Despite the implications of its title and its classification as a comedy, Mozart's "Le Nozze di Figaro (The Marriage of Figaro)" is an all-out war with battles on numerous fronts.

There is a battle of the classes. A battle of the sexes. Battles between the young and the old, tradition and revolution, restraint and sexual desire. There are even battles between individuals, including one between the two central power figures -- the Count and Countess. Figaro does battle with his own parents (whose identity he is unaware of) and the Count is in perpetual battle with Cherubino from the start to the end of the performance. Even musically Mozart is doing battle with convention, particularly in his hair-raising second act finale which starts with a couple of singers and turns up the tension by incrementally adding the number the singers until there are eight at its climax.

Because of the variety, one major conflict often gets overlooked. And it might be the most obvious one -- the eponymous character Figaro and the man trying to take away all of his rights and wife, the Count. This battle might be overlooked because in many ways it is the most obvious of the battles. But when it comes to the forefront, it is as a chilling as any mentioned previously. And that is precisely what happened at the Met Opera on Monday, Dec. 15 during a recent performance of this very work.

The tension was building throughout the evening until it exploded near the end of Act 3. A well-known passage that turned into a masculine battle of wills with baritone Mariusz Kwiecien, as the Count, confronting bass-baritone Erwin Schrott, Figaro, on stage left. The two men, similar in stature, utilized their singular weapon, their voice, to its most impactful resource. It was a growing crescendo between the two, a battle of wits as the Count attempted to get his servant to admit that he lied. Eventually it climaxed with two quick lines. "Anch'esso? (he jumped also)?" shouted the Count, to which Figaro replied with an even louder shout: "Perche no (Why not?)?" Silence reverberated through the theater as both men stared each other down, one ready to land the blow on the other. And then the final blow from Figaro -- "Io non impugn mai quell che non so (I never dispute what I don't know)." This moment was undoubtedly the tensest moment in a rather violent rendition of this masterpiece.

It certainly helped that both Kwiecien and Schrott seemed to favor parallel renditions of Figaro and the Count. While Kwiecien was decidedly more violent, at one point he grabbed the Countess' face and pushed her aside in his unbridled rage, Schrott's character was filled an equal measure of virility. During his famous "Se vuol ballare, signor Contino," Figaro pronounced the word "Si (yes)" as an affirmation and punctuation to his intents. Schrott was intent on raising the volume of his voice on each successive "Si," a demonstration of his power and manliness in his struggle for power with his master. It was almost an increasingly emphatic battle cry of sorts.

In more intimate settings, his voice could take on a more gentle texture, particularly in his interactions with Susanna, but in his most angst ridden moments, especially his final aria, Schrott's voice and his tremendous volume seemed to be Figaro's main resource of reasserting his strength and masculine dominance. The Uruguayan was terrific in the more nuanced delivery of Mozart's recitativo, bringing in dramatic pauses a several intervals and really playing with the language in ways rarely seen or heard. He made the viewer almost forget that he was singing at times, so real was the impact of his delivery. One such example would be when he discovers that Marcelina is in fact his mother. The pause before "Mia madre" and then "Mio padre" gave a tremendous sense of suspense and almost made the audience believe that he might actually reject them.

Kwiecien's acting was equally impeccable as the consistently outraged Count. One could see the stress mounting in his behavior and actions as every even in the day went against him. It was a literal ticking bomb ready to explode and the aforementioned climax was that very instant. In this production, the Count brings in a set of tools and an axe to break down the Countess' closet door because he believes that she is hiding her lover in it (it is in fact Cherubino). This exaggerated prop comes off as a hilarious gag in most circumstances, but Kwiecien's bull-like rage made this far from a funny matter. When the Countess utters "You are making me afraid for the boy's safety," the audience feels it too. Kwiecien's voice was at its most resonant throughout the evening, the rage embodied in his willingness to sing to his maximum volume at crucial moments. Just look at his aria "Vedro menti'io sospiro" in which every single consonant was given extra bite and emphasis, a man hanging on to his own sanity, a volcano ready to erupt. He employed a similar relish of the consonants during his scene with Susanna at the start of Act 3 and the scene in the Pine Grove with the Countess in Act 4 (he made the already overtly sexual "Mi pizzica, mi stuzzica" sound pornographic), showcasing his potent sexual urges.

