Carmen, Deutsche Oper, 26 October 2023

Carmen – Aigul Akhmetshina
Don José – David Butt Philip
Micaëla – Maria Motolygina
Escamillo – Byung Gil Kim
Zuniga – Christian Simmons
Moralès – Dean Murphy
Frasquita – Meechot Marrero
Mercédès – Arianna Manganello
Dancaïro – Artur Garbas
Remendado – Kieran Carrel
Lillas Pastia – Dean Street
Mercédès’s daughter – Fatima Hammad

Ole Anders Tandberg (directo)
Erlend Birkeland (set designs)
Maria Geber (costumes)
Ellen Ruge (lighting)
Silke Sense (choreography)

Children’s Chorus of the Deutsche Oper (chorus director: Christian Lindhorst)

Chorus of the Deutsche Oper (chorus director: Jeremy Bines) 

Orchestra of the Deutsche Oper

Ben Glassberg (conductor)

Images from 2018 original production with different cast: © Marcus Lieberenz

Hmmm. I think I could see, some of the time, what Ole Anders Tandberg was trying to do in his 2018 Deutsche Oper production of Carmen. There were some reasonable ideas, some less so, and some that were frankly terrible. Next to Dmitri Tcherniakov’s brilliant reimagining of the work for Aix the previous year, though, this did not really pass muster. If you like gruesome imagery with unfortunate (I assume they were accidental) racist overtones, this may be for you. If not, even something more ’traditional’ is likely to prove a better bet than this. 

The curtain confronting us on entrance to the theatre, sets the tone: a bloody scene, involving what must have been the gouged eye of a bull. Once the curtain rises, the bullring (Iberia, not Birmingham) is centre stage, and proves to be the only setting for the entire thing: either inside, the arena suggestive of an amphitheatre, or outside (as one would expect for the fourth act). Fair enough, except nothing really is done with this. The metatheatrical suggestion turns out to have nothing to it. And whilst we know Carmen involves bullfighting, is it really ‘about’ it? It could be, I suppose, but there is little sign of that here, other than a strange obsession with internal organs (and even that is pushing an association). 

Violence, one might say, is a central theme, though nowadays we tend to tread a little more carefully when it comes to that perpetrated by men on women. Micaëla is sexually assaulted by the soldiers when she arrives, which makes her embarrassing octopus-like approach to Don José at best unfortunate. (I might suggest she was traumatised, but I do not think we go that deep.) More fundamentally, the ‘symbolic’ association of Carmen with a bull is, on a charitable reading, extremely unfortunate. Portraying the Roma community as body snatchers dealing in human organs: well, I shall leave it at that. Don José’s enthusiastic induction at the end of the second act, harvesting Zuniga’s innards I shall let speak for itself; likewise the cardless card scene in which entrails, gingerly approached with white rubber gloves, are not so much consulted as haplessly dangled. 

If anything worse still, the idea of Carmen as an opéra comique is abandoned for what seems to think itself a knowing send-up of grand opéra – why, when the work is not that in the first place? – yet ends up capitulating to Meyerbeerian ‘effect without cause’ far more than it realises. Strange people, presumably symbolic of something or other, march around the stage to no particular effect. Some are in drag, others are children, others are soldiers who excitedly attempt, without success, to have sex with the stadium walls (and are promptly carried off by the bodysnatchers). Choreography, here as elsewhere, is worse than unfortunate. Tandberg’s production, then, is less ‘about’ vulgarity, ‘knowing’ trajes de gitana notwithstanding, and more plain vulgar.   

