And this was a bit of a problem in the F Major, with its famous anchoring low notes (which the pianist tended to pound for emphasis).

As a period performer, Bezuidenhout is committed to playing "age-appropriate" instruments for every composer he interprets. (Thus, when I heard the Beethoven, he was playing a truly wonderful instrument, again from Regier, modeled after pianos built some twenty-five years later, in the middle of the technological ferment that resulted in the modern instrument.) I chafe a bit at this period music rule when it comes to Mozart, however - who, as one of the last great classicists, tended to write "pure" music, which, like say Bach, isn't all that idiomatic to a particular instrument (you can translate Bach from one instrument to another, or even from the human voice to the orchestra, without losing its essential musical values).

Of course there's a strong historical argument for a Walter-like piano for Mozart - the ethereal tone of its upper register is subtly different from that of later versions. And this quality, admittedly, came more to the fore in the second half of the program, in which the pieces were more concentrated in those gorgeous upper octaves (so I was able to forget a bit about that jarring bass). And perhaps not coincidentally, as the music moved toward his instrument's "sweet spot," Bezuidenhout seemed to come alive interpretively. The opening Sonata was lovely, yes - just as elegant and gracefully capricious as it should be. Ditto for “Ein Weib ist das herrlichste Ding” - although honestly, this is one time the great genius doesn't really unlock much in the way of depth from his opening theme; these eight variations really are just a brilliant experiment in ornamented extrapolation.

But there are mysterious riches to be found in the Fantasia in C Minor and Sonata in B flat Major, and Bezuidenhout mined them exquisitely (and okay, you could argue, as the program notes did, that in these pieces Mozart was indeed writing more idiomatically than usual). In the fantasia, Bezuidenhout conjured a sense of delicate spontaneity (even though this fragmentary caprice had in fact been written out by Maximilian Stadler), that shifted into an exquisite hush; meanwhile the sonata sang with a kind of haunting, searching quality that's unusual in Mozart, before closing with a deliciously spirited Alegretto. The encore was an even more gorgeous movement (the Andante cantabile) from the Sonata in C Major (K. 330). Bezuidenhout will be back at BEMF this summer, and you can bet I will be try to be there to hear him, whatever instrument he is playing.

A memorable Idomeneo

Neptune makes his presence known in Idomeneo, re di Creta. Photos by Charles Erickson.

It isn't often that a Mozart work feels like a discovery. But Idomeneo, re di Creta, his first major opera, feels a bit like one, as it's long been overshadowed by the later masterpieces, and has only slowly made its way into the standard repertoire. Indeed, what's more intriguing about Ideomeneo is that over its course, you can almost hear Mozart discovering himself. Written when the wunderkind was only 24, the piece opens as a lovely, but standard-issue, "opera seria" (the leading mode of Mozart's day), with that format's usual choruses, noble solos, and tragic tone.

But slowly Idomeneo - which is basically a variant on the Iphigenia myth - edges away from tragedy and toward something more like mournful comedy; and Mozart begins to spin more duets and quartets as a lighter, yet more mature moral sensibility seeps into the proceedings. And somehow a mysterious alchemy occurs. By the final curtain, we can tell we're listening to the revolutionary who would write Don Giovanni and Così fan tutte.

This sense of discovery is redoubled when one considers the recent history of Boston Lyric Opera, which is presenting a beautiful and well-sung (if slightly trimmed) version of the opera through this weekend: slowly Boston has been discovering it, too. I've been arguing for some time that BLO - long derided as a suburban upstart - is actually our next Boston-Ballet-like success story, and Idomeneo serves, I think, as a ratification of that claim, the capstone to a startling season which has included such memorable productions (and superb vocal ensembles) as The Turn of the Screw and Ariadne auf Naxos.

Although no, the production's not perfect; in fact, it has a weakness right at its center. As the title character, Jason Collins is vocally adequate but not much more - and dramatically he seems to lean more toward fits of pique than conscience-stricken remorse (to preserve his life in a violent storm, Idomeneo has promised Neptune to sacrifice the first person he encounters on shore; that person turns out to be his son, Idamante).

Fortunately there's sterling work elsewhere in the cast. As Idamante (a breeches role), the lovely Sandra Piques Eddy struck just the right heroic profile, and what's more, her pure-tone mezzo proved luminously flexible, thanks to her utterly secure technique. Alas, as Idamante's love interest, Camille Zamora (at left, with Eddy) seemed slightly miscast, though she was generally appealing. Or perhaps the trouble was that she was simply upstaged by the great Caroline Worra as her rival, the spurned Elettra. Worra is blessed with a beautifully burnished timbre, and threw herself into her role with abandon, at times even teetering on the edge of comedy - she made Elettra's final meltdown one for the vocal and dramatic history books.

Elsewhere bass Craig Phillips offered a Neptune (suddenly revealed from the person of a pauper, at top) whose voice seemed as deep as the sea, and the chorus was in robust form throughout. In the pit, conductor David Angus led the orchestra with energy, although he had decided to mix a fortepiano (rather than a harpsichord) and period horns with a generally-modern ensemble. The results were not displeasing, although to an ear accustomed to period performance they sometimes sounded oddly mixed, neither fish nor fowl. But maybe that was the idea - to give this transitional opera a sense of musical transition, too.

Likewise, director Lilian Groag seemed to want to gently push the drama down the road we all knew Mozart would eventually go: toward a vision of gracefully balanced worldliness - toward the Enlightenment, if you will. Thus she framed the central drama of the opera as a play-within-a-play, put on by rustic villagers amid the ruins of a heroic past. Several reviewers didn't seem to get the point of this, but I have to admit, they had half a point themselves - Mozart puts this idea over just fine all by himself. Still, a few of Groag's interpolations struck me as truly inspired - having Neptune speak from the mouth of a pauper, for instance, summed up with beautiful economy a central tenet of Mozart's art: that the divine spark is in all of us. And at any rate it was wonderful to perceive in the direction an awareness of Mozart's larger political and dramatic meaning; would more local productions had this one's level of intellectual ambition. After all, Mozart (with his great librettist, Da Ponte) went further than Shakespeare ever did in transposing, and adjusting, our idea of nobility to the dimensions of actual humanity. This is the message of his life itself - that of a bourgeois genius who had to endure being literally kicked in the ass by various vacuous nobles - and you can feel its democratizing pressure in embryo, as it were, in Idomeneo.

But it must also be said that much of the power of this version derived from its physical production, including a truly stunning set by John Conklin (via a Glimmerglass production of, yes, Iphigenia), beautifully coordinated costumes by Constance Hoffmann, and even more evocative lighting by Robert Wierzel. I must say that after seeing his work here - and after last year's Rusalka - I'd have to rate Mr. Wierzel among the greatest lighting designers alive; his effects in Idomeneo seemed to literally radiate from the ancient columns of the set itself. Like much of this production, their luminous beauty lingered in the memory.