Eugene Onegin, Tiroler Landestheater, 26 April 2025

Images: Birgit Gufler
Onegin (Jacob Phillips), Sie (Eleonore Bürcher), Tatiana (Marie Smolka)

Eugene Onegin: Jacob Phillips
Tatiana: Marie Smolka
Lensky: Alexander Fedorov
Olga: Bernarda Klinar
Prince Gremin: Oliver Sailer
Mme Larina: Abongile Fumba
Filipyevna: Fotini Athanasaki
Zaretsky: Julien Horbatuk
Monsieur Triquet: Jason Lee
Captain: Stanislav Stambolov
Sie: Eleonore Bürcher
Precentor: Junghwan Lee

Director: Eva-Maria Höckmayr
Designs: Julia Rösler
Dramaturgy: Diana Merkel

Chorus and Extra Chorus of the Tiroler Landestheater (chorus director: Michael Roberger)

Tiroler Symphonieorchester Innsbruck

Matthew Toogood (conductor) 

Innsbruck is celebrated as a centre for early music and was, of course, a great centre for what was then contemporary music from the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries, as both capital of the Tyrol and Maximilian I’s Residenzstadt. (It is impossible to avoid his presence, even if for some eccentric reason one should wish to do so.) The Tiroler Landestheater is perhaps less well known to outsiders, but consistently offers adventurous programming in musical and spoken theatre as well as dance. This year’s opera programme ranges from Purcell (King Arthur) to Schoenberg (Von heute auf morgen, in a double-bill with I Pagliacci). I had initially thought I was coming to La clemenza di Tito, but confusion over dates left me with the perfectly acceptable substitute of Eugene Onegin. For devotees of a different kind of musical theatre, the musical Hair is on offer too. 

Eva-Maria Höckmayr’s new production of Onegin can be understood to offer three principal lines of approach: abstraction, feminism, and memory. The last of those is intrinsic to the work, yet is emphasised here in a staging introduced by an enigmatic woman styled simply ‘Sie’ (‘she’ or ‘her’) in possession of Tatiana’s letter or a copy thereof. I initially assumed this was Tatiana later in life, and indeed it might be, but I do not think that is ever rendered explicit in her spoken words. Perhaps it is better to think of her as an Everywoman, who could be archetypal or more specific, according to one’s particular standpoint. Often movingly portrayed by Eleonore Bürcher she observes and occasionally interacts—though the interaction is probably more on her side than that of the others. Memory is like that, though perhaps not entirely, at least in our imagination. Onegin and Tatiana look forward too, after all, accurately or otherwise. The abstraction of Julia Rösler’s set designs, combined with relative, slightly stylised historicity of her costumes likewise creates space not only for more than one standpoint but for their interaction in work and performance. Acts of dressing and undressing contribute further, similarly reminding us that this is both drama and theatre (which involves artifice, and in a postdramatic age may or may not involve drama). 

Tatiana, Onegin, Lensky (Alexander Fedorov)

The feminist or at least female angle is understandable and common to many stagings. No one should object, but I have my doubts with this specific work (whilst, I hope, retaining an open mind). The problem is not so much that this is an opera called Eugene Onegin, not Tatiana Larina. There are plenty of works whose title roles are not their central one; we do not complain that Rameau wrote Hippolyte et Aricie, for instance. Nor is there any intrinsic problem with decentring a character; it can benefit all characters, the decentred one included, as for instance we saw in Dmitri Tcherniakov’s Aix Carmen. Instead, the problem lies with Tchaikovsky having created an opera in which, unless one is careful, Tatiana (whose feelings are surely in large part a projection of his own) already overshadows the others. To my mind, a richer and more balanced dramatic treatment necessitates a little gentle help for Onegin to emerge, most likely (though not necessarily) bringing out the torment of his feelings for Lensky: important in themselves, but also because they and the situation created bring Lensky and Olga, arguably Prince Gremin, to life too. The score suggests, even straightforwardly tells us things Pushkin does not. Here, Lensky and Olga in particular seemed a little lost, abandoned even, as surplus to requirements. One can say, of course, that Tatiana deserves to be rescued from homosexual projection, to become her own character. That is a laudable aim, but I think it happens anyway in the third act, and the danger of overbalancing is greater. Still, this is a general issue I have with stagings of the work, not with this one, which pursues its approach with intelligence and a welcome openness.   

Moreover, Höckmayr and Marie Smolka present an undeniably interesting, sympathetic Tatiana, especially in the first act, where we see her so shy, perhaps even emotionally crippled, that she can hardly bear look Onegin in the face, let alone touch him, in evidenf contrast with the existing warm relationship between Lensky and Olga. Smolka’s portrayal warmed as her character did, in general finely spun vocally and dramatically. Jacob Phillips’s thoughtful Onegin offered a trajectory of its own, always working with yet far from limited to the text. If it was not favoured by the production, its quality was such that it nonetheless had space to shine. Alexander Fedorov’s Lensky was ardent, involving, again to an extent that it overcame the challenge imparted by the production. Jason Lee’s Triquet brought a welcome sense of theatricality and ambiguity. Other parts were well taken, but for me the evening’s true discovery was Abongile Fumba, whose rich-toned, compassionate Mme Larina had me keen to hear her in more extended roles. Oliver Sailer's Prince Gremin rightly drew enthusiastic applause at the close.

Orchestra and chorus showed themselves flexible throughout. If, at times, Matthew Toogood’s tempi seemed a little slow, I suspect that was from a concern, successfully achieved, to assist a cast of mostly young singers grow into its roles rather than an overall conception. That such a work can be cast from company singers and that others will be too speaks of the ongoing worth of a system British ‘major’ houses have long since abandoned, to their – and our – detriment. For now, in the words of that celebrated Renaissance song by Heinrich Issac, ‘Innsbruck, ich muss dich lassen,’ but I hope to return.

