The Makropulos Case, LSO/Rattle, 15 January 2026

 

Barbican Hall

Emilia Marty – Marlis Peterson
Krista – Doubravka Novotná
Albert Gregor – Aleš Briscein
Baron Jaroslav Prus – Svatopluk Sem
Dr Kolenatý, Strojník, Machinist – Jan Martiník
Vítek – Peter Hoare
Count Hauk-Šendorf – Alan Oke
Janek – Vit Nosek
Cleaning lady, chambermaid – Lucie Hilscherová

London Symphony Orchestra
Simon Rattle (conductor)

Images: Mark Allan

 

Simon Rattle’s twin traversal of the Janáček operas in concert in London and onstage in Berlin has now reached The Makropulos Case in the former, Claus Guth’s staging for the Staatsoper Unter den Linden’s having been its first ever. I suspect this may also have been the LSO’s first performance, though shall happily be corrected. At any rate, from the very outset, both Rattle and the LSO sounded entirely ‘inside’ the work, with all the security of a repertory staple, yet with all the freshness and exhilaration of discovery. It is only two months ago that the Royal Ballet and Opera staged the opera, in what was reported to have been Katie Mitchell’s feminist farewell to the genre. If so, Mitchell certainly went out with a bang in one of those rare productions that will prove not only memorable but also to have transformed our understanding of the work forever, expertly conducted by the RBO’s music director Jakub Hrůsá, and with a fine cast headed by Aušrinė Stundyte. That will have been fresh in the memories of many in the Barbican audience, but that did not prevent the hall from apparently selling out for not one but two concert performances; indeed, I suspect it aided that success.

That first-act Prelude constructed a frame for our listening thereafter, strings, timpani, and the rest, offstage brass included, ‘speaking’ in just the right way for opera: musically generative and full of dramatic content and commentary, almost more Wagnerian than Wagner, without ever sounding especially Wagnerian. Czech speech rhythms met the time-honoured craft of something approaching orchestral accompagnato in Rattle’s conducting, so that the composer’s twin poles of cellular radicalism and lyrical expansion proved not only compatible but mutually dependent and generative. At the beginning of each act, there was an unmistakeable sense of where we were, how we (dramatically) had got there, and of anticipation. For the LSO was on outstanding form. It would be invidious to single out any instrument or section, since all, from trombones to xylophone, contributed so eloquently. What struck was a sense of a myriad of lines, orchestral and vocal, combining in ever transformative fashion to a harmonic, contrapuntal, and dramatic whole.

The essence of opera in concert performance is complex: what it is, what it is not, what it might or might not be. Those of us had recently seen Mitchell’s staging will doubtless have come to the performance with different views of the work from those who had not, and so on. What is incontestably the case for everyone is that the orchestra literally takes centre stage, and we both see and hear its music very differently from when it emerges from a sunken pit. Singers must prove at least as verbally and musically communicative, since there is less room for staged expression; Rattle’s latest Janáček troupe certainly impressed in that and indeed in all other respects. It was almost like reading – or having read to one – a sung novella. In a typically livewire performance, Peter Hoare, one of two singers common to the Barbican and Covent Garden, could not but help but act. That early liberation acted as if to inspire the rest of the cast.

Marlis Petersen as Emilia Marty seemed just ‘right’ in all she did: voice, bearing, and unmistakeable sympathy. Doubravka Novotná’s rich-toned, spirited Krista proved the perfect foil—or better, one of them. From Aleš Briscein’s ardent Albert Gregor to Alan Oke’s magnificently vivid cameo (the other role shared from Covent Garden) as Count Hauk-Šendorf, this performance had a true sense of company even without staging. Jan Martiník’s three characters were sharply drawn as individuals, as was Svatopluk Sem’s Jaroslav Prus. Vit Nosek and Lucie Hilscherová likewise made the most of their roles, created through words and music, yet as human as if we had seen them onstage.  Such vivid characterisation drew back even those of us won over by Mitchell’s alternative vision towards the work ‘itself’. Those new to the opera will surely have been enthralled. A roaring reception suggested so.