The viewer could see him as a conniver in the Act 2 confrontation with his wife. Realizing that he has wrongly accused the Countess, he sets out to make amends. Here Kwiecien sweetened his voice, singing a tender and nuanced piano and would undoubtedly melt the hearts of any woman in attendance. That he used this very same color at the climactic "O Contessa, perdona" took away from the credibility of his intentions. Was he truly sincere, or was this yet another one of his terrifically calculated manipulations? It certainly added ambiguity to the often unbelievable ending (why would she ever forgive this particular Count after his repeated abuse toward her). Admittedly, this was not necessarily a Count one could feel bad for, but it was a fresh and compelling take that few are willing to risk.

To counteract the heightened levels of testosterone from the two lead men were more balanced portrayals of Susanna and the Countess. If the men were all unbridled passion and emotion, it was the women that really lent the work its intelligence and calculation. In many respects, Susanna is the heroine of the story. While her betrothed is constantly seeing his plans ruined, she is the one everyone turns to to save the day. It is Susanna to whom Cherubino confides in when he is being chased out of the house. The Countess eventually notes that she has to ask her servant for help. The Count looks to Susanna to help him make peace with his wife during their big battle. And it is Susanna who is the real object of desire for the two central men and one boy (in this production a few other men take their own sexual swipes or looks at Susanna, as well). And all the while, she has to essentially maintain her own wits and balance the entire household.

Tasked with enacting this role was Australian soprano Danielle de Niese, who was sang despite being announced as sick. Sick or not, the soprano provided a virtuosic turn of the heroine as both the nicest woman in the world, but also the most intelligent. At one point, she looked guilt-ridden as Figaro and the Count took turns lambasting and questioning her uncle Antonio. This relationship is often overlooked by virtue of Antonio never battling on her side or simply playing a bit part in the overarching structure. But in this particular scene, de Niese's pleading glances at her lover to "back off him a little" not only connected the two, but told the viewer that Susanna was not particularly happy about this treatment.

In an earlier moment, Susanna prepared to walk out of her room as Cherubino sang the famous "Non so piu cosa son, cosa faccio." But upon hearing him sing the final phrase, "E se non ho chi m'oda (and I have no one to hear me)," she turned around, gave him the most tender of glances, and sat back down to finish listening to his plight.

But de Niese certainly displayed Susanna's cleverness and even her own riskiness. While knowing full well of her wrong doing, she still seemed intent on playing the role the Count wanted during their sexual encounters in Act 1 and 3. In Act 1, she allowed him some space, but at the moment that he went too far, she would slap him or push him away; an indication that she understood that he was after all her master and that she had to cede him some ground in order to maintain hers and Figaro's good standing. In Act 3, however, she let him do everything he wanted, but her face clearly indicated a level of disgust and discomfort.

Her interactions with Schrott had a clumsiness to them that highlighted their rather comfortable relationship. In their opening duet, they constantly toyed with one another as they tried to get the sexual upperhand and in the final act, seated on a bench, she almost fell out of his lap before he heroically saved her from the fall. That her fury with him was all the more potent in their most trying moments added to the veracity of the relationship and the viewer's ability to engage and root for them.

Vocally, de Niese was wonderful, her Susanna taking on a more delicate complexity throughout. As opposed to the male singers and their brilliance in reaching new voluminous heights, her more restrained singing emphasized the character's grounded qualities. Despite playing with Cherubino during her first aria, "Venite, inginocchiatevi," there was a soothing sound in her singing to reassure the anxious boy. Her interactions with the Countess had a similar comforting quality, particularly during the letter scene where Rachel Willis-Sorensen's Countess seemed to lose composure. De Niese provided all the confidence she needed to regain her strength. In her final aria, "Deh vieni, non tardar," De Niese clearly used the aria as a means of baiting the suspicious Figaro. The tone, delicate as ever, had a sensuality that was made all the more present by her willingness to stretch out certain moments and caress each word and consonant in a manner reminiscent of the Count's sexual enunciations. And yet there was a sublime earnestness to the rendition. While she was singing to toy with him, she was simultaneously singing to him and pondering the consummation of their wedding night. The subtle pianissimo of the aria's cadenza carried the purity of their love.

