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Great Singing Overcomes a Hideous Production! Düsseldorf
Deutsche Oper am Rhein
05/30/2024 - & June 1, 9, 14, 19*, 2024
Giuseppe Verdi: Don Carlo
Bogdan Talos (Filippo II), Luciano Ganci (Don Carlo), Bogdan Baciu (Rodrigo di Posa), Liana Aleksanyan (Elisabetta di Valois), Ramona Zaharia (La Principessa Eboli), Hans‑Peter König*/Sami Luttinen (Il Grande Inquisitore), Anna Sophia Theil*/Bogdana Bevziuk (Tebaldo), Justine Ritters*/Natali Dzemailova (La Contessa di Aremberg), Mara Guseynova (Una voce dal cielo), Andreas Schönberg (Conte di Lerma), Beniamin Pop (Un monaco), Hagen‑Goar Bornmann, Thomas Büscher, Dashuai Jiao/Dogus Güney, George Gamal, Matteo Guerzé/Andreas Elias Post, Valentin Ruckebier (Deputati fiamminghi)
Chor und Extrachor der Deutschen Oper am Rhein, Gerhard Michalski (chorus master), Düsseldorfer Symphoniker, Antonio Fogliani (conductor)
Guy Joosten (stage director), Alfons Flores (sets), Eva Krämer (costumes), Manfred Voss (lighting), Bernhard F. Loges (dramaturgy)
L. Aleksanyan, B. Talos (© Anne Orthen)
Don Carlo is considered by many to be Verdi’s masterpiece. It’s a colossal work, Verdi’s longest, and among the most demanding of his operas to cast. Premiered in Paris in 1867 in the French language, it was soon presented in London and throughout Europe in an Italian version. Soon after its original five acts were deemed superfluous, a four‑act version in Verdi’s language became the standard. However, the omitted “Fontainebleau” first act, or at least some of its music, started to be reintegrated into the work in the 1970s, while the 1980s saw a revival of the original French version. Though the Italian Don Carlo is still much more common than the rarely-performed original version, there remains hope for its French incarnation to become more popular. I prefer it, as the work was conceived for Paris, in the grand opera tradition, one innovated and honed by the neglected genius Giacomo Meyerbeer (1791‑1864).
Meyerbeer’s grand operas had historic themes, such as the plight of the Protestants in France in Les Huguenots, or the blasphemous John of Leiden in the Netherlands during the early days of the Reformation in Le Prophète. They also involved dazzlingly grand spectacle and a quintet or sextet of what were über‑singers, covering all registers of the human voice: usually a tenor and soprano for the amorous couple; a mezzo and a baritone, as their rivals; a few basses, as parents or evil conspirators. There lies the difficulty in reviving Meyerbeer’s works and those in his style: they invite ruinous budgets while mounting elaborate productions, as well as the difficulty and cost in finding a half dozen first‑tier singers.
It’s always a delight to experience a performance of Don Carlo. Assembling a fabulous cast wasn’t a challenge for Deutsche Oper am Rhein; in this they excelled. However, without elaborate sets on the scale of Meyerbeer, it’s difficult to mount a convincing production within reasonable means. Sadly, in this regard the opera was not successful.
Alfons Flores’ positively hideous sets evoked nothing regal, despite the opera taking place when Spain ruled half the world. The drab sets were gold‑painted wood panels that induced claustrophobia, possibly to indicate the controlled lives of the Spanish Imperial family without personal liberty in private matters. More alarming was the constant presence of a bed at the centre of the stage, the significance of which was not given. Had King Philip II no heir, the pregnancy of his young queen would have been crucial. Barring that, one could guess it was director Joosten’s view of the centrality of sexual desire for the opera’s characters Don Carlo, Elisabeth de Valois, King Philip II and his mistress Princess Eboli. It’s neither subtle nor enlightening, but it’s a possible explanation.
