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The Dwarf, the Fetal Position and the Willis Napoli
Teatro San Carlo
01/19/2025 - & January 22, 25, 28, 31, 2025
Giuseppe Verdi: Don Carlo
John Relyea (Philip II), Piero Pretti (Don Carlo), Gabriele Viviani (Rodrigo), Rachel Willis-Sørensen (Elisabeth de Valois), Varduhi Abrahamyan (Princess Eboli), Alexander Tsymbalyuk (Grand Inquisitor), Maria Knihnytska (Tebaldo), Désirée Giove (Celestial Voice), Ivan Lualdi (Marquis de Lerma), Vasco Maria Vagnoli (Herold), Giorgi Manoshvili (A Monk)
Coro del Teatro San Carlo, Fabrizio Cassi (chorus master), Orchestra del Teatro San Carlo, Henrik Nánási (conductor)
Claus Guth (stage director), Marcelo Persch-Buscaino (reprisal stage director), Etienne Pluss (sets), Petra Reinhardt (costumes), Olaf Freese (lighting), Virginio Levrio (reprisal lighting), Roland Horvath (videography), Yvonne Gebauer (dramaturgy)
(© Luciano Romano)
It’s always a delight to attend a performance of Don Carlo, indisputably one of Verdi’s finest operas. It’s also Verdi’s most Meyerbeerian opera, premiered as it was in its original French language version, in five acts, at the Paris Opera in 1867, in the spectacular “grand opera” style of Giacomo Meyerbeer (1791‑1864).
These 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 superlative singers covering every voice: usually a tenor and a soprano for the amorous couple; mezzos and baritones for rivals, confidants or parents; a couple of basses might be additional parents or evil conspirators. There lies the difficulty in reviving Meyerbeer’s operas, or those written in his style: a potentially ruinous budget is needed to mount the elaborate productions, in addition to the difficulty and cost of finding five or six lead singers.
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.
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, superior in my opinion, to become more popular.
Naples’ Teatro San Carlo opted for the 1886 Modena version, which is a hybrid of the original 1867 five‑act version and the 1884 La Scala four‑act version. This version omits the ballet, but restores parts of the “Fontainebleau” first act, which fleshes out the love shared by Don Carlo and Elisabetta. Its duration is positively Wagnerian: four hours and forty minutes. Given the glory of the music, I am not opposed to its length, though time was wasted with unnecessary mime scenes. These inane scenes were in keeping with director Claus Guth’s muddled conception.
The mere mention of the director’s name should have been a deterrent, but being a huge fan of Don Carlo, together with news of the enticing cast, the temptation proved irresistible. Moreover, Teatro San Carlo, a jewel of a theatre, one of the world’s most beautiful, is always a joy. Inaugurated in 1737, it’s the world’s oldest continuously active opera venue. Its capacity once exceeded 3,200, but has now been reduced to less than half that. It’s also where several major works were premiered, including Verdi’s Luisa Miller (1849), Donizetti’s Maria Stuarda (1834), Lucia di Lammermoor (1835), Roberto Devereux (1837) and Poliuto (1838), in addition to some of Rossini’s best operas (Elisabetta, regina d’Inghilterra (1815), La gazzetta, Otello, ossia il Moro di Venezia (1816), Armida (1817), Mosè in Egitto, Ricciardo e Zoraide (1818), Ermione, Bianca e Falliero, Eduardo e Cristina, La donna del lago (1819), Maometto II (1820), and Zelmira (1822)).
I became familiar with Claus Guth a few years ago for a Madrid production of Mozart’s Lucio Silla. To call that production atrocious would have been an understatement. Ever since, I’ve avoided any of this director’s creative endeavours. A friend in the audience described the production at hand as idiotic but inoffensive. It’s neither attractive nor innovative. It merely distracts from the action and, given Guth’s track record, things could be worse.
Considering the copious versions of Don Carlo in existence, it’s unsurprising to miss some scenes. The solemn opening scene in the four‑act version was absent here. It opens with a monk who reflects on the futility of earthly power. The absence of this opening scene is regrettable, as it sets the tone for the work. Instead, it opened with a shabbily-dressed Don Carlo lying on the floor in the fetal position. He assumes this position throughout, usually at the opening or the end of an act. This is supposed to stress his fragility. In an interview, Claus Guth states that Carlo is weak, unable to withstand his royal pressures. He prefers to escape to a world of fantasy rather than to accept reality. The floor on which he lies is composed of black and white squares, akin to a chessboard, reflecting the power games of a royal household. Whenever possible, Carlo’s fantasy world is represented by a court jester, inspired by the Velasquez painting Portrait of Sebastián de Morra (1644). The latter was a dwarf and jester in the court of Philip IV. At least there’s chronological coherence.
