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Rusalka et le charme discret de la bourgeoisie - Metamorphoses or The X‑Files Berlin
Staatsoper
02/09/2025 - & February 13, 16, 22, 27, 2025
Antonín Dvorák: Rusalka, opus 114, B. 203
Christiane Karg (Rusalka), Brian Jagde (The Prince), Anna Samuil (The Foreign Princess), Jongmin Park (Vodník), Anna Kissjudit (Jezibaba), Jaka Mihelac (Gamekeeper), Clara Nadeshdin (Kitchen Boy), Maria Kokareva (First Nymph), Rebecka Wallroth (Second Nymph), Sandra Laagus (Third Nymph), Taehan Kim (The Hunter)
Staatsopernchor, Martin Wright (chorus director), Staatskapelle Berlin, Tomás Hanus (conductor)
Kornél Mundruczó (stage director), Marcin Lakomicki (revival director), Monika Pormale (sets & costumes), Felice Ross (lighting), Rūdolfs Baltins (videography)
C. Kart, A. Kissjudit (© Gianmarco Bresadola)
Although Dvorak’s Rusalka premiered in Prague in 1901, its arrival in the world’s great cities didn’t happen until many years later. London was able to enjoy it in 1950; Venice’s La Fenice in 1958; Berlin’s Staatsoper in 1968. In North America, the San Diego Opera presented it in 1975, and New York’s Metropolitan Opera followed in 1993. In the 80s, Rusalka’s “Song to the Moon” became popular thanks to its use in film and in recitals. This led to a wider array of companies producing Dvorák’s most popular opera. Additionally, the increased popularity of his fellow countryman Janácek’s works increased interest in the Czech operatic canon.
Dvorák’s most famous opera is indeed a masterpiece. The music is rich, unquestionably influenced by Wagner, replete with leitmotifs for the principal characters. It’s also a nationalist work, with Dvorák generously weaving in more than a few irresistible Czech folk melodies.
Eighteen months ago at Milan’s La Scala, director Emma Dante chose the siren to be an octopus who would fall in love with the Prince. Presumably, this was to accentuate Rusalka’s alienation and her outsider status. The idea of endowing the siren Rusalka with tentacles rather than a mermaid’s tail was original, but frankly revolting. However, for the public, making the siren – an iconic image since antiquity – into a creature resembling an octopus or jellyfish was a definite turn‑off. It evoked extraterrestrial creatures from the annals of sci‑fi that morph into human form, a menacing prospect. This image rendered one subconsciously aloof and didn’t help one identity with Rusalka.
After seeing that production, I wrongly presumed that Dante had pushed Rusalka to its limit. How wrong I was; Hungarian director Kornél Mundruczó has gone even further here. Though less visually appealing than Dante’s production which overall respected the Slavic fairytale of the siren that was adapted by Hans Christian Andersen into The Little Mermaid, Mundruczó’s take on the story has elements of the class struggle.
The production transports us from the deep Bohemian forest to the Berlin of the late 1990s, when, in the chaos that followed the collapse of the D.D.R. (Socialist East Germany) and after Germany’s reunification, apartments fell prey to squatters. It wasn’t unusual for them to occupy apartments in the same buildings as posh families. Rusalka squats in a flat on the ground floor with three young women (the opera’s nymphs) and an old hippie (Vodník, the opera’s Water Sprite). On the floor above lives a handsome and wealthy young man.
Mundruczó’s Rusalka is housebound and mostly dwells in the bathtub, though it seems more like a psychological ailment than a supernatural condition. She falls in love from afar with the posh neighbour from upstairs (the Prince). She seeks help from her neighbour Jezibaba who happens to be a powerful witch. Here, Mundruczó’s take on the story shows its first cracks. In return for becoming human (which she apparently already was), Rusalka becomes mute. Her mutism is represented by black threads sewn across her mouth that make her look mustachioed (transitioning perhaps?). Despite her apparent facial outgrowth, the Prince is smitten and she moves in with him. For a moment, I thought the Prince was gay and that she’d changed sexes to seduce him.
The Prince’s “palace” was identical to the apartment downstairs, no bigger than that of the squatters, but less messy. The Prince’s staff, including a gamekeeper and kitchen boy (actually a woman, as it was written as a trousers role) act as his family, and amusingly behave as if wealthy, sporting tweed, pearl necklaces and deux‑pieces ensembles (think Nancy Reagan, Ursula in Brussels or Bunuels’s 1972 film, Le Charme discret de la bourgeoisie).