The libretto is based on Friedrich von Schiller’s play, Don Karlos, Infant von Spanien (1787). His work made a heroic figure out of Carlo, a man torn between his illicit love for his stepmother and his idealistic obsession with the cause of Flanders’ freedom.
As previously outlined, Verdi first set his opera using a French libretto more suited to the music, with the subsequent Italian version omitting the first act entirely. In this omitted act, Carlo travels to France to see Elisabeth, daughter of the French King, promised to him as part of a peace treaty between the Spanish Hapsburgs and the French Valois houses to end the Italian Wars of the mid‑sixteenth century. As soon as the two young people meet, there’s a spark. When the orchestra’s French horn announces the signature of the treaty and the Spanish King’s decision to wed Elisabeth himself, rather than to marry his son, the young royals are distraught. The disappointed Princess consents, knowing that if she does not, the war will resume. The absence of this first act in the Italian setting makes the attraction between Carlo and Elisabetta confounding, and therefore one of its key weaknesses.
The solemn opening scene which takes place in nearby Aix‑la‑Chapelle (Aachen) in front of the statue of Charlemagne is supposed to inspire awe. A monk reflects on the futility of earthly power: “Ei voleva regnare sul mondo, obliando Colui che nel ciel segna agli astri il cammino fedel. L’orgoglio immenso fu, fu l’error suo profondo.” Alas, all solemnity evaporates with a few monks carrying the remains of what appears to be a recently deceased King Charles V, ignominiously wrapped in a modest cloth. The corpse is then deposed on that centerpiece of a bed, next to his sleeping grandson Don Carlo. Obviously, this convoluted nonsense isn’t in the libretto, nor Schiller’s play. I fail to see what revelation it could possibly bring to the plot. It only serves to remove any sense of solemnity.
Italian tenor Luciano Ganci was superlative, endowed with the role’s required vocal prowess and with a glorious Italianate voice, less common nowadays on most major stages, given the penury of spinto Italian tenors and the abundance of Russian and ex‑Eastern bloc tenors with hefty and un‑Italianate voices. His virile tenor had a pleasant distinctive timbre that showed no sign of stress in the many dramatic passages. As an actor, he demonstrated a natural flair for drama, but wasn’t directed to exhibit the regal deportment of a Spanish Hapsburg. He did however convey Carlo’s passion, but less so the character’s awkwardness and introversion. His first act aria, “Io la vidi,” was beautifully and elegantly sung. His duet with Elisabetta, “Io vengo a domandar,” was passionate, despite enjoying little chemistry with the young queen.
Armenian singer Liana Aleksanyan, who sang Elisabetta, is a first‑rate lirico spinto soprano. While her timbre is appealing, her diction isn’t always first‑rate. Dramatically, she was poorly directed, seeming stiff much of the time. The nonsensical staging didn’t help, and her maudlin, limited physiognomy was relegated only to variants of depression, even in her scenes with Carlo. Her lack of chemistry with Luciano Ganci was a major disappointment.
In Act I, a distraught Carlo seeks solace at the tomb of his grandfather King Charles V. His loyal friend Rodrigo, Marquis de Posa, reminds him of their commitment to the Flemish cause. In one of Verdi’s most cherished baritone-tenor duets, “Dio, che nell’alma infondere,” Carlo confesses his love for the Queen, and Rodrigo comforts him. Romanian baritone Bogdan Baciu’s voice is naturally elegant and his warm timbre blended perfectly with Ganci’s.
Romanian mezzo Ramona Zaharia portrayed a self-confident, sensuous and even coy Eboli. She was at ease and vocally secure in her role, which, despite some low notes, lies mostly in a high register. Princess Eboli entertains the noble ladies with her sarcastic “Canzon del velo” (veil song), “Nel giardin del bello”, supposedly in a garden near Saint‑Just’s monastery, which was shockingly transposed to her private bedroom. Eva Krämer’s beautiful costumes puzzlingly hailed from a different epoch, the late nineteenth century. Eboli and the courtesans are dressed in revealing dresses typical of working girls at a high‑end brothel of that period. At best, they could be guests at Flora’s party in Act I of La traviata. Throughout a beautifully sung “Canzon del velo,” the women rummage through Eboli’s closet, admiring her lingerie. Other than vulgarity, the lingerie sideshow distracted from Zaharia’s excellent interpretation.
