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| Images; Ruth Walz/Salzburger Festspiele Charlotte Kahn (Marianne Crebassa), Charlotte Salomon (Johanna Wokalek) |
Felsenreitschule
Charlotte Salomon – Johanna Wokalek
Charlotte Kahn – Marianne Crebassa
Paulinka Bimbam – Anaïk Morel
Amadeus Daberlohn – Frédéric Antoun
Herr Knarre, Fourth Nazi –
Vincent Le Texier
Frau Knarre – Cornelia Kallisch
Franziska Kahn, A Woman – Géraldine
Chauvet
Dr Kahn, First Emigrant –
Jean-Sébastien Bou
Professor Klingklang, Art Student,
Second Nazi, Policeman – Michal Partyka
Art Professor, Propaganda
Minister, First Nazi, Man, Second Emigrant – Eric Huchet
Tyrolese Art Student, Hostel
Landlady – Annika Schlicht
Third Nazi – Wolfgang Resch
Luc Bondy (director)
Johannes Schütz (set designs)
Moidele Bickel (costumes)
Bertrand Couderc (lighting)
Marie-Louise Bischofsberger
(choreography)
Konrad Kuhn (dramaturgy)
I wish I could write more enthusiastically
about this. What, given the delay over Kurtág’s Endgame, still promised for next year, has turned out to be the
first-staged of the Salzburg Festival’s four operatic commissions comes from
the pen of a highly-regarded composer, and treats with a subject that sounds,
on paper at least, not only worthy but interesting. The story of Charlotte
Salomon, a German Jewish artist, who created from her gouaches an
autobiographical work, Leben? oder Theater?
Ein Singespiel, completed in French exile, prior to her unspeakable end in
Auschwitz (not featured here) would seem to propose many possibilities not only
for plot and character portrayal and development, but also for contemplation
upon the artist’s construction of her life, œuvre, and legacy. (I am not sure
why Singespiel rather than Singspiel, although Dalbavie claims in
an interview with Konrad Kuhn that the distinction allowed him to avoid the
classical Singspiel fate of ‘music …
interrupted by spoken scenes of “straight” theatre,’ in favour of ‘recited
texts … woven into the music’.) Alas,
Marc-André Dalbavie’s Charlotte Salomon
proved, if not a failure, then simply rather forgettable, the concept offering
more than the reality.
What, then, was the problem?
Part of it seems to have lain in a somewhat troubled genesis. An original
libretto by Richard Millet, with whom Dalbavie had already collaborated on his
earlier opera, Gesualdo, was
rejected, Dalbavie finding that ‘Millet’s text doesn’t give one enough of an
impression of the person Charlotte Salomon and of her work.’ Millet’s libretto
has apparently since been published separately in book form. Barbara Honigmann
was suggested by Luc Bondy – who had emboldened Dalbavie to reject Millet’s
version – and prepared, reasonably enough, a German libretto, translated into
French. However, Charlotte Salomon (as opposed to her fictitious alter ego, ‘Charlotte Kahn’) retains her
spoken dialogue in German. Much was made in the programme about the ‘chemical
reaction’ between French and German, and so on; in reality, such claims come
across as special pleading for slight awkwardness. Moreover, Honigmann’s
Epilogue underwent radical revision by Bondy and Marie-Louise Bischofsberger at
what seems to have been quite a late – too late? – stage. This can only be
speculation, given that I do not know what Honigmann provided, but the sketchy
nature of the dénouement suggests that either more or less should have been
done. Moreover, whilst this is not an opera ‘about’ National Socialism, the almost-walk-on
roles for a group of brownshirts, however admirably sung, veer dangerously close
to a touch of brief, added ‘colour’.
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| Dr Kann (Jean-Sébastien Bou), Paulinka Bimbam (Anaïk Morel), Amadeus Daberlohn (Frédéric Antoun), Charlotte Kahn, Frau Knarre (Cornelia Kallisch), Vincent Le Texier (Herr Knarre) |
The opera also, I think,
tries to do too much. There is nothing wrong with ambition, of course, but to
write the Ring, you have to be
Wagner, and so on. Salomon’s project was of course in part to encapsulate her reimagined
life in art, but to present what attempts to be almost an autobiography in
operatic form proves too tall an order. The dramatic material actually comes
across, metatheatrical intentions notwithstanding, as more suitable for a
television mini-series, albeit necessarily condensed, than for a viable opera. ‘The
movement of the music and drama,’ Dalbavie claims, ‘does not follow the model
of a linear narrative,’ but that actually is very much how it came across to
me. As long as Das Rheingold, and
likewise presented without an interval – though I do not think a break would
have done any violence here to the ‘two acts with a prelude and an epilogue’ – the
experience is not tedious, nor indeed unpleasant, but nor does it, or rather in
my case did it, inspire, move, or even really engage. Such thoughts and
emotions as I experienced tended to be reflections upon either the idea of the
work or the story that had inspired it.
Dalbavie’s score must also
bear responsibility here. I admit to being no expert on his work, though I have
heard some and generally found it interesting. I was a little surprised to find
it spread so thin, almost as ‘background’. The strongest impressions, arguably
too strong in context, come from the music quoted – Carmen, Der Freischütz, Bist du bei mir, and so on – and refracted
than from the rest, which often just washes over us. Whilst it is perfectly
understandable that Dalbavie, or anyone else, might wish to go beyond spectral
music, as generally understood, there might be more compelling ways to do so.
The writing is undoubtedly refined, in a manner that almost obliges one to
resort to national stereotype, but too often lacks dramatic or indeed even
musical interest. Did the troubles over the libretto lead to too much of a rush
here? Again, such thoughts can only be speculation, and one can only deal with
the results. However, those results, whilst again they could not be described
as either tedious or unpleasant, made surprisingly little impression.
Bondy’s staging is perfectly
decent, stylishly presenting the action, with a degree of simultaneity of
action in the different rooms offered by the long stage of the
Felsenreitschule. (Alvis Hermanis made more of a concerted effort in that
respect for Die Soldaten, two years previously, but there we are dealing with a towering
masterpiece which absolutely requires such treatment.) However, I wondered
whether a more forthright metatheatrical treatment might have drawn out the
latent aspiration of the work. Katie Mitchell, for instance, would seem to have
been made for such themes.
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Musical performances were the
strongest aspect of the evening. Dalbavie, insofar as I could tell for a new
work, drew assured, refined, even committed playing from the Mozarteum
Orchestra: a far more versatile ensemble than its reputation, or rather lazy
reception thereof, might suggest. Marianna Crebassa and Johanna Wokalek did as
much as they could to make one believe in the two Charlottes. Anaïk Morel
offered heartfelt and richly-toned singing as Paulinka Bimbam (Charlotte’s
stepmother, the singer, Paula Lindberg, one of her roles the aforementioned Carmen). Cornelia Kallisch’s appearance
as Charlotte’s grandmother was laudably strong on musico-dramatic
commitment; I longed to hear more from her. Frédéric Antoun also made a fine
impression, especially attentive to words and their dramatic implications, as Amadeus
Daberlohn, the vocal teacher who, in love with Paulinka, spurns the heroine. Indeed,
there was no weak list amongst a hard-working cast. Its members could not,
however, achieve the seemingly impossible. Salomon’s work, seen here briefly, tantalisingly, remains far more
intriguing than this recreation.