Given the setting, Aigul Akhmetshina and David Butt Philip emerged with considerable dignity, the musicality and dramatic commitment of their performances impressive throughout. Akhmetshina did what she could to present a proper mixture of pride and vulnerability, in a readily communicative performance Butt Philip seems unable to put a foot wrong right now, readily conquering swathes of the tenor repertoire. I am happy to report that his French is excellent too. Would that I could say the same for Byung Gil Kim’s Escamillo, for which I was lucky to decipher one word in twenty. It was a pity, since his dark tone and stage presence showed promise; but if all one is left for the words is to read the surtitles, then much is lost. Maria Motolygina’s Micaëla was beautifully sung, despite Tandberg’s peculiar conception of the role. Indeed, so was everything else, the well-trained chorus included. My heart went out to its singers for some of the am-dram movement they were required to do: again, presumably ‘ironic’, yet hardly seeming so. 

The faults of the evening lay neither in the singing nor in the pit, where Ben Glassberg conducted an incisive, colourful account of the orchestral score, considerate to singers without bowing to them, aided immensely by keen, responsive playing from the Orchestra of the Deutsche Oper. He was not helped by having to stop for all-too-numerous incidents of mid-act applause in what appeared to verge on built-in pauses onstage. I may be too Wagnerian, may Nietzsche forgive me, about this, but such monotonous regularity of indiscriminate applause does no one any good. Nor, I fear, will a barrage of coughing from all quarters, suggestive of an advanced-stage tuberculosis clinic. Surely part of a director’s job would be at least to encourage continuity of action; but then a good part of that job seemed on this occasion to have been missed. Rarely has Andalusia seemed less inviting or less interesting.

 

Les Contes d’Hoffmann, Deutsche Oper, 24 October 2019

 Deutsche Oper, Berlin

Image: Bettina Stöß

Hoffmann – Marc Laho

Stella, Olympia, Antonia, Giulietta – Heather Engebretson

Lindorf, Coppélius, Miracle, Dapertutto – Byung Gil Kim

Muse, Nicklausse – Irene Roberts

Andrès, Cochenille, Franz, Pitichianaccio – Andrew Dickinson

Mother’s Voice – Ronnita Miller

Spalanzani – Jörg Schörner

Luther, Crespel – Andrew Harris

Hermann – Matthew Cossack

Schlemihl – Timothy Newton

Natanael – Ya-Chung Huang

Laurent Pelly (director)

Christian Räth (revival director)

Chantal Thomas (designs)

Joël Adam (lighting)

Charles Carcopino (video)

Agathe Mélinand, Katharina Duda (dramaturgy)

Chorus (chorus master: Jeremy Bines) of the Deutsche Oper, Berlin 

Orchestra of the Deutsche Oper, Berlin

Daniel Carter (conductor)

It is a strange piece, The Tales of Hoffmann. I can only speak from my own experience, but, irrespective of performance, irrespective of production, irrespective of textual issues, it never quite seems to come off. Perhaps it is that, as a friend said to me last night, it is too ambitious. That seems to me a better emphasis than ‘problematical’, though arguably the distinction in meaning is negligible. It also points, as that wise and learned friend went on, to the opera’s charm: a more fragile and yes, perhaps, problematical beast, given scale and forces, than the more intimate, often acutely satirical opéras bouffes with which Offenbach is more naturally bien dans sa peau.

Something could – should – be done with those and other tensions, with the work’s metatheatricality, with the fantasy of a work that, after all, is designated an opéra fantastique. Laurent Pelly, alas, would not seem to be the director for any of that. If there is nothing especially wrong with his production, new last year, nor is there anything especially right with – or, better, compelling to – it, either. There are handsome, if highly conservative, set and costume designs (Chantal Thomas, with assistance from Jean-Jaques Delmotte in the latter case), accomplished revival direction and Spielleitung (Christian Räth and Eva-Maria Abelein), and that is about it. Of questions arising from writing an opera based on a play about a writer we have nothing; of any subtexts, be they political, aesthetic, sexual, anything at all, nothing; of a critical standpoint, nothing; of anything approaching modern, let alone contemporary, theatre nothing; and so on, and so forth. There was not even anything in the way of spectacle; unless, out of desperation, you were to count a large video projection of Antonia’s mother’s face, to accompany her voice from beyond. Were this the n^th revival, replete with a new lick of paint, of something in the repertory for four or five decades, one might think something once present had been lost; in this case, it is difficult to escape the conclusion that Pelly had presented precious little to get one’s teeth into in the first place. There is so much more potentially here – one need not look elsewhere – than is acknowledged by so reactionary a standpoint. Just when I thought there might be the glimmerings of a concept, however circumscribed, in the Olympia act, seeing the mechanical doll’s visible stage apparatus, it turned out to be no such thing: sometimes visible stage apparatus is just somewhat unfortunately visible stage apparatus. One can recognise and celebrate the skilled work of all involved backstage – true, valuable skills – while wishing it had been put in the service of something more interesting. The version employed had its virtues and its problems; I shall leave them for another day.