Carlo manages to see the Queen to ask her to obtain the King’s permission for him to go to Flanders, in the duet “Io vengo a domandar.” When Carlo leaves Elisabeth, she is alone in the garden, contrary to the rules of the Spanish court. King Philip II summons her lady‑in‑waiting, Countess of Aremberg, and banishes her. In a very brief aria, “Non piangere, mia compagna,” Elisabetta consoles her friend and conveys both dramatically and vocally her dignity in the face of the King’s public humiliation. This sad aria, not unlike a lullaby, perfectly suited Liana Aleksanyan’s temperament and was her most memorable moment.
In Act II, Eboli sends a message inviting Carlo to a secret meeting. Carlo assumes the message is from Elisabetta. When he discovers his mistake, it is too late – Eboli knows his guilty secret and threatens to expose him. This is one the opera’s most riveting scenes. Instead of taking place in gardens of the monastery of Saint‑Just, it takes place in Carlo’s bedroom on that centerpiece, the bed. Verdi’s music for the opening of this scene is sensual and evocative. Yet, there is no nocturnal light or fragrant jasmines to inspire any sensuality, just a bed for coital purposes. What lack of poetry, and what mauvais gout! Astonishingly, Rodrigo has easy access to the prince’s bedroom and he rushes in to save the day and threatens to kill Eboli if she does not keep the secret. Despite the excellence of the three protagonists, setting the scene around Carlo’s bed reduced the gravitas of the vocally impressive trio to a ménage à trois reminiscent of Peter Glenville’s Hotel Paradiso (1966).
The act ends with the auto da fé scene, wherein heretics are burnt at the stake by the Inquisition in front of the Church of Our Lady of Atocha, in the presence of the King, the Queen, Rodrigo and the courtiers. Don Carlo intrudes with a group of Flemish representatives and demands his father make him ruler of Flanders. When King Philip refuses, Carlo draws his sword (a pistol, in this staging). Rodrigo intervenes and disarms him, and Carlo is arrested. This scene shows a rash Carlo, more consistent with the actual historical figure, who was mentally unstable. In the present production, the imposing auto da fé scene is much diminished. The whole affair takes place in the King’s chambers rather than outdoors. Instead of a huge crowd, the same courtesans are dressed as nineteenth century demi‑mondaines, accompanied by male courtiers surrounding Philip II and Elisabetta. The Flemish “heretics” were dressed as shabby intellectuals circa 1968’s Paris student revolt. Instead of the pyre on which they were to perish, a giant, suspended rectangular tube (part of the set) descended, swallowing them. The rectangular contraption, reminiscent of an episode of the sci‑fi favourite Doctor Who, became director Joosten’s leitmotif to indicate perishing.
In Act III, King Philip II reflects on old age and his unloving wife in the aria, “Ella giammai m’amò,” arguably the opera’s most moving aria and Verdi’s best aria for bass. Romanian Bogdan Talos has a powerful and suave voice, and his clear diction makes his interpretation both effective and touching. This was followed by Philip’s duet with the Grand Inquisitor. Except for Russian opera, where basses are legion, this is the only known duet for two basses in the repertoire. German Hans‑Peter König’s voice is similar to Talos’s, and both are bassi cantanti rather than bassi profondi. It’s important the two not sound alike, and it’s more effective if the Grand Inquisitor has the lower voice, to convey his imperiousness. So menacing is his admonishing of King Philip that it ought send shivers down one’s spine. Despite their polished singing, the lighter timbre of the two didn’t generate much terror. Furthermore, for an unclear reason, director Guy Joosten chose not for the Grand Inquisitor to be blind. The infirmity of such a man of the cloth, written in the libretto, hugely increases his menace. This decision greatly diminished the scene’s powerful intensity.