For it was in the third act, as it must be, that Janáček’s drama palpably touched all as if for the first time. Here was most clearly redrawn in exultant urgency the twin clarity and abandon of E.M. to the increasing irrelevance of the men (and women) surrounding her, reminding us that ultimately, Mitchell’s staging grew out of the work’s essence rather than being imposed upon it (as uncomprehending criticism claimed). Taking a view does not necessarily mean betrayal; it is often fundamental to fidelity. Petersen and the orchestra’s transfiguration sent shivers down the spine in what came to seem, if you can imagine such a thing, almost a female, even feminist, Gerontius. Now there might lie a challenge to staging.

 

The Makropulos Case, Royal Opera and Ballet, 10 November 2025

Royal Opera House

Emilia Marty – Ausrine Stundyte
Krista – Heather Engebretson
Albert Gregor – Sean Panikkar
Baron Jaroslav Prus – Johan Reuter
Dr Kolenatý – Henry Waddington
Vítek – Peter Hoare
Count Hauk-Šendorf – Alan Oke
Janek – Daniel Matoušek
Stage Door Woman – Susan Bickley
Security Guard – Jeremy White
Hotel Maid – Jingwen Cai

Katie Mitchell (director)
Vicki Mortimer (set designs)
Sussie Juhlin-Wallén (costumes)
James Farncombe (lighting)
Sasha Balmazi-Owen (video)

Royal Opera Chorus (chorus director: William Spaulding)
Orchestra of the Royal Opera House
Jakub Hrůsá (conductor)

 

Image: The Royal Opera / Camilla Greenwell

If the Royal Opera and Ballet’s new Makropulos Case does indeed prove to be Katie Mitchell’s final opera production, we should think of it more as a culmination than a farewell. If the owl of Minerva spreads its wings only at dusk, the outlines of Mitchell’s operatic work – part, to be sure, of her broader theatrical work, but a distinctive part – may now seem clearer to us all. Rightly or wrongly, for I can lay no claim to oracular status on this or any other question, they certainly do to me following this superlative evening, dramatically and musically, in the theatre, a splendid addition to the company’s Janáček series? May we hope for a Mr Brouček, even a Šárka or an Osud? Hope dies last, as the ambiguous, even oracular, saying has it. 

And death lies at the heart of this work, as does life—as does their cyclical relationship both in Janáček’s work as a whole and this production, in turn both in its overt presentation and in its broader, metatheatrical, even symbolic frame. One might say the same of women, their role in society, and their role in opera, Mr Brouček’s Excursions the great exception, for even From the House of the Dead has one feel their absence. The Makropulos Case is centred, of course, around a great female singer, a great survivor, a woman seemingly infinitely blessed, but in reality, if not infinitely, then gravely cursed. She is literally the creation of men, in some ways figuratively too. I say ‘a woman’ and of course she is, but as such and as a human, she deserves to be named: Emilia Marty, Elena Makropulos, and the rest. (We may, if we wish, recall Kundry’s many names and incarnations. Wagner was not a feminist; to claim so would be anachronistic nonsense. But his works are not without feminist themes and, more to the point, opportunities—as well as themes and opportunities that are anything but. The same, of course, may be said of Janáček.) Mitchell takes a further step: this woman is queer, standing in no need of men, whatever the history with which she has been furnished (by them) may claim. She has fond memories; she has produced numerous ‘bastards’ with them, but now does not care for them (men or children). 

Now forty-plus = or so she claims and appears – EM seeks women on ‘dating’ apps. With a technological bent very much of our time, the opera begins, app and text message communications, courtesy of Sasha Balmazi-Owen, running parallel to, interacting with, and sometimes undercutting the work ‘itself’. Krista and Janek intend to rob her, the former (‘they/them’) ensnaring her prey 200 metres distant and securing an invitation to her hotel room. The proceeds, whose net worth Janek instantly checks online as Krista photographs them, include an eighteenth-century medallion and a rare, early twentieth-century playbill. Yet ultimately, Krista falls for EM, mesmerised as her male admirers, yet apparently feeling and sharing something deeper. Rather than absconding to Berlin with her (former) lover, she shoots him: shades of Lulu, perhaps, yet with the crucial distance that this is no blank canvas onto which male fantasies are projected. This is women in love, by women, for women.

