Matthew Worth, Jeremy Little & company. Photo by Nan Melville.

Miss Lonelyhearts’ world is a pained and ugly one, a fetid swamp, a sewer, an abyss, the only light let in coming from Miss Lonelyhearts’ euphoric messianic visions (or delusional ravings) and from Betty, his unappreciated true love. Composer Lowell Liebermann and librettist J.D. McClatchy limn this world in a wonderful new opera, Miss Lonelyhearts —not a pastiche, although other composers’ operas and other genres of music at times come to mind; not an imitation traditional opera, though melodic and full-bodied; nor relentlessly “modern,” though dissonant in places, but a work forging a highly individual and compelling musical path—about novelist Nathaniel West’s eponymous Depression Era newspaper advice columnist, who takes the agonies of his correspondents, “all the broken bastards,” very much to heart, even as Christ is said to have taken upon himself “the sins of the world,” and sees himself as their savior. The opera was commissioned by the Juilliard School to help mark its centennial and given three performances at the end of April by the Juilliard Opera Center and Juilliard Theater Orchestra. This writer attended the second of these, on April 28.

In Miss Lonelyhearts, conducted by Juilliard alumnus Andreas Delfs, directed by Ken Cazan, and designed by Peter Harrison (sets), Martin Pakledinaz (costumes) and Allen Hahn (lighting), the letter-writers, disfigured “Desperate” (Ariana Wyatt), Catholic mother of too many children “Sick-of-it-all” (Ronnita Miller), and teenager Harold (Adrian Kramer), whose sister was molested, pour out their wrenching stories. Shrike, the feature editor, Miss Lonelyhearts’ boss, drinking buddy, and nemesis, practically his shadow, acted with flair and sung in a resonant baritone by Matthew Worth, enters garbed in devil’s or cardinal’s red, embellished with crosses, groping himself and clutching a hip flask, as he chants a flippant prayer to the columnist—“Soul of Miss Lonelyhearts, glorify me. Body of Miss Lonelyhearts, nourish me” sprinkles him with liquid from the flask as if it were holy water; and declares, “All the Miss Lonelyhearts … they are the priests!” The correspondents repeat their pleas as the inhabitants of the raucous newsroom intone, like a religious chant, “Dear Miss Lonelyhearts!” A figure whose real, male name we never know, Miss Lonelyhearts, vividly realized by Jeremy Little, sings a fervent solo in a strong, clear lyric tenor, envisioning himself bringing the letter-writers salvation and preaching a sermon with all the zeal of Floyd’s Susannah’s Olin Blitch, bringing souls into the light in New Hope Valley, Tennessee.

At the speakeasy, hardboiled reporters (Matt Boehler, Museop Kim and Jean-Paul Björlin) offer raunchy stories to a bouncy motif. Miss Lonelyhearts’ correspondents lurk around the edges of the scene. Shrike sings propulsive, then stately solos replete with religious imagery and irreverent sentiments, celestial chimes ringing throughout, as he paws a Miss Farkis (mezzo-soprano Sasha Cooke). Betty, fine high lyric soprano Katherine Whyte, enters, bringing a breath of fresh air into the roiling scene. A drunken Miss Lonelyhearts sings sweetly to her, then, haunted, broods on the woes of the writers of the letters and drives her away. The reporters taunt an effeminate old man (tenor Timothy Fallon), who ends up with his face in Miss Lonelyhearts’ crotch, while, upstage, Shrike humps Miss Farkis. Miss Lonelyhearts brutally beats the old man, touching off a barroom brawl to a merry melody, a “La donna è mobile” gone haywire.

We find an inebriated Miss Lonelyhearts in his room, a crucifix above his bed, in messianic mode, rhapsodic music for his chant and honky-tonk music and nightmarish versions of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and the “1812 Overture” for a hallucination in which his rowdy college friends, heard earlier as the reporters, massacre and sacrifice a lamb. Betty once again dissipates the dark atmosphere, telephoning to inquire after Miss Lonelyhearts’ health, leading him to abuse and hang up on her.

