The life of Gabrielle Émilie Le Tonnelier de Breteuil, marquise du Châtelet--philosopher, physicist, musician and linguist, mother, wife, gambler, lover--contains enough drama of intellectual achievement and amorous liaisons to provide material for at least one opera. Kaija Saariaho, in her 2010 opera Émilie, has crafted of it an elegant, vibrant work, which is emotionally intense without melodrama; cause for rejoicing. Saariaho conceived of the project after reading this biography of the marquise by Elisabeth Badinter. The resulting work, with a libretto by her frequent collaborator Amin Maalouf, is remarkable both for its boldness and restraint. We see Émilie as she gives birth and as she experiences death. And Saariaho and Maalouf, drawing on the Marquise's writings, did not use them for cheap emotionalism or as an ideological blunt instrument, but crafted a vivid, multifaceted portrait of this vibrant woman, a work of art celebrating her as an individual rather than merely a symbol. The nine scenes of this monodrama treat of Émilie's passions--for physics, philosophy, sex--without implying that any of them is a mere displacement of or replacement for any of the others; they are all acknowledged as intimate and important.Intellectually and emotionally demanding, the piece was so constructed that the audience was given breathing space with orchestral passages between Émilie's impassioned outbursts. The scenes were given distinctive musical textures by the small orchestra, which prominently featured both a harpsichord and electronic sound filtering. The Ensemble ACJW under Neal Wilkinson contributed taut and sensitive playing. The instrumental coloring is vivid and stimulating, evoking Émilie's physical surroundings (the creaks of an old house with the night wind of autumn around it), her memories (of her childhood, of conversations with Voltaire, of nights spent with her lover Saint-Lambert), and, not least, her ecstatic and precise visions (of the universal laws of color and light, of her unborn daughter's future.)
The piece was admirably directed by Marianne Weems, with sets designed by Neal Wilkinson. I was impressed by these: screens on which projections appeared, they suggested fragments of the ornate mirror on one wall (facets of Émilie's personality) as well as reminding of Newton's work that so stimulated her, on the refraction of light. In this setting, Elizabeth Futral gave a compelling performance, sensual and confident, vocally assured. Futral sang with focused tone and a wide variety of vocal coloring. The multilingual libretto and challenging vocal line seemed to hold no terrors for her; she embodied convincingly a woman eager for knowledge and unafraid of passion, willing to confront boldly science's deepest mysteries and her own deepest fears. At the piece's conclusion, I took delight in being able to stand up and cheer.