If there was little in the way of theatrical interest, however, there was much to admire musically. This was the first time I had heard Daniel Carter conduct, but I hope it will not be the last. If I say that his conducting did not attract attention to itself, I do not intend to imply that it was dull, far from it; rather, there was a rightness to his choices of tempo, of balance, and everything else that fed the illusion was ‘simply’ hearing Offenbach. The Deutsche Oper’s orchestra and chorus proved estimable partners in crime: incisive, fantastical, wry, full of body as required. French vocal style seems a well-nigh impossible thing for modern, international – even modern French – casts to bring off; or perhaps my expectations are at fault. That said, there was an uncommonly high success rate with the language: never something to be taken for granted. And if some singing tended unduly towards the Italianate, it was not so difficult to enjoy it for what it was. Marc Laho and Heather Engebretson worked tirelessly in the central roles, both vividly communicative, the latter distinguishing and yet combining the demands of her various characters with great success – and scoring higher in the stylistic stakes than most. Byung Gil Kim’s bass-baritone proved a joy from beginning to end; darkly suave, this is surely a Don Giovanni in the making, perhaps already made. Moreover, I can imagine Boris Godunov knocking on the door a few years down the line. Irene Roberts’s Muse and Nicklausse were beautifully, honestly sung and acted throughout: another artist from whom I hope to see and hear more. Andrew Dickinson and – offstage – Ronnita Miller also shone; as, highly creditably, did the excellent tenor, Ya-Chung Huang in the role of Natanael. There were no weak links, though; and, as so often, at this house, a proper sense of company. If only there had been a production to match.

Turandot, Deutsche Oper, 10 October 2019

Deutsche Oper, Berlin

Turandot – Elisabeth Teige

Altoum – Peter Maus

Calaf – Ragaà Eldin

Liú – Meechot Marrero

Timur – Byung Gil Kim

Ping – Samuel Dale Johnson

Pang – Michael Kim

Pong – Ya-Chung Huang

Mandarin – Patrick Guetti

Prince of Persia – Olli Rantaseppä (voice), Spyridon Markopoulos (stage)

Two Girls – Alexandra Hutton, Anna Buslidze

Lorenzo Fioroni (director)

Claudia Gotta (revival director)

Paul Zoller (set designs and video)

Katharina Gault (costumes) 

Children’s Chorus of the Deutsche Oper (chorus master: Christian Lindhorst)

Chorus of the Deutsche Oper (chorus master: Jeremy Bines) 

Orchestra of the Deutsche Oper
Claude Schnitzler (conductor)

© Bettina Stöß, 2008

Having seen and thought well of Lorenzo Fioroni’s Deutsche Oper production of Turandot five years ago, I was keen once more to make its acquaintance. It did not disappoint, sadly remaining the only interesting staging I have seen,  even though what I took from it this time was somewhat different this time around: whether from difference in emphasis onstage or in my reception I am not entirely sure.

