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A groper-in-chief careens from self-congratulation to petty wrath.
Affairs of state take second place to personal vendettas.
Aides abase themselves to prove their loyalty.
A callow heirlet acquires power hes unprepared to handle.
A good soldier is blackballed for doing his job.
Relief packets are lobbed to the suffering masses.
The emperor even lumbers about in a baggy blue suit and overlong tie.
Not Lindsey, though.
The not-yet-emperor Nero fiddles with himself while the music flares.
He/she is not the only one with an unscratchable itch.
Handels music is sexy, a froth of shuddering harpsichords, sinuous melodies, and ecstatic flutterings.
Lindsey is a gifted physical actor.
Handel bifurcated his style into two separate modes.
Misunderstandings and accusations fly at sitcom speeds.
But when an aria starts, time stops and the mask drops.
Characters turn to us, their confidants, and spill out their passions and fears.
And then they do it again.
McVicar is having none of that.
There are brilliant moments.
This joint boasts a stupendous bar harpsichordist, Bradley Brookshire, whose onstage playing heats up the scene.
Well, Harry Bicket can.
Desperate to get a grip on power, Agrippina loses her grip on herself.
The orchestra lays down an introduction of slashing minor chords.
DiDonato draws out a bitter a cappella sigh, echoed by a lonely oboe.
Agrippinais at the Metropolitan Opera through March 7.