Orpheus/L'Orfeo, Komische Oper, 16 April 2022

(sung as Orpheus in German translation by Susanne Felicitas Wolf)

Orfeo – Dominik Köninger
Euridice – Josefine Mindus
Amor – Peter Renz
Sylvia/Proserpina – Maria Fiselier
Plutone, Caronte – Tijl Faveyts
Figures of Orpheus and Eurydice – Alexander Soehnle, Helen Schumann
Dancers - Meri Ahmaniemi, Martina Borroni, Ana Dordevic, Zoltan Fekete, Michael Fernandez, Paul Gerritsen, Claudio Greco, Marcel Prét, Tara Rendell, Lorenzo Soragni

Barrie Kosky (director)
Katrin Lea Tag (designs)
Katharina Tasch (costumes)
Ulrich Lenz (dramaturgy)
Otto Pichler (choreography)
Alexander Koppelmann (lighting)

  
Chorus (chorus master: David Caevlius) and Orchestra of the Komische Oper

Matthew Toogood (conductor)

Amor (Peter Renz), Orpheus (Dominik Köninger)
Images: Iko Freese / drama-berlin.de

Barrie Kosky’s advent as Intendant of the Komische Oper in 2012 was marked by a twelve-hour ‘Monteverdi Trilogy’, in which the three extant Monteverdi operas were given in new productions and in newly composed realisations by Elena Kats-Chernin (also new German translations by Susanne Felicitas Wolf). Avid Monteverdian, especially in non-‘period’ guise, though I be, I was unable to attend, but have tried to make up for that since. I saw Poppea five years later, in 2017; five years, after that, comes Orpheus/Orfeo. If I must wait another five for Ulisse, so be it, but I hope to have opportunity a little sooner.

Orpheus, as one would expect, was originally seen first. Although I was surprised how well Poppea adapted to German translation—testament, doubtless, to Wolf’s work, as well as to collaboration with Kosky and Kats-Chernin—this probably did still more so. It seemed, if anything, more conceived as a new whole. (Or perhaps I was more receptive. Who knows?) At any rate, Kats-Chernin’s opening suggests more powerfully something new, rising from a stable yet uncertain bass, to take in yet also go beyond Monteverdi (including leaving, with great regret, some elements of an acknowledged masterpiece). The sound-world in general speaks of the Mediterranean—all its shores, not just the north-west—though in more popular vein than, say, Henze’s extraordinary realisation of Ulisse. This, one might say, is Monteverdi for the Komische Oper rather than for Salzburg.

Orpheus, Eurydike (Josefine Mindus)

 

Kats-Chernin deploys a splendid array of continuo instruments (accordion, bandoneon, cimbalom, the ancient djoze, and double bass). Apparently, some listeners were unhappy with the use of accordion in particular, lamenting its lack of decay, which they associated, not entirely unreasonably, with continuo playing. It did not trouble me; quite the contrary, I found it atmospheric and duly flexible. I should also point doubters (on principle) to Monteverdi’s own use of organ, including the reedy regal, for Hades. Otherwise, we have six first violins, four seconds, two double basses, two flutes/piccolos, two clarinets, bass clarinet, contrabassoon, percussion (including vibraphone), celesta, and synthesiser; and, from the auditorium, used in sparing yet quite spectacular fashion, two antiphonal funeral bands (two bassoons; two horns, two trombones, tuba, and percussion; and two horns, two trumpets, bass trombone, tuba, and percussion). It is ‘interventionist’, I suppose. Whatever would be the point, especially in Orfeo, with its meticulous instrumentation, of not being so? But, with hints of a liminal electronic world, yet still rooted in worlds of Monteverdi and, one can fancy, of Thrace, it challenges us to locate ourselves and our responses within a lush, almost overgrown visual world prior to civilisation.

Kosky’s staging is, as one might expect, still more exuberant: literally, at times, all-singing, all-dancing. The energy of the opening wedding festivities must have come across as a powerful statement of intent, as well as a great deal of fun; it still does now, also as a fine testament to his years as Intendant. There are no inhibitions here, and somehow even fewer as time goes by. The sheer physicality and sensuality of by no means explicit portrayal, centred on Dominik Köninger’s sensationally sung, danced, and acted Orpheus (also a fine Nerone in Poppea) is impossible to resist. Amidst nymphs, fauns, a whole cosmogony of ancient-modern life, everyone can find his, her, or their part. One can see and more or less feel the sweat on their bodies, prior to tragedy and then again prior to what may or may not be apotheosis. La Musica becomes Amor/Cupid, signalling less a move away from the primacy of music as acknowledgement of its greater powers. Peter Renz I recognised from Poppea; he did a similarly characterful job here, and is clearly a crucial thread running between the three.

 

It is not Apollo, but a woman—Sylvia (Maria Fiselier), albeit singing Apollo’s words—who beautifully calls Orpheus to the stars. I am not quite sure why; at the time, I simply assumed it was, for some reason, a female Apollo. Contrast with Tijl Faveyts’s dark-hued bass (Pluto/Charon) is also heightened. It does no harm, though, and perhaps reflects a greater surrounding fluidity, to which all contribute, ambiguous puppet figures of Orpheus and Eurydike included. The latter’s return to Hades is accomplished in moving vocal terms by Josefine Mindus, as well as by a finely conceived—and executed—moment of stage decision, returning her to those depths from which she had never quite risen. In that connection, what happens at the close is interesting, Orpheus re-entering, at Cupid’s behest, the pool into which he had descended to find his love in Hades. Perhaps this is not, after all, the after-life he has been promised. Happy Easter.