In the partially-restored “Fontainebleau” act, Carlos travels to France to see Elisabeth (Elisabetta), 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‑seventeenth century. In his first aria, “Io la vidi,” Italian tenor Piero Pretti aptly conveyed Don Carlo’s ardour and passion. He’s one of my favourite tenors. Admired last season at La Scala’s I vespri siciliani, Pretti is a lyric tenor that some consider lightweight for the role. However, he’s certainly able to confront the role’s considerable demands. The youthful quality of his voice is an asset, especially if one considers the prince’s youth and fragility. As an actor, he convincingly portrayed Carlo as both passionate and introverted. In the forest of Fontainebleau, Carlos presents himself to Elisabetta as a Spaniard, not revealing his true identity. When Elisabeth inquires about her betrothed, Carlos elegantly reveals his identity by giving her a chain depicting “her fiancé’s portrait,” which she discovers is his own. As soon as the two young people timidly enjoy one another’s company, “Ah! non temer, ritorna in te...Ah! Se tremo ancor terror non è, mi sento già rinata,” a horn announces both the signature of the treaty and the Spanish King’s decision to wed Elisabetta himself, rather than have her marry his son. The disappointed Princess consents, knowing that if she does not, the war will resume. Throughout this scene, the dwarf assumes the appearance of Cupid to accelerate their mutual attraction. Carlo’s Act II duet with Elisabetta, “Io vengo a domandar,” was passionate and allowed him to display the frailty of Carlo’s character.
In Act II, 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. Italian baritone Gabriele Viviani impressed with his warm timbre and elegant phrasing. His virile baritone blended perfectly with Pretti’s lighter voice. The phrasing of the two men was delightful, with every word clearly enunciated, and with well‑placed emotional emphasis.
During Act II’s duet, a black and white video plays, featuring two cavorting prepubescent lads, the young Don Carlo, wearing the same shabby white shirt and black pants. From thereon in, whenever the two meet during the opera, the video is shown. While initially charming, the recurring video soon became tiresome. The same can be said of the dwarf, who was unusual and entertaining in the first scene. The novelty soon wore thin as he became ubiquitous, distracting from the action and diluting the work’s emotional intensity. Given Guth’s dearth of inspired ideas, he chose the very few on hand and milked them shamelessly. Worst of all, the paucity of invention did not help to create a coherent overall concept for this production.
In Act IV, 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 as he is shot by the Inquisitor’s agents. Gabriele Viviani’s “Per me giunto è il dì supremo” followed by “Io morrò, ma lieto in core,” was one of the opera’s strongest moments, deeply moving and beautifully phrased.
Armenian mezzo Varduhi Abrahamyan was an appropriate choice as Princess Eboli, her voice rich and stage presence unbeatable. She was seen ici in this same role, in Davide Livermore’s vastly superior production of Don Carlo for Monte‑Carlo. Sadly, she was poorly directed in the present production. Alas, there was little regal about her, and yet she is Princess Eboli, not a kitchen maid. To blame is the director, for she was suitably dignified in Livermore’s production. This Eboli seemed preponderant and insolent, acting as if the Queen. This may have been Guth’s viewpoint, but it contradicts both the opera and Schiller’s play. A courtier of royal rank knows their rank in the hierarchy. Though the historical figure was blind in one eye, she wore no eye patch here, which may have been deliberate if the intent was to make her a dominant, overly self‑confident harpy.
Her Act I “Nel giardin del bello” was well‑sung, but lacked charm and sensuality. Eboli sings this aria about a Moorish king who, bored with his queen, courts a veiled lady who turns out to be his own wife. It is supposed to take place in Monastery of San Just’s lush gardens, but in this quasi‑setless creative wilderness, it’s in the black & white checkered square, bereft of trees, flowers or fountains. The action seemed to take place in the Gobi desert or in the courtyard of a factory in Bielefeld or Chemnitz. It’s lamentable to remove sunny Spain from the opera, as it’s a key component in the Don Carlos of both Schiller and Verdi.
Eboli’s audience is meant to be the ladies of the Spanish court. Instead, she’s surrounded by Willis as in Act II of Adam’s ballet Giselle, young women betrayed by their betrothed on the eve of their wedding who are transformed into spirits that haunt their fiancés and men in general. The poor members of the choir who portrayed Eboli’s companions were covered in white veils, identical to Giselle’s Willis, rivaled only by Afghani women in burqas. While the song recounts the ironic infidelity of a husband, I fail to see any other similarity nor relevance to the opera’s plot. It made for an unfortunately memorable visual image, which may have been its true intent, but it was greatly distracting.
In Act II, Eboli sends a message inviting Carlo to a secret meeting. He assumes the message is from Elisabetta. When he discovers his mistake, it’s too late – Eboli knows his guilty secret and threatens to expose him. Verdi’s music for Act II’s garden scene with Carlo is sensual and evocative. Yet, the garden here was again the same barren chessboard rather than thick shrubs and fragrant jasmines to inspire desire and voluptuousness. There was little hint of sensuality on the part of either Eboli or Carlo. Eboli’s fury and change of mood as she realizes Carlo was expecting someone else at this nocturnal tryst are usually chilling. But as Guth’s Eboli is already tagged as imperious, one couldn’t sense any discernible transformation. She changed from haughty to irate, a much less effective transformation than from vulnerably amorous to seething. Nonetheless, the ensuing trio “Trema per te, falso figliuolo” was vocally powerful. Abrahamyan’s phrasing of “Ed io, che tremavo al suo aspetto” was wonderfully imbued with irony.