Surtitles are contemporary English in tone, without becoming paraphrase. Additional communications fly across the ether: ‘Berlin or bust’, popular abbreviations, emojis, and so on. Like anything else, use of text messages – also here telephone calls, audio and video – can be a cliché, a gimmick, and too often is. Here, unlike in, say, Simon Stone’s tedious, extravagant, and tediously extravagant Cherubini Médée – if ever there were an opera crying out for the Mitchell touch… - or Kirill Serebrennikov’s silly Marriage of Figaro, it serves a useful dramatic purpose, both straightforwardly and more metatheatrically in its extension of live cinema to new realms in successful pursuit of Mitchell’s longstanding and, in this case, unapologetically queer subversion of the male gaze both generally and in specifically operatic guise. For when the diva comes at long last to die, she is not so much a creature of opera, but opera itself. Has the director killed the genre or let it die? More significantly, has it in its death, which may yet permit of rebirth though not artificial prolongation, at last been liberated of the male gaze. On an optimistic reading: yes, at least in part. The elixir is bequeathed to Krista as a gift of what appears to be love, but does it remain a poisoned chalice; can it be cleansed?

Janácek’s score naturally invites some degree of optimism, its increasingly rapt lyricism, orchestral motifs coalescing, combining, and expanding into something greater, brought home in wondrous, golden immediacy by Jakub Hrůsá at the helm of the Orchestra of the Royal Opera House. That Hrůsá is the real thing no one who has heard him will doubt, but this proved a significant achievement even by his standards, as intellectually as it was emotionally involving. The same must be said of Ausrine Stundyte’s all-encompassing assumption of the title role, rightly permitting of various readings whilst ever sure of its direction. No wonder the rest of her world lay in her thrall. All contributed something to the greater whole, showing what the world of opera can and should be. I shall note Sean Panikkar’s typically ardent, lyrical Albert Gregor, Peter Hoare’s sharply characterised Vitek, Heather Engebretson’s sparky Krista, and, in another tribute, conscious or otherwise, to the best of an opera company and its progress of time, Johan Reuter ‘moving up’ from, say, Orest and Birtwistle’s Theseus to Baron Prus, and Susan Bickley from numerous Covent Garden roles (and her ENO Dido with Mitchell) to the cameo of the Stage Door Woman. It was, though, a collaborative effort, as production, conductor, work, and any future for the genre demand.

From that ENO After Dido, Purcell’s jewel forming part of a greater theatre piece, through a Salzburg Al gran sole carico d’amore I imagine I might understand better now than I did in 2009, live cinema again offering a feminist corrective or at least enhancement to Luigi Nono’s project of telling European revolutionary experience from the standpoint of female revolutionaries,  the woman’s revenge of Written on Skin and queer love of Lessons in Love and Violence, the postdramatic feminism of The Blue Woman, and important reassessments such as her Aix Ariadne auf Naxos and Pelléas and Covent Garden Theodora, a path becomes traceable towards this Makropulos Case. Is it the end of the line? That should not really even be the question; it is certainly an important, musicotheatrically riveting contribution, one I am keen to see again, should I be able. 

Cathérine Clément notoriously described opera as the ‘undoing of women’. Perhaps, if one is extremely selective—and one treats it only in terms of libretti. Go back to Monteverdi’s Poppea or forward to Rebecca Saunders’s recent operatic debut and it seems anything but. Nevertheless, that book or at least its title remains, whether we like it or no, part of operatic discourse. Carolyn Abbate’s review said most, perhaps all, of what need be said about it. And here, as it must, that theory is realised in practice, without in any sense jettisoning necessary critique. Actually existing opera houses and their ways are, or can be, another thing. This is not in any sense intended to refer to the Royal Opera House in particular; indeed, its relatively recent, highly publicised appointment of an intimacy coordinator marked an important step forward in one respect. I know no details of the opera-world misogyny Mitchell has endured – her recent interview lies behind a Murdoch paywall – and I do not intend to speculate. What I can say is that operatic works, historical and contemporary, and performances offer greater scope for critique and, dare I say it, redemption than the day-to-day activities of any company will. This year’s greatest musical centenary, that of Pierre Boulez, reminds us of the necessary utopianism of his celebrated 1967 interview with Der Spiegel.

New German opera houses certainly look very modern—from the outside; on the inside, they have remained extremely old-fashioned. To a theatre in which mostly repertory pieces are performed one can only with the greatest difficulty bring a modern opera—it is unthinkable. The most expensive solution would be to blow the opera houses into the air. But do you not think that that might also be the most elegant solution? 

In turn, that echoes a Wagner’s diary entry from 1849.

