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back to Flash Reviews Flash Review, 4-12:
Carmen, De-fanged By Paul Ben-Itzak "Carmen," the Bizet opera which originated in a short story by Prosper Merimee, is not a tragedy. It's about a devouring love. The gypsy Carmen is the predatory devourer. The soldier Don Jose is the (more or less) innocent devoured, who is driven crazy and then murderous by his love for Carmen and her dropping of him. While I was initially impressed by the Swedish Folkoperan's pristine version, which opened last night at the Harvey Theater of the Brooklyn Academy of Music, as I write this, just a couple of hours later, I realize that I am more coherent than an emotionally affecting "Carmen" would leave me. In its technical elements, this was in many ways a perfect presentation, but Ulrika Precht's Carmen and the production as a whole did not haunt me as it should have. Set in the Andalusia region of Spain, with a libretto by Henri Meilhac and Ludovic Halevy, "Carmen" 's universal story of the rabid and voraciously lusty gypsy girl and her lover/killer has been staged in many cultures, in many media. Henry W. Simon, in his book "100 Great Operas," describes it as "the most widely popular of all operas." I've seen the 1954 film "Carmen Jones," an intriguing but ultimately odd all-black version, in which Harry Belafonte and Dorothy Dandridge are dubbed with opera singers (Alvin Ailey and Carmen de Lavallade danced in the movie!); the haunting Carlos Saura film, a story within a story, in which a flamenco group is making a "Carmen," the director falls in love with the lead actress/dancer, and by the end we're not sure if he really kills her or if it's just part of the play; Mats Ek's ballet; and a dance by Nancy Torrano which is a sort of Carmen in Dante's purgatory, exploring both Carmen's tormented madness and her tender side, with three dancer-actresses playing different aspects of the gypsy, post-murder. There's also the punk Malcolm Mclaren EP. (And, as I write this, I'm listening to Anne-Sophie Mutter's moving recording of Pablo de Sarasate's "Carmen-Fantasie" with the Wiener Philharmoniker, conducted by James Levine.) I hadn't seen the opera itself performed live until last night. It seemed, at first, a delight to see and hear this in such an intimate setting, and yet, and yet, I can't help feeling, as much of a joy as it was to hear the music live for the first time, I was not as moved and frightened and allured by this Carmen and the singer-actress playing her as I should have been. My initial delight was also because in this faux-decrepit 900-seat theater, you're right on top of the actor-singers and the other musicians, which you realize as soon as the 36-person orchestra strikes up that familiar, boisterous overture. The singers are not asked just to stand and deliver, but to move. In this respect, Precht begins promisingly, singing the famous "Habanera" aria on her back with her legs spread, facing away from us. She has Carmen's movement center correct, too; everything comes from her hips and what's between them, which are pretty much in constant, inviting sway. And her acting is, in general, naturalistic. But Carmen is--well, she's not naturalistic, she's supernaturalistic! As an essay by Leif Dahlberg in the souvenir program points out, her story originated with the Frenchman Merimee's real-life encounter, in a Spanish inn frequented by bandits, with "a waitress, Carmencita--a demon." In the story which Merimee later wrote, Dahlberg notes, the narrator encounters a young gypsy girl: "She is not a classic beauty, but what she lacks in looks is made up by her seductive wildness. She has eyes like a wolf. 'Gypsy eyes, wolf eyes--an accurate observation'. If you don't have time to go to the zoo to study the countenance of the wolf, observe your own cat when he lies in wait, ready to pounce on a sparrow." In effect, we are talking one predatory woman-beast here. She might be partly motivated by love, or even lust, but most of all she seems to want to devour. In Folkoperan's reading of this character--and it may have been more Staffan Valdemar Holm's direction than Precht's interpretive decision--Carmen's choosing of Stephen Smith's Don Jose, her dismissal of him, and her shifting her love/lust to the bullfighter Escamillo seem arbitrary and capricious. Sensual, certainly; seductive, yes; but though she moves from her pelvis and groin, I don't get the sense that internally, her sex has turned into her stinger. Perhaps arbitrary and capricious is one way to read this character, but I think more complexity--ranging from hints of tenderness to underlying venality, or vice versa--is called for. This production is "moving," in the sense that it is somewhat physical. There's very little of opera singers just standing around and belting what they're thinking. In fact, there are some lovely scenic moments: As the curtain rises on the beginning of the second act in the tavern, we see everyone on chairs mounted on the back wall, elevated