Finally, the Queen’s jewel box, which contains the portrait Carlo had given her at Fontainebleau, has been stolen by the spurned and vindictive Eboli. When the King confronts the Queen with his son’s portrait, she faints. Eboli is guilt‑ridden and confesses the theft to Elisabetta. She also confesses to being the King’s mistress. The Queen orders her banished the same day. Eboli sings her signature aria “O Don fatale,” lamenting her fatal beauty, and swears to save Carlo from prison. Zaharia impressed with her velvety voice and temperament.
Rodrigo visits Carlo in his cell and conveys a message from the Queen, imploring him to meet the next day at the Monastery of Saint‑Just. Knowing that Carlo, as the crown prince, is more useful to the Flemish cause than himself, Rodrigo has taken Carlo’s secret papers and thus the blame for the Flemish rebellion. Knowing his death is imminent, Rodrigo bids farewell to Carlo in “Io morrò, ma lieto in core” as he is shot by the Inquisitor’s agents. Bogdan Baciu was utterly convincing in this most moving of death scenes. He sang passionately yet elegantly, avoiding excess. The rectangular contraption descended, swallowing Rodrigo. The crowd, organized by Eboli, was ridiculously her merry band of demi‑mondaines and assorted male companions. How this motley crew could possibly scare the guards or create chaos remains a mystery.
In the final act, Elisabetta awaits Carlo in the monastery and sings the opera’s famous aria, “Tu, che le vanità.” Soprano Liana Aleksanyan finally let go and sang with unbridled gusto. She would have been a gloriously uninhibited Elisabetta had she earlier shown this quality. Elisabetta bids farewell to Carlo, reminding him of his mission to free Flanders, and wishes them both happiness in the next world. Agents of the Inquisition come in search of Carlo. The ending is left unclear in most productions as well as in Verdi’s reworked versions of the opera. Traditionally, a monk, embodying the spirit of Carlo’s grandfather Charles V, snatches his grandson from the Inquisitor’s agents. However, in this production, the King himself shoots his son to death with a pistol. This gruesome ending was disappointing and diminished the essence of the opera: the conflict between power and personal passions. This Philip II seems to face no such struggle! To maintain the comic-tragic nature of Joosten’s staging, the rectangular contraption then descended to swallow both Carlo and Elisabetta.
Antonio Fogliani conducted the Düsseldorfer Symphoniker with panache, supporting the singers without allowing the orchestra to obscure the voices. His tempi were briskier than most at times, but this lightened the performance. Unfortunately, the orchestral glory of the work, the auto da fé scene, was a disappointment, possibly due to a reduced number of players in the pit. Though it may be the underwhelming visuals failed to conjure the required drama.
The length of Don Carlo is often thought to be its major fault, though the Italian version is an act shorter. In North America, intermissions seem driven by commerce (overpriced drinks, anyone?), so short operas such as Puccini’s Manon Lescaut or La bohème become tedious affairs, with three intermissions over four acts. Not so in Germany, where they’ve mastered the art of shorter intervals, which better serves the artform. Three decades ago, I saw La forza del destino in Munich with a single intermission, which made that all too often tedious opera a pleasure. Conversely, I recently experienced a hideous NYC production of the same work at the Met, with lengthy intermissions that made the opera last a mind‑numbing four hours. Düsseldorf’s Don Carlo, a work much longer than La forza del destino, lasted a mere three hours and fifteen minutes. Despite the ugly sets and vapid staging, thanks to one brief intermission this well‑sung Don Carlo passed beautifully, letting us go into the night with an appetite for more luscious Verdi.
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