The setting is a relatively modern fascist state: perhaps 1970s, on the basis of costumes and flocked wallpaper, though I am not sure it especially matters beyond not being a regime of Puccini’s own time. (That would open up interesting possibilities for dealing with orientalism and downright racism, yet must await another day.) The people, who had never reminded me so strongly before of those in Boris Godunov, are kept in check by police brutality; quite who is running the show remains unclear, though, the Emperor clearly old and frail, and not alone in that in what seems externally to be a gerontocracy in desperate need of renewal. Why one woman in the crowd refuses to turn and bow to him is again never explained: is she deranged, a dissident, or both? She is eventually beaten into submission. Lack of explanation, though, enables one to draw connections as one will: of whom, or what, is she a harbinger? Liú in heroic defiance? Calaf in foolhardiness? Turandot in a hysteria that here strongly characterises both setting and action? We see Turandot desperately trying to keep things together both before and during the riddles. And she too must obey something higher, an initial refusal to concede following defeat met with police on either side of the stage barring her way.

Marriage of terror and hysteria is the overriding impression, indeed the true marriage, of which that of Calaf and Turandot will be but a reflection. It may and should be understood both politically and psychoanalytically. We see it in the video images of children unable to sleep prior to ‘Nessun dorma’; we see it in the crowd; we see it in the deeds of individuals. We see it also in the falling scenery after the interval (between the two scenes of the second act): the cruelty of a metal frame a metaphor for society and emotions alike. Liú remains hanging from a noose, a warning sign to those who might actually attempt to tell, let alone live, the truth: for her presence, at least that fashion, is also a lie: she was not hanged, but stabbed by the knife she grabbed and turned on herself. The repellent nature of Calaf’s victory is underscored by his final deed: moving to embrace his father, who had been wandering aimlessly before sinking in depression, only to stab him and, quite without emotion, return to his bride. A theatre of cruelty indeed.

Not that the commedia dell’arte is neglected, far from it, whatever the problematical nature of Puccini’s injection of (too much?) psychological realism into the scenario. (Perhaps the problem lies more with unsatisfactory performance traditions; a baleful operatic culture that too often damns Puccini’s operas with box-office-driven productions in mind has much to answer for.) Whatever the truth of that, the pantomimes performed by Ping, Pong, and Pang fascinate, enlivening yet ultimately disconcerting in their mockery. They anticipate, imitate, repeat endless rituals of hope and death that lie at the heart of this strange yet all too familiar society. Are they tellers of potentially liberating truths, in which a Turandot in travesty may gently be mocked? Ultimately not, it seems. Not only are they prisoners too; they, Ping in particular, participate with relish in the capture and torture of Liú. Perhaps they are not to blame; how could they act otherwise? (As we know, they would rather return to the country.) They offer a way of seeing ourselves in all our contradictions, as well as the other characters onstage. Rightly, they fail to live up to our delusional expectations.

Both the chorus and orchestra of the Deutsche Oper were on fine form, clearly relishing the cruel yet often playful drama of Puccini’s score. Claude Schnitzler led his forces well. If his direction sometimes seemed a little too hard-driven to begin with, only to relax a little too much in response, that should not be exaggerated. Harmonies that might have come from Schoenberg or Debussy were just as much the thing as Stravinskian rhythm. Puccini’s Italian heart continued to beat below, however sadistic its dictates. Elisabeth Teige and Ragàa Eldin both took a little time to settle into their roles as Turandot and Calaf. The former greatly benefited from relative taming of her vibrato, proceeding to offer a performance of considerable verbal and musical acuity. Once he had found his balance with the orchestra, Eldin likewise won his laurels, though he might have sung ‘Nessun dorma’ a little less as a stand-alone aria. The tragic tenderness of Liú’s death did great credit to Meechot Marrero, sadistic knife cuts from her torturer – onstage, that is, as opposed to the composer – rendering it close to unwatchable. From the rest of the cast, Samuel Dale Johnson’s quicksilver Ping made one especially keen to see and hear more, but his companions, Michael Kim and Ya-Chung Huang impressed too, as did Byung Gil Kim’s sonorous Timur. This was a strong company evening, then, that did credit both to the repertory system and to this ultimately bizarre and repellent opera.