8 May (Monday) Morning once again by roundabout route via barricades to Town Hall. At S. Anne Barricade guard shouts “Well, Mr Conductor, joy’s beautiful divine spark’s made a blaze.” (3rd perf. 9th Symphony at previous Palm Sunday concert; Opera House now burnt down. Strange feeling of comfort.

 

This latest death  will not destroy our opera houses and companies, nor even leave them peacefully to die, but should at least ask us whether that would be advisable. Is this, rather than opera as the undoing of women, then, women as the undoing and possible rebirth of opera? It might, considered in utopian fashion, constitute an act of operatic reform or revolution to be compared with the work composers such as Wagner, conductors such as Boulez, directors such as Stefan Herheim, and singers such as Wilhelmine Schröder-Devrient, noting ruefully and purposefully the gender balance of historical examples, whilst recalling Boulez’s own caution that, although Wagner’s Bayreuth project was in almost every respect right and necessary, it has not had the slightest effect on the day-to-day life of our benighted operatic culture. And yet, it has, for our revolutionary-reformers continue to offer a critique of patriarchy, of heteronormativity, and of capitalism many of us continue to heed. To do more than criticise, we must all play our part. The Royal Opera and Ballet has done so too, staging Janáček’s opera (incredibly) for the first time and supporting a new way forward. The Royal Opera and Ballet has done so too, staging Janáček’s opera (incredibly) for the first time and supporting, among many other things in its necessarily mixed economy, some seeds of a new way forward. 

The Makropulos Case, Bavarian State Opera, 21 May 2016

Image: Bayerische Staatsoper, © Wilfried Hösl

Nationaltheater, Munich

Emilia Marty – Angela Denoke
Dr Kolenatý – Gustáv Beláček
Vítek – Kevin Conners
Krista – Rachael Wilson
Albert Gregor – Pavel Černoch

Jaroslav Prus – John Lundgren
Janek – Aleš Briscein
Hauk-Šendorf – Reiner Goldberg
Chambermaid – Deniz Uzun
Stage Technician – Peter Lobert
Cleaning Lady – Heike Grötzinger

Arpád Schilling (director)

Márton Ágh (designs)
Tamás Bányai (lighting)
Miron Hakenbeck (dramaturgy)

Chorus of the Bavarian State Opera (chorus master: Sören Eckhoff)

Bavarian State Orchestra
Tomáš Hanus (conductor)

Opera houses’ neglect of Janáček remains one of the most baffling of the many baffling aspects of the ‘repertoire’. At least three of the composer’s operas would be perfect introductions to the art form: Jenůfa, Katya Kabanova, or The Cunning Little Vixen would surely hook most for life. From the House of the Dead might do likewise for someone of a rather different disposition, sceptical of opera’s claims and conventions. The Makropulos Case perhaps falls somewhere in between, although surely closer to the more ‘conventional’ trio, an unusual story notwithstanding. At any rate, no Janáček opera outstays its welcome. Every one is musically and dramatically interesting, without – save, arguably, in the case of From the House of the Dead – being ‘difficult’ (a silly concept, anyway, but let us leave that on one side). There are strong, central female characters in most (again, not in his final opera, but...) And yet…

 

What, then, is the problem? Is it simply that the works are in Czech? Is there still resistance to following titles, from those of us who do not have the language? Perhaps, although how many in the audience actually have an understanding, let alone a good one, of other, more typically-used languages? Translation is, perhaps even more than usual, a bad idea, since the music depends so much on Czech speech rhythms. One can tell that, even when one does not know the language. I mention that here, since a great virtue of this particular performance was the ability to follow the words (with German titles). The sounds are important, but it is not just a matter of sound. In conjunction with the orchestra, this made sense, even for those of us having to rely upon our memories and upon the titles.

 

First and foremost to be thanked for that excellent, indeed crucial, outcome must be conductor Tomáš Hanus. His direction of the equally (at least!) excellent Bavarian State Orchestra left us in no doubt that not only did the conductor know where he was taking us, and how to do so, but that just the right balance was struck between the demands of the moment, of the intricate relationships between words and music, between vocal line and orchestra, between melodic and harmonic impulses, were being observed and, above all, dramatically communicated. The golden sound of the orchestra – again, perhaps, like the Czech Philharmonic in a recent concert performance of Jenůfa, more Bohemian than Moravian, but none the worse for that – was no mere backdrop, but a musico-dramatic cauldron from which words emerged and in whose self-transforming broth they acquired their meaning and impulse. The disjunctures were not sold short either; they held their dramatic ground, without being fetishised.