a few feet from the floor. They are drunk and swaying, semi-conscious. The scene is bathed in Kevin Wyn-Jones's aqua lighting, which casts shimmering shadows of the actors' legs down from the chairs But then there's physical let-down. The song here is about wanting to dance, and the music demands it, but there is very little dancing here. The dramatic choice seems to be that everyone is in a drunken stupor, which slows their movement. An opportunity for Carmen's pure passion to emerge is lost, although we do get a glimpse of her self-destructiveness when she slices both her arms. And then there's the at-first-mystical, but ultimately over-cloying appearance, at the opening of the third act, of two black-clad actors scaling, spider-like, the upstage wall. Arms and feet clinging to the wall, they rappel at times to opposite corners of the wall, then back together; sometimes just stand there still; at other times follow an actor's exit stage left, then another's stage right. As an opening device, it was an entrancing, magical touch. But loitering for the entire act, without further explication, the spiders overstay their welcome, and the device just becomes distracting and superficial, a gimmick aimed at qualifying this "Carmen" as different. And there's the rub. Listen to a moment to this statement from Claes Fellbom, Folkoperan's general artistic director, from the souvenir program: "The reason for Folkoperan's stable ascendancy is that we consider opera to be a truly important art form, one that should be in a constant state of development, not propped up in a museum, languishing as a monument to tradition. Thus, we do not specifically tailor our approach to opera-lovers, instead we try to reach 'experience-lovers,' that is, people who have open minds rather than pre-conceived notions·. Folkoperan's objective is to go straight to the heart of the audience, because it is only there that our art can make a difference." Huh. Reading this statement, and beholding the contemporary costume flourishes (tacky 70s wardrobe straight out of "Pulp Fiction" for the gang leaders), and the clever devices like the two rapelers, I think there's a couple of mistaken assumptions here. Good stories are eternal, no matter their original milieu. And the route out of the museum and straight to our modern lives and hearts is not lined by tricks but committed playing and heartfelt acting. I think of Ethan Stiefel and Julie Kent in American Ballet Theatre's production of Kenneth MacMillan's "Romeo & Juliet." I left the theater that day disoriented, not knowing where I was. And of Lola Greco's "Medea" with the National Ballet of Spain; I fell in love with Lola's Medea and then, watching her destroy all around her, her family and an entire village, I fell in mortal fear. (For more on Greco's acting and dancing, see Flash Review 1-15, Ballet Noir; and Flash Review 3, 1-22: El Amor Greco.) Lola's Medea haunts me still. Finishing this Flash the morning after, I remember from last night well-played music and perhaps Precht's swaying hips, but I am more annoyed than in love with or scared or driven mad by her. Actually, there is one more aspect I remember which, I think, goes to my point. According to Karin Helander's notes in the souvenir program, the innocent character of Micaela--Don Jose's forlorn and devoted hometown girl--was not in Merimee's original story, but was added by the librettists as a sop to the Paris Opera-Comique's nervous directors for the 1875 premiere, who were afraid that the opera's revolutionarily earthy subject would scare away its bourgeoisie patrons. In "Carmen Jones," I found this character almost too good to be true. But soprano Charlotta Larsson's portrayal last night was easily the most affecting and truest acting and singing of the evening. Her liquid voice melted me, as did her acting; the one moment that did ring scary was when Don Jose, convinced by Micaela to return with her temporarily to his dying mother's bedside, assures Carmen he will return and, hearing this, Micaela all but collapses, her eyes showing she knows that her battle for Smith's soul and life is lost. If I were Don Jose, my choice would be clear-I'd choose Larsson's Micaela here over Precht's Carmen in a nano-second. A convincing "Carmen" would not leave me feeling this way. And should not. In comments made directly to the choreographer, I've criticized Torrano's "Carmen" for being too much on the other, mad extreme--all on one high frenetic frenzied level, with no build and contrast. But it strikes me that the Folkoperan's liability is almost the opposite. This production is too pretty, too clinical, too obviously Designed. It's a pleasant viewing experience, actually--and "Carmen" shouldn't be! This story should decimate me and reduce me to blubbering incoherence. It hasn't. I should be at the same time in love/lust with Carmen, and afraid she'll eat me. I'm not. There's no sense here that anyone has been, to use Robert Fagles's phrase, "burned to a crisp," from the flesh to the soul. |