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 reduced to a non‑event. The usually spectacular scene takes place on the dreary chessboard. The supposedly huge crowd is instead a small group of courtiers. The Flemish “heretics” were dressed as hooded free‑fighters or terrorists. Instead of the pyre on which they were to spectacularly perish, they are simply shot. This was the most underwhelming auto da fé I’ve ever seen.
Finally, the Queen’s jewel box, containing 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 very same day. Eboli sings her signature aria “O don fatale,” lamenting her fatal beauty, swearing to save Carlo from prison. As it usually does, this aria elicited huge applause, yet it was spoiled by the dwarf’s antics. Instead of Eboli stealing the show (as many mezzos do), the dwarf did.
An article in a specialized magazine reported that star Russian bass Ildar Abdrazakov was scheduled as Philip II, but was replaced due to his pro‑Russian political stance. If true, this would reflect cowardice and lack of insight. Major opera companies who’ve dropped Anna Netrebko for these same reasons should have learnt from their reduced sales and the anger of many who resent selective political persecution. When have American or Israeli artists been banished by opera companies or orchestras? The answer is never – and rightly so. Politics and arts ought not to be mixed.
The production’s Philip II was John Relyea. The Canadian bass was an excellent choice, both vocally and dramatically. Admired in Mefistofele in Rome last season, his beautiful basso cantante was expressive, and his diction exemplary. His deportment was appropriately regal and yet he ably conveyed his fragility vis‑à‑vis his rebellious son, particularly in his Act III “Ella giammai m’amò”. He subtly showed both deference and defiance in his duo with the Grand Inquisitor.
With the exception of Russian opera, where basses are legion, this is the only known duet for two basses in the repertoire. Ukrainian bass Alexander Tsymbalyuk was a poor choice as the Grand Inquisitor. First, he is no basso profondo; his voice is even lighter than Relyea’s. It’s important that the two basses should not sound alike, and 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 to send shivers down one’s spine. Alas, that was far from the case. Secondly, his Italian phrasing left much to be desired. Furthermore, Guth chose for the Grand Inquisitor to be sighted, when normally he is blind. The infirmity of such a man of the cloth, as per the libretto, intensifies the air of menace. Therefore gone was the scene’s powerful intensity. To add to the imbalance, the Grand Inquisitor was accompanied by a half dozen Spiderman lookalikes, another moronic blunder, simply for visual effect.
American soprano Rachel Willis-Sørensen was the most impressive member of an overall exemplary cast. Amazingly, this talented singer sang Elisabetta in a French Don Carlos three years ago in Chicago. I find it Herculean for a singer to ably perform the role in both French and Italian versions. In addition to immense talent, Willis‑Sørensen boasts an impressive memory indeed.
From her first appearance, Willis Sørensen perfectly conveyed Elisabetta’s introverted character. This requires total immersion in the character. The role can be overshadowed if the soprano doesn’t have the necessary charisma, and there are very few that can convey the character’s complexity. This is a French Princess, initially engaged and attracted to young Crown Prince Don Carlo, but who ends up marrying his father, Philip II. Elisabetta is no plebeian; she is a woman of rank compelled to master her feelings, no matter how burdensome. This patrician character can make Elisabetta seem cold, but Willis‑Sørensen managed to masterfully convey the character’s nobility as well as humanity.
In her Act II aria, she effectively conveyed her humiliation by Philip IV in “Non pianger, mia compagna,” which was beautifully phrased. Her final Act IV aria, “Tu che le vanità,” was the vocal highpoint of the evening. At least the dwarf was not allowed anywhere near her during this pivotal aria. I maintain the same high opinion I had of her in the French Don Carlos in Chicago: Rachel Willis‑Sørensen is a revelation. Her rich spinto voice is ideally‑suited for the role. Hers is a beautiful voice with natural trills, and easily recognizable within seconds. Her diction here was as impeccable as it was in French in Don Carlos. Whether it is Elisabetta or Elisabeth, the role requires poise and charisma. Willis‑Sørensen has loads of both.
Elisabeth 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. A monk, who is the spirit of Carlo’s grandfather Charles V, snatches Carlo away from the Inquisitor’s agents into a grave, possibly signifying Carlo’s death. The grave is actually the backside of Goya’s famous painting Portrait of Felipe IV and his Family (1800) that was hanging on the wall for much of the opera. Pity the Inquisitor’s agents did not shoot the annoying dwarf. At least the ending wasn’t botched.
At the end of this long evening, the public was justifiably appreciative of the impressive singers, especially the incandescent Willis‑Sørensen. The applause was mixed, with some booing for Hungarian conductor Henrik Nánási, which seemed unfair, as he worked efficiently with one of Verdi’s most demanding scores. Justifiably, there was much more booing than applause for Mr Guth, the hapless stage director. At least the Neapolitan public is a discerning one.
Ossama el Naggar
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