 

Angela Denoke had also played E.M. – or whatever we wish to call her – in the Salzburg Festival performance I heard in 2011. Dramatically, Denoke’s performance here in Munich was at least as fine as in Salzburg; she remains an excellent singing actress. Vocally, however, it was, if anything, superior, with few of the occasional flaws of five years ago. The virtues of the orchestral performance were also her virtues. So indeed were they of the rest of the cast. Brno-born tenor, Pavel Černoch offered an Albert Gregor of what seemed to me (again with the caveat that I am not a Czech-speaker) of vocal beauty and verbal acuity in equal measure, his stage presence just as impressive. His first-act dialogue with Emilia Marty proved one of the musical and dramatic highlights of the performance. Gustáv Beláček and Kevin Conners impressed with their difficult legal performative briefs. John Lundgren’s darkly ambitious Jaroslav Prus and Rachael Wilson’s bright-toned Krista were similarly noteworthy. Aleš Briscein’s Janek furthered the excellent impressions given in that concert Jenůfa, his crestfallen withdrawal from the Marty game a study in musico-dramatic observation and communication. And how wonderful to welcome back Reiner Goldberg to the stage as Hauk-Šendorf: so much more than a mere ‘character’ appearance. Character and artist similarly rolled back the years: a moving moment indeed, not least given the opera in question.

 

I have left Arpád Schilling’s production until last, because I do not have much to say about it, I am afraid. The principal impression is made by Márton Ágh’s stylish designs, both sets – for instance, a visually arresting pile of chairs – and costumes, Černoch’s Gregor thereby enabled to look very much as he sounded. Of a concept, let alone a Konzept, beyond that, I struggled to discern anything very much. This, then, is stage direction of the kind operatic reactionaries claim to like: non-interventionist and pretty, if a little too modern in its style for them. The work could (sort of) speak for itself, I suppose, but that is hardly the point. Christoph Marthaler delved deeper in Salzburg.

 

Salzburg Festival (7) - The Makropulos Case, 25 August 2011

Grosses Festspielhaus





Images © Walter Mair/Salzburg Festival

Emilia Marty – Angela Denoke Dr Kolenatý – Jochen Schmeckenbecher
Vítek – Peter Hoare
Krista – Jurgita Adamonytė
Albert Gregor – Raymond Very
Jaroslav Prus – Johan Reuter
Janek – Aleš Briscein
Hauk-Šendorf – Ryland Davies
Chambermaid – Linda Ormiston
Conscientious Objector performing Community Service – Peter Lobert

Jin Ling – Sasha Rau
Mary Long – Silvia Fenz
Anita Stadler – Anita Stadler

Christoph Marthaler (director)
Anna Viebrock (designs)
Olaf Winter (lighting)
Joachim Rathke (associate director)
Malte Ubenauf (dramaturgy)

Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra
Concert Association of the Vienna State Opera Chorus
Esa-Pekka Salonen (conductor)


My feelings about The Makropulos Case, or perhaps more accurately, my feelings during and after a performance of the work, remain somewhat in flux. Janáček does not pull the heartstrings so consistently as in some of his other works, but of course the coldness of E.M. is part of his point – and, by all accounts, she is treated far more sympathetically than in Karel Čapek’s play. Even more so than, say, Jenůfa or Katya Kabanova, the vocal writing is conversational, the composer’s restraint admirable, even awe-inspiring: there is no more playing to the gallery here than in Pelléas – well, little more. The orchestra, then, plays its role as Wagnerian Greek Chorus. And yet, occasionally, I find that I am missing something: the question is whether that something missing is deliberately absent, whether, again, it is the dramatic point. And more so than those earlier Janáček masterpieces, rather like From the House of the Dead, I find myself reflecting afterwards, and for quite some time afterwards, on what is at stake in the drama. It is, then, an opera that makes one think, but perhaps only truly moves at the end, in the final peroration, both vocal and orchestral, when one finds that very same cyclical affirmation of life in death the composer voices in The Cunning Little Vixen, and arguably as in the earlier cited tragedies too.