In her debut run as the Countess, Rachel Willis-Sorensen imbued nostalgia, constant suffering and yet a tremendous sense of poise and restraint. Her inner strength was best showcased in her Act 2 showdown with the Count, in which he was treating her worse than he treats any servant in the entire show. Upon such woeful abuse, no one would blame her character for breaking down and begging for mercy. And while there was some vulnerability coming through, she stood her ground as best she could. The contrast between her steadfast Countess and Kwiecien's volatile count made for one of the most emotional honest and powerful scenes of the night. It truly highlighted the power contrasts between the two and solidified her position -- not as his subordinate, but as an adult in a house rife with children.

Her two major arias, both laments of times gone by and her lack of love, actually displayed an emotional arc for the Countess. "Porgi Amor" had a degree of restraint as Willis-Sorensen opted for singing it between her mezza voce and a stark piano. There was tenderness and delicacy in the phrasing that would suddenly move into a hushed ethereal pianissimo that incapsulated the piercing pain, particularly on the phrase "Oh mi lascia almen morir" during a vocal ascent. The second aria "Dove sono" showed an even more broken Countess. Her voice was at its fullest emotional resources in the recitativo leading up to it and the first half of the aria was sung as if a full-fledged lament. At the repeat, she sang with more muted tone and delicious ornamentation, the tempo even more stretched, almost acknowledging defeat. But the final section "Ah se almen la mia costanza" showcased the return of the composure that had started to wither away. The heroic singing of Willis-Sorensen made the audience feel that despite what would happen, the Countess was going to be just fine.

As Cherubino, Serena Malfi was yet another of the cast's many standouts. She gave a truly physical portrayal of the young boy, developing him from a sulking and seemingly depressed teen into a charismatic and flirtatious fellow. Her opening aria, "Non so piu cosa son, cosa faccio," showcased Cherubino as full of teen angst and eventually settling into a depressive mode as he talked about having no one to sing to but himself. The singing here was ardent and her voice had a purity that truly captured the essence of innocent youth. During the famous "Voi che sapete," the singing was more ardent as the aria developed. In this production, Cherubino is nervous to sing the song and engages in mannerisms of performance to get started. In that opening section of the aria, Malfi pushed the exaggeration to the utmost, her voice even over-articulating some consonants. But as Cherubino grew comfortable in the presence of the Countess, the voice developed a warmth and depth in its subtlety. There was a gorgeous intimacy in the mezza voce singing as well. It was a complete transformation from a young and scared boy to a confident and seductive youth. The remainder of the performances showed this maturation in its fits and starts. In some moments, Malfi's Cherubini retained the youthful bashfulness while at others the arriving man would reassert himself.

Ashley Emerson was a very flirtatious Barbarina, but she also played her confrontation with the Count in a highly direct manner. There was no attempt at cloying with the master, but her attempts at blackmail came off as overt threats.

The remainder of the cast featured singers who participated in the first run of the production but each brought nuances that were not shared previously. Susanne Mentzner's Marcellina was not quite as violent with de Niese's Susanne as she was with Marlis Peterson's, but she certainly had a more overtly sexual fascination with Schrott's Figaro than in the earlier run. Meanwhile John Del Carlo was more stoic and looming as Don Bartolo, but there was a decided warmth in his character once he realizes that he is to be a father and husband. Greg Fedderly amped up the sexual interest in Susanna this time around while Philip Cokorinos' Antonio was particularly aggressive when the Count prepared to beat down his daughter. It was a subtle but potent moment that really made the often ridiculed character memorable. Scott Scully made a solid duo as Don Curzio with Kwiecien during the famed sextet. 

Conductor Edo de Waart did a terrific job of maintaining an even-keeled rendition of the propulsive score. Tempi labored a bit in the overture and there were moments where the orchestra seemed intent on rushing singers, but he managed to keep the balance appropriate throughout the evening. If anything, there was some restraint from de Waart in letting the orchestra's full-bodied sound reach its apex. But this is after all Mozart and not Wagner or Verdi, and restraint is more than welcome.

Richard Eyre's production showed its staying power and furthered the notion that the director favored his actors over any model concept. The world of his Figaro came alive thanks to its tremendous cast and solid conductor. There is one more performance of this great masterpiece before it is completely finished for the 2014-15 season.