 |
| Images: Bernd Uhlig |
Médée – Sonya Yoncheva
Jason – Francesco Demuro
Créon – Iain Paterson
Dircé – Slávka Zámečníková
Néris – Marina Prudenskaya
Médée’s handmaidens – Serena
Sáenz, Aytak Shikhalizada
Médée’s children – Malik Bah,
Toyi Kramer
Andrea Breth (director)
Martin Zehetgruber (set
designs)
Carla Teti (costumes)
Olaf Freese (lighting)
Staatsopernchor Berlin (chorus director: Martin Wright)
Staatskapelle Berlin
Oksana Lyniv (conductor)
Since enduring Simon Stone’s extravagant travesty of Cherubini’s Médée in Salzburg last summer, I have been keen to see an alternative
staging. That opportunity came sooner than I had dared hope, with a revival of
Andrea Breth’s 2018 production for the Staatsoper Unter den Linden. One major
concern notwithstanding, Breth’s production is in another league, an
intelligent attempt, in many respects well realised, to respond both to the specificity
of the work and to some of its broader ideological concerns.
Set designs (Martin
Zehetgruber) are more or less what one would expect from a Breth production.
More concerned, at least unless I were missing something, with establishing a
stage aesthetic than with specific meaning of their own, they would not have
looked entirely out of place in her Wozzeck
or Lulu
for this same house. I have no problem with that: different directors work in
different ways; the point here is to focus on what does matter dramatically to
Breth and her collaborators, a mission finely accomplished. Balance is well
judged between provision of a space – not just a scenic space, but certainly
that too – for the drama, renewed in much of its horror, strangeness, and yet
credibility and familiarity, to unfold, and a critical stance upon Médée’s
status as an outsider. With respect to the former, Breth clearly knows how to
bring out the best from her cast as actors; there is little or no sense of
anything extraneous, rather of a musical drama unfolding, gathering pace,
enveloping characters and audience – when it can be bothered to remain silent –
alike.
This is not a reductive attempt, as
with Stone, to make Médée ‘relatable’; in reality, all it did was banish her
story and much of her agency. This Médée knows her strengths, is unafraid to
use them, and exacts her revenge – just as we should expect. Yet, alongside
that, Breth takes care to suggest why this might be so. Créon’s Corinth is not
and could never be a friendly place to her, however magnanimously her rival
Dirce’s father might have offered ‘sanctuary’ to Médée’s sons. Therein, alas,
lies my major concern too. It is an excellent idea, with strong roots in the ‘original’
myth as well as in the opera itself, to stress Médée’s unacceptable otherness
to the polis. Carla Teti’s costumes,
Olaf Freese’s lighting, and various other aspects of the production, contribute
to this admirably, as does Sonya Yoncheva’s performance. The discredited
practice of ‘brownface’, however, does little more than distract, at best, as
unnecessary as it is offensive. Had there been some element of deconstruction,
in a very different, less direct sort of production, perhaps showing a ‘behind
the scenes’ transformation or at any rate problematising the practice, perhaps
there would have been an argument. Here, I am afraid it steals the show in
quite the wrong way: a great pity.
For Yoncheva’s performance was
of a stature that it would have moved and explained all simply – or not so
simply – through her voice, let alone her stage presence. Clean and focused of
tone – no ‘dramatic’ imprecision here – yet at the same all-encompassing in its
mystery and magic, hers was a contribution that gripped from beginning to end. Slávka
Zámečníková’s Dircé, spirited and alluring, yet a fatally insecure rival,
proved equally impressive, as did Marina Prudenskaya’s typically thoughtful,
beautifully sung account of Néris, Médées faithful slave. As Jason, Francesco
Demuro acted well, taking care not to court our sympathy, yet vocally, this was
often an unduly Italianate, extroverted performance, out of kilter not only
with the production but with a greater appreciation of French style shown
elsewhere. A dry-toned Iain Paterson was strangely out of sorts in his
first-act aria, ‘C’est à vous de trembler,’ yet rallied later on. Choral
singing was excellent throughout.
If there were times when I
wished for something a little larger-scale, more ‘Romantic’ – I could not help
but wonder what Daniel Barenboim made of Cherubini’s score in 2018 – Oksana
Lyniv’s conducting had its own logic and merits, well placed to win over any
scepticism founded in mere taste. I admired her technical control over the Staatskapelle
Berlin last autumn in the concert hall. Similarly admirable control and what came across as fine rapport with the orchestra were harnessed to proper understanding of
the dramatic implications of Cherubini’s musical structures. In the theatre,
structure became form, most strikingly of all in the third act, yet without question
throughout. Neo-Gluckian style was harnessed to idea, rather than vice versa.
The ‘version’ of spoken dialogue
used, credited to Breth and Sergio Morabito, worked well, an inordinate
improvement on the interminable voicemail messages – I kid you not – served up by
Stone in Salzburg. Even Médée’s breathy, amplified, final-act interventions
stayed the right side of menace and ‘madness’. That strange, sad miscalculation
concerning make-up notwithstanding, then, there was more than enough to confirm
the stature of Cherubini’s opera and have one experience its musico-dramatic immediacy.
This was a serious confrontation with a serious drama.