Christoph Marthaler’s fine production of Katya Kabanova originated in Salzburg, before making its way to Paris, where I saw it earlier this year. I half expected to see The Makropulos Case similarly transposed to a joyless post-war East European setting, but in many respects, the setting (splendidly designed by Anna Viebrock) is rather ‘traditional’: there is certainly nothing for ‘traditionalists’ to complain about. Unless, that is, one includes the new material with which Marthaler introduces the work: a spoken reflective conversation, not without humour. Themes that will be explored during the work, most obviously the shortness of one’s allotted years, and what alternatives there might be, are adumbrated, without overstaying their welcome. (At least I thought so, though some in the audience seemed restless.) It would seem that there is some degree of reinstatement from Čapek’s play, but I shall leave delineation of that to those better informed. (I wish that I were…) There is even humour, as there is in the opera, concerning the ways of opera singers. Otherwise, one sees a court room, as one would expect, and pretty much in ‘period’, though the voguish practice of employing the same set for each act does lead to confusion: a court room is a bit of an odd place for Marty to succumb to Prus. (Doubtless we are not supposed to understand it that way, but it is a bit odd.) Other touches to either side of the principal room work better. A railway waiting room nicely suggests transience. Whilst I can imagine that some would be irritated by the depiction of a care home – replete with Zivildienstleistender (conscientious objector performing community service: no, I am not making this up) – on the other side of the stage, it aptly suggests the alternative to EM’s immortality. And therefore, as I said, really does make one think: given society’s present treatment of the elderly and infirm, it is by no means clear that one would not give elixir a try. If Christopher Alden’s ENO production probably made more of an immediate (stylish) impression on me when I saw it the first time, it began to irritate the second time around; it is probably fair to say that Marthaler’s production has made me think more, especially after the event. One would hardly expect Marthaler to play the work for laughs, and we can be grateful that he does not.

Angela Denoke performs estimably in the title role. It would be possible to castigate infelicities of tuning, for this, as one might have expected, was a performance very much in the ‘singing actress’ mould. However, such faults seemed to matter little, given the burning heat of her performance. Indeed, one could understand them, even if they were not intended this way, as contributing to the drama between aspiration to perfection and the frailty of flesh. Denoke held the vast stage of the Grosse Festspielhaus as her own, and rightly so. She was in every respect preferable to ENO’s Amanda Roocroft, though Cheryl Barker, on the first London run, was perhaps equally fine. I am rather surprised, however, to report that the other parts were more consistently cast in London (despite, of course, the gross handicap of singing in translation). Peter Hoare, for instance, was a much stronger Gregor than Salzburg’s dry-sounding Raymond Very; curiously, Hoare here movingly sang the role of Vítek. Aleš Briscein and Johan Reuter also just about stood out, though I have heard both singers to greater effect elsewhere. For there was a touch of anonymity to the general company, a surprising sense of routine, not to be exaggerated, but equally not the most memorable of Salzburg performances.

Esa-Pekka Salonen’s conducting of the Vienna Philharmonic proved somewhat disappointing. Though there were times when the orchestra sounded predictably gorgeous – and, unlike some, I really do not mind that in Janáček – one also had to reckon with a few too many loose threads, whether in terms of smudged and even missed entries, or a general lack of rhythmic bite, such as Sir Charles Mackerras and Sir Richard Armstrong both brought to the score in London. The VPO certainly can play this music; it did so memorably for Mackerras, amongst others. Here, however, it sometimes sounded as if Janáček were new and slightly unwelcome territory. Salonen seemed unwilling or unable to control the orchestra as he might have done, indeed perhaps to be still less in sympathy with Janáček’s music, the score somehow meandering aggressively, at least until the final act. Lack of tautness and indeed of formal perception went hand in hand with a tendency to play with loud indifference. Perhaps that is unduly harsh, but I expected great, or at least very good, things, and did not hear them. To my surprise, then, it proved to be Marthaler’s night rather than Salonen’s, though it was at least as much Denoke’s.

The Makropulos Case, English National Opera, 20 September 2010

(sung in English)

Coliseum

(Image: EM with Janek - Neil Libbert)

Emilia Marty – Amanda Roocroft
Dr Kolenatý – Andrew Shore
Vítek – Alasdair Elliott
Kristina – Laura Mitchell
Albert Gregor – Peter Hoare
Baron Prus – Ashley Holland
Janek – Christopher Turner
Hauk-Šendorf – Ryland Davies
Stage Technician – William Robert Allenby
Cleaning Lady – Morag Boyle
Chambermaid – Susanna Tudor-Thomas

