Ten years later the Met Opera commissioned composer Janine Tesori—the first woman in the company’s history to receive such a commission—Grounded he has finally arrived at Lincoln Center. Tesori and freelance artist George Brant (who also wrote the play on which the opera is based) present a story of surveillance, guilt and motherhood, centered on a female pilot who finds herself unable to do what she was clearly meant to do and goes mad because of it. It is also a story about the gradual awakening of a woman’s conscience as she reflects on her role in the American military machine.
When we meet Jess, she is brave and proud. He loves his job, he loves the eternal light of the sky and he loves the destruction he rains down like an avenging angel. He is an adrenaline junkie with many gods but he flies before he sees the destruction up close. An unexpected pregnancy drags her down to earth, ruins her career but gives her an attractive, supportive husband and an adorable baby. It’s not enough, and the US is losing in Iraq, so Jess goes back to the Air Force and doesn’t see it anymore. He was banned from his outdated aircraft and taught to fly drones instead. The Air Force calls them Reapers, and they hurt.
Retired from the “Army of Chairs,” Jess spends twelve hours each day in an unmarked leather chair, watching as distant gray figures in the gray desert burst into gray fire. For Jess, drone warfare is impersonal—her safety is not threatened, she kills with a click—and painfully visceral; the cameras are so precise that he can see the faces of those he intended to engage in and see their limbs crack as the arrows hit.
Jess’s mind begins to crack; he imagines himself watching with an invisible eye as the boundaries between war and home are blurred. Another version of him appears, splitting him between two people. This other Jess feels like the ghost of a former ace-pilot. Unable to follow through on an order that would have killed both the target and the young child, Jess breaks down, injuring herself spectacularly. In this, he gets a part of his soul.
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Set on Mimi Lien’s separate set—downstairs a cozy box home, upstairs a vertigo-inducing stage—with stylish projections by Jason H. Thompson and Kaitlyn Petras, Grounded it’s a good-looking, if not brilliant, show. Brief glimpses of the two-hand-held camera work on Jess’s paranoia, while Michael Meyer’s approach is barely visible, mostly out of the way of the characters.
Brant’s play, which premiered in 2013 with Anne Hathaway as a pilot, is a one-woman show. Like his libretto, the play is often decided, fragmented and emphatic. Jess’s mind is the only place we enter. The opera hinges on Jess as an uncomfortable part of the ensemble; first as the only woman in a chorus of macho Top-Gun types (of which she is undoubtedly one), then as the only female in a chorus of bloodless drone operators. But neither her talent nor her clumsiness can qualify her when it matters—when she becomes pregnant, Jess is forcefully reminded that she’s a woman first and a pilot second. Her choice to keep the pregnancy is surprising and inexplicable, falling into the familiar territory where an academic woman suggests and quickly dismisses the possibility of an abortion without understanding her thought process. In another classic move, having a daughter softens the tough-as-nails Jess and forces her to target people, making her no longer see them as guilty and in need of her divine wrath. Returning to his happy family in the evening exacerbates the problem: he notes at one point that The Odyssey it would be a very different book “if Odysseus came home every night.” While Brant’s message about modern warfare is still powerful, it may have had more impact a decade ago. In an age where drone warfare is ubiquitous, and we willingly submit to surveillance in almost every part of our lives, grounded’criticism feels a little behind the times, as does its use of motherhood as a plot point. The long route from commission to first performance means that such stories converge as tradition changes in the text.
Well, musically Grounded fully satisfied. Tesori’s scores are unique and constantly changing. His choral work is powerful; airline pilots sing with a majestic, nostalgic fervor, while drone ops sing in angelic, shimmering harmonies. It’s hard to choose which is scarier. Minimalist-inflected arpeggios interspersed with moments of soft melody, the interplay between Jess and her partner felt contemporary, while parts of the male chorus sometimes recalled Britten. Best of all: when Jess puts on her headset, the chattering chorus of the disembodied conductors fills the air before inexplicably changing into an orchestral solo (here Palmer Heffernan’s sound design work is also to be commended).
Every piece is raised with an equally solid cast. Mezzo-soprano Emily D’Angelo is wonderful as Jess, turning in a strong and sensitive performance that smoothed and deepened Brant’s fragmented libretto. His voice glided from sharp clarity to sultry melodies with ease. As her relentlessly supportive and wonderful husband Eric, Ben Bliss sounded beautiful (especially when he left his Wyoming draw), his cool, silver tenor caressing a lullaby or revealing the worry and weariness beneath Eric’s exterior. Baritone Kyle Miller, as young Jess’s drone camera operator, was kind and lovable, with a warm, soft voice that he managed to maintain through bites of Twizzlers and a drizzle of Mountain Dew (I’ve never seen this much junk food on the Met stage. ). Ellie Dehn as Jess, has a refreshing, lively soprano, and I wish she had more to sing. Greer Grimsley makes a brief and strong appearance as Jess’ tough boss. As the first of what I hope will be many more operas by female composers to fly at the Met, Grounded it’s a tough ride.
