I’m computerless on an EasyJet flight from Berlin to Paris. I had not intended to write about last evening’s performance of Carmen at the Deutsche Staatsoper in Berlin, not only because I’m off to Paris and then Brazil, where many non-musical pleasures and cares await me, but mainly because if I’m far from being an expert in musical matters, I’m even less of an opera connaisseur. How often does Onkel Heinz not look at me inquisitively as he hums (or should I say bellows?) arias from Gluck to Puccini, from basso profondo to coloratura soprano, and crows triumphantly when he realizes I’m stumped. “Les Pêcheurs de Perles” he will shout, or “Parsifal, you numskull!” He obviously chooses his excerpts wisely, for were he to sing “La ci darem”, “Non só piú” or “Madamina, il catalogo é questo”, he knows that I would join in immediately and spoil his fun. As that is also the case with Carmen, arias, recitatives and spoken dialogue alike, I guess I can put in my own 2 euros. Even if the cost turns out to be much higher for me, as I will have to type what I am now painstakingly and with considerable discomfort writing by hand.
So, Carmen at the Staatsoper Unter den Linden…or Carmen in a Bunker, which would be a more appropriate title. Stark, austere, forbidding, at times sexually explicit, often downright chilling, Martin Kusej’s production couldn’t been further removed from Mérimée’s and Bizet’s fictional Seville. The setting could represent Bulgaria or any other Eastern European country in the Iron Curtain era, or an Orwellian 1984-like land. Literally carved in stone, and almost monochromatic in shades of white, gray and black, the production definitely clashed with Bizet’s extremely colorful, nuanced, lively and quintessentially Iberian score. Even more so considering that from the astoundingly rousing first chords, excellent conductor Dan Ettinger chose precisely to enhance the dramatic Flamenco atmosphere of the music.
The singers’ performance, on the other hand, most certainly following the heavy-handed and sullen régisseur’s instructions (yes, Onkel Heinz, for once I agree with you), matched the sets perfectly. The result was a total divorce between what was going on on stage and what was coming out of the pit. Having said this, I must confess I did enjoy the performance, doubtless because I was carried away by the wonderful conductor and orchestra and building completely different scenes in my head. From one act to the next, between curtain rises and curtain falls, the atmosphere on the actual stage remained the same. I kept expecting a sudden splash of color, an explosion of Flamenco poignancy, a surprise of some sort, and I think the production designer sorely missed his cue here, especially in the 3rd act . Instead of cheering bullring crowds, coquettish señoritas and handsome Cordobeses, the stage was filled with a strange assembly of aimless scantily dressed creatures, milling around helplessly, suggesting either a lunatic asylum or a scene from the Night of the Living Dead. I’m absolutely at a loss as to what the producer’s intentions were. As is also the case with the bordello scene replacing the cigarette factory one, as if the sexiness underlying Bizet’s score and Halévy’s lines were not enough and we stupid operagoers needed to be further titillated.
Furthermore, yes, the girls do make cigarettes and even sing the ethereal “La Fumée” chorus, but was it really necessary to flood the theater up to the gallery with artificial smoke, making half the audience choke and cough their lungs out?
As I was saying, the singers had to side with the producer and practically ignore the conductor, alas! Nevertheless, the star of the evening was Micaela, our own lovely and talented Adriane Queiroz, with a physique that always reminds me of Bidú Sayão, an exquisite and powerful soprano voice, and a magnificent and always à-propos stage presence. How different her Micaela is from her Susanna or her Despina! This superb singer is a competent and versatile actress as well. She was deservedly acclaimed by the audience. D. José had the voice but not the physique du rôle, nor the necessary acting skills. (ah, Placido, Placido, wherefore art thou, Placido?). And the poor man was dressed like an unemployed house painter rather than like a desperate but proud deserter of the Guardia Civil. Escamillo, well, a decent bass voice but not a clue as to the deportment of a torero. A word here about the only touch of color of the production, when the picadors, banderilleros and toreros come in for the paseíllo clad in makeshift trajes de luces, which were barely trajes and had no luces at all, very pale imitations indeed – not to speak of the silhouettes! The picadors were all right, as they are usually corpulent, but the chubby toreros, including Escamillo, built more like a hammer thrower, made the scene even further removed from the plaza de toros than the nondescript concrete walls did!
And what about la Carmencita? Elisabeth Kulman, a good singer, no doubt, with a deep mezzo well suited to the role, but completely lacking the “chispa” one expects to find in the Gypsy. Her costume, a supposedly sexy, clinging, shiny (a very synthetic shine…) black dress slit at the side up to her panty-line, could have been much sexier had they not again overshot the mark. Besides, I think she would have benefited from the usual change of costume for the death scene, with peineta, ruffles and the works, as she was, after all, the matador’s sweetheart and would not show up for his great fight in her everyday working and smuggling clothes. And how I missed the castanets in the dance scene! Obviously, one does not expect an Austrian mezzo to play the castanets like Lucero Tena or Teresa Berganza. But they could certainly have hired a castanet player to “play back” from the pit as Carmen went through the motions. The solution of a broken plate timidly clicking the beat was very frustrating.
One last (I promise!) word about the abominable French accent most of the performers exhibited. Yes, I know they are actually meant to be speaking Spanish, but that is no excuse for sabotaging the French libretto.This output gave new meaning to the French expression “parler le français comme une vache espagnole”… The funniest was Lilas Pastia, who actually spoke rather like a Holstein cow. My son Manuel was in stitches.
What is then left of this performance? Bizet’s enthralling music, splendidly performed by the Staatskapelle Berlin under the enlightened direction of Dan Ettinger; the lovely, touching, desperate and yet unwavering Micaela/Adriane… and little else, although, as I said before, I had a very good time. My conclusion is that bad reviews are so much more fun to write than good ones…que me dices, Tio Quique?