Christopher Alden (director)
Charles Edwards (set designs)
Sue Wilmington (costumes)
Adam Silverman (lighting)
Claire Glaskin (choreography)

Chorus of the English National Opera (chorus master: Nicholas Chalmers)
Orchestra of the English National Opera
Sir Richard Armstrong (conductor)


Christopher Alden’s production of The Makropulos Case garnered considerable acclaim upon its first ENO outing. It benefited from a strong cast and from the guiding hand of the late Sir Charles Mackerras – to whose memory this performance was dedicated – but it has virtues of its own. Foremost amongst them are Charles Edwards’s powerful set designs, redolent of Eastern European civic architecture without fetishising a location that ultimately is neither here nor there: for the truly though not exclusively national, one turns to the music. These designs frame the action in a manner that manages to convey a degree of claustrophobia but also the public arena in which the drama plays itself out. Emilia Marty is an opera singer, after all – and a ‘famous’ one at that. But there is perforce coldness at her heart, such being the nature of her near-immortal predicament, and that coldness is reflected in the setting, not least Adam Silverman’s lighting. The men lined up outside look in on her world and occasionally participate, insofar as she permits them, though they never really understand it or her.

And yet, Alden seems to view the opera partly as a comedy, or at least has come to do so. (I do not remember this registering last time around, but that may just be my failure to recollect.) Karel Čapek’s original play is a comedy, though I cannot claim acquaintance with it. That has never, however, seemed to me to be the spirit in which Janáček prepared his opera. There are surreal happenings, to be sure, but playing Marty for laughs, as Amanda Roocroft often did, and turning Baron Prus into something of a Carry On figure, embarrassed and embarrassing in his underwear, does the work no favours. Moreover, one needs a good directorial reason to disregard the instruction that Kristina burn the Makropulos document, red Glückliche Hand-like glow of burning or otherwise; I am not sure that there is one here.

Roocroft’s performance was loudly acclaimed. During the first act, she impressed considerably. However, a reading that threatened to degenerate into farce seemed, at least to me, to undersell the nobility in the role. Diction and intonation deteriorated too. There was certainly enthusiasm to her portrayal; one could not fault her for effort, but it increasingly seemed misapplied. Cheryl Barker first time around gave a more complete account. Casting in general, however, remained strong. Andrew Shore and Alasdair Elliott provided subtly coloured and differentiated readings of Kolanatý and Vítek, whilst Christopher Turner and Laura Mitchell proved youthfully ardent as Janek and Kristina. There was strength, but strength aptly born of bluster, in Ashley Holland’s Prus. The serving roles – Cleaning Lady, Stage Technician, and Chambermaid – were characterised, some might say caricatured, with musical and verbal aplomb by Morag Boyle, William Robert Allenby, and Susanna Tudor-Thomas. Perhaps, though, someone – whoever issued instructions to this effect – should be informed that cod-Northern accents does not always sit well with operatic vocalism, and, more seriously, that geography does not equate to class. It was worth attending for Ryland Davies’s splendidly acted Hauk-Šendorf alone.

Sir Richard Armstrong often drove the ENO Orchestra fiercely. There was no want of dramatic verve in his reading; it echoed Mackerras quite strongly in fact. There were, moreover, moments, however fragile, in which Janáček’s musical phantasmagoria could truly beguile, supreme amongst which must be the waltzing harmonics that enable E.M. to reach the climax of her tale. The orchestra was on excellent form, strings especially sweet, and the full head given to pounding kettledrums dramatic rather than melodramatic. Perhaps most impressive was Armstrong’s handling of Janáček’s fragmentary technique. Snatches become parts of a whole, but the alchemy, like that of Makropulos’s formula, is mysterious. One knows it when one hears it – and one heard it here.

One other thing, though: Janáček objected to the freedom with which Max Brod prepared his German translation for the first German performance under Josef Krips; Brod was compelled to make many alterations. I dread to think what the composer would have made of this English version by Norman Tucker. One can argue about the merits or otherwise of opera in translation, especially since the advent of surtitles at the Coliseum, but if the libretto is to be translated, something that captures the spirit and perhaps even the sound of the original better than this would be welcome. Jarring colloquialisms appear thick and fast: ‘Cor Blimey!’ inevitably puts one in mind of Dick Van Dyke. It was difficult to discern any effort to provide a substitute for the Czech speech rhythms that so colour the composer’s music. Still, performances were of a high standard – and ultimately, the play’s the thing.