The first draft of Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge was in blank­verse. The Broadway ‘talkiness’ came later. But it was always essentially a Greek tragedy – operatic in the broadest sense. You would think William Bolcom had it made. Having Miller on board as co­librettist (Arnold Weinstein taking the lion’s share of responsibility) ensured the integrity of the original – one of the great plays in the English language – and Bolcom’s songwriting skills could surely be relied upon to flesh out what might be described as the ‘street scene’ elements. There’s nothing like song to bring out the vernacular in American drama and Bolcom’s versatility and experience in this department is second to none (how many readers know his astounding realisation of Blake’s Songs of Innocence and of Experience?). So how come A View from the Bridge – the opera – is‚ if anything‚ less not more operatic than A View from the Bridge the play? Why does one sit through it with the unsettling feeling that the music is somehow superfluous? The view from this listener (and he tried‚ really tried to put himself in the auditorium and not in front of a pair of speakers) is that Bolcom’s respect for the play has proved fatally inhibiting to his natural instincts as a composer – or‚ to be more specific‚ as a song writer. What this opera lacks is songs‚ hit songs (call them arias if you like – others did – it alters nothing). It’s interesting that the one character that Bolcom can ennoble in this way is Rodolpho‚ the dashing young Sicilian immigrant who falls in love with Eddie Carbone’s ‘adopted’ daughter Catherine. Rodolpho (the excellent Gregory Turay) is a lounge singer with operatic ambitions and Bolcom has him crack off a high C by way of an introduction to his ‘O sole mio’ style. As in the play‚ his awkward rendition of Johnny Black’s Paper Doll symbolises his determination to embrace ‘the American way’. ‘I sing jazz‚ too‚’ he says. And he doesn’t. But the touching Kurt Weill­like aria (song) that follows is Bolcom very prettily bringing Sicily to New York. That’s the kind of melodic enticement I wanted more of. And even if not melodic enticement‚ then profile‚ character‚ songfulness. The only other such moment that touched me in this way was Eddie’s selfless wife Beatrice’s number ‘But you do not know this man‚’ where her feelings for Eddie come to the surface by way of a hugely reassuring glissando in the strings which in truth is like the birth of the Blues – for that is the colour of the number‚ through and through. It has a strength and truth and purposefulness (touchingly embraced by Catherine Malfitano) that is conspicuously lacking in much of the vocal writing. Don’t get me wrong‚ Bolcom has an instinctive feeling for the music of the words (his dialogue ‘sings’‚ for the most part‚ like fractured songs)‚ but their promise too rarely brings fulfilment. The set­pieces‚ such as they are‚ fail to elevate‚ heighten‚ the unfolding drama. It’s almost as if Bolcom‚ in his respect for the play‚ is seeking to ‘get out of the way’. Even the orchestra refuses‚ for the most part‚ to be interventionist. It’s more a sleeping partner; stealthily supportive‚ brooding‚ underlining‚ reiterating. In operatic terms‚ the moment where Eddie brutally kisses Rodolpho on the lips – a gesture intended to shame but one which also hints at something deeply repressed in Eddie’s sexuality – is a huge moment. Bolcom’s orchestra stirs all right‚ but still he seems shy of it‚ shy of overstating the overstated‚ if you like. Then there’s the chorus. Using it‚ Greek­style‚ was a great idea waiting to happen (a refinement of what Miller does in the play) but again you long for a really satisfying dramatic climax from them. The exclamatory ‘Ooo­aaa­eee!’ which clinches Act 1 put me in mind of the baying mob scene from Britten’s Peter Grimes. But there’s nothing here on anything remotely approaching that level of intensity. But maybe that’s one of the pitfalls of turning an already operatic play into an opera. You see an actor like Michael Gambon play Eddie and there is simply nowhere else to go. Kim Josephson is very good in the role here‚ but as he bellows ‘Gimme back my name!’ in the final fateful moments you start to wonder why he ever needed to sing at all. Then you know there’s something wrong. In his booklet­note‚ Bolcom acknowledges the inspiration of the Broadway legend Harry Warren (who wrote many‚ many hits‚ among them the songs for 42nd Street). More Warren‚ less ‘opera’ would have been good.