Swing music issues forth from the radio in Shrike’s apartment. He is in a dressing gown and his wife, Mary, in a cocktail dress when our hero arrives and each has a scene alone with him. In intimate conversation with him, Shrike complains about his wife’s coldness. Tenor Michael Kelly sings a romantic song on the radio, while Mary (bel canto soprano Brenda Rae) offers an inanely lilting high coloratura narrative about her family’s tragedies to cover sounds of her sexual encounter with the columnist, which she abruptly terminates and which visibly arouses her husband.

Amidst the madness of the newsroom, Goldsmith (David Salsbery Fry), in a thick Yiddish accent, tells the advisor that he wrote the Miss Lonelyhearts column while its regular writer was hung over and missing in action and, in a thick New Yawk accent, zaftig letter writer Fay Doyle (mezzo-soprano Faith Sherman), her voice dripping with lust, shares her story of an unhappy marriage, to blowsy musical accompaniment. She is the first correspondent Miss Lonelyhearts actually meets with, in his apartment, and envisions assisting in person. Fay chatters away about her life, her blowsy strains sung against his serene, haunting ones. She makes a successful pass at him, climbing on top of him.

Light arrives later, once again in the person of Betty. In a Britten-esque florid aria, the protagonist recounts the origins of Miss Lonelyhearts, at first meant to be a joke, but now, with its sorrowful letters, crucifying him. Shrike--manipulative and ever irreverent--and Betty--who would take Miss Lonelyhearts away, to the county--wrestle for his soul. She and Miss Lonelyhearts savor her (temporary) victory in an ecstatic, soaring duet.

In Connecticut, Betty delivers an ethereal paean to Nature and her place in it, all sunshine, shimmering strings, and sounds of the harp, but can barely distract Miss L from the letters he left behind. They sing a ringing love duet, Janácek-like in its radiance. Back at the office, the letter writers’ plaints weigh heavily on Miss Lonelyhearts. The ensemble again chants, “Dear Miss Lonelyhearts!” At the speakeasy, with Miss L appearing blissfully off in another world, a drunken Shrike explains to Goldsmith, to music of faith, with Straussian overtones, that Miss L found his calling thanks to the letters. With Jeffrey Behrens singing the part in a high lyric tenor, disabled Peter Doyle, Fay’s husband, like another Miss Lonelyhearts correspondent come to life, tells the columnist his hard-luck tale in an aria of luminosity and fervor and winds up happily holding hands with the councilor.

In the Doyle home, Fay and Peter snap at each other, Peter dives for Miss Lonelyhearts’ zipper, and finding them hand-in-hand, Fay accuses both of being “fairies.” Proffering his signature advice in person now, to religious strains, Miss L has another Olin Blitch moment and the Doyles enjoy a tender interlude. Left alone with their guest, though, Fay makes another pass at him, which he resists, inspiring her to yell for help, charge him with rape and, to blowsy honky-tonk music, dance off.

Miss Lonelyhearts, in his underwear, kneels on his bed, in Crucifixion position, surrounded by his tormented correspondents. We’re off in the “twilight zone” for a hallucination, to off-kilter music, starring Shrike, kissing Miss L on the lips; Mary Shrike, stripping to her slip, and Peter Doyle, accusing Miss L of violating “my beautiful Fay.” In a quiet duet, Miss L tells Betty he has quit his job at the newspaper and proposes to her, but Betty tells him she is pregnant, going for an abortion, and leaving him. The inspired culmination of Miss Lonelyhearts’ apotheosis comes in a scene for the tenors, with Doyle, pushed to the edge, raving about “my Fay,” Miss L declaring love for his Judas, and Doyle shooting and killing him, as the romantic radio voice (Kelly) is heard once more.

Juilliard School, 60 Lincoln Center Plaza

April 26 & 28 at 8 pm, 30 at 2 pm