Of course, the bourgeois household rejects Rusalka, and the Prince tires of her muteness (not to mention her mustachioed muzzle). He starts dating a woman of his own social background, breaking Rusalka’s heart. She retreats to the bathtub in the downstairs apartment and asks for Jezibaba’s help to return to her former self (which in Mundruczó’s staging is not exactly clear). Somehow, in homage to Kafka, she’s transformed into a giant worm, heading to the basement boiler room.
The Prince, yearning for Rusalka, finds her there. She warns him that she’s now deadly to him. Unable to resist, he opts for death rather than to live without her. She kisses him repeatedly until he expires.
Apologies to Emma Dante for having panned her Rusalka. Compared to this staging, it was a work of genius. Needless to say, there was a huge contingent booing on this opening night. It’s a pity, as there was something thought-provoking in Mundruczó’s take on Rusalka. Identity issues are a huge factor in our desires, and class struggle is undeniably a factor in one’s self‑identification and self‑acceptance. With more coherence, this could have been an appealing production.
The sets were mostly disappointing, except for the Berlin skyline from the Prince’s apartment. The squatters’ apartment downstairs was a sore sight. The upstairs apartment was not all that posh, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Compared to Rusalka’s sad dwelling, it was Versailles. Rusalka’s transformation into a giant worm was well done; the result was almost cinematic, reminiscent of an episode of The X‑Files (1993‑2004).
Fortunately, the cast was superior to its staging. German lyric soprano Christiane Karg had the requisite ethereal voice for Rusalka. Singing her marvelous “Song to the Moon” in the bathtub was underwhelming, despite the beauty of her voice and the intensity of her interpretation. Though I don’t look kindly on the staging of the opera’s finale with Rusalka as a giant worm, Karg was so immersed in her role that I found her touching, despite her slithery appearance.
American Brian Jagde is a much sought after tenor who opened La Scala’s present season as Alvaro in La forza del destino. I’ve followed American tenor Jagde’s career for years. Endowed with a powerfully virile voice, he has a tendency to sing forte and fortissimo which appeals to many, especially those who favour “can belto” to bel canto. This style is not my cup of tea. However, fortunately Jagde has improved in recent years. His Alvaro in La forza last March at the Metropolitan Opera was the best thing in that unfortunate production. Admired last May in Parma as Cavaradossi in Tosca, he charmed the public with his virile voice and intoxicating upper register. Though his voice can’t be described as Italianate, Jagde’s diction was excellent for a non‑native speaker. As I do not speak Czech, I cannot judge his diction in that language. He impressed with his high notes, pleasant timbre and great intensity in his interaction with Rusalka, especially in the finale.
Hungarian mezzo Anna Kissjudit, the neighbourhood’s friendly witch, was a revelation. Hearing her in the secondary role of Jezibaba is reason enough to see this production. The twenty-nine-year-old Kissjudit’s voice is a phenomenon, reminiscent of Marilyn Horne in her prime. Like Horne, her tone is honeyed and her range vast; her low notes produce shivers and her high notes delight. Dressed in a jogging suit, she embodied the part of a tomboyish, easygoing young woman. She seemed to enjoy herself playing the crazy witch. I’ll make every effort to hear this young mezzo again. She is destined to be one of the future’s best voices.
Russian soprano Anna Samuil was an imperious Foreign Princess. Her powerful voice and haughty demeanor contrasted with Rusalka’s lighter voice and effacing personality. However, she overplayed the role to the extent that she was more virago than Princess, foreign or otherwise. It wasn’t believable that a Prince, charmed by the tender siren, would fall for such a shrew. Samuil was Freia in Barenboim’s Ring at La Scala fifteen years ago. She was much‑praised as Tatiana in Eugene Onegin, and Violetta in La Traviata. However, her voice has changed, becoming much bigger, less lirico and more spinto.
South Korean bass Jongmin Park was an imposing Vodník, a role he also took in the aforementioned La Scala production. His deep, dark voice conveyed both authority and tenderness. Having him play the Water Sprite as an old hippie was amusing, as was his frolicking with the three nymphs.
Czech conductor Tomás Hanus has conducted Rusalka and several Czech and Russian operas in cities including Prague, Brno, Milan, Munich, Paris, Geneva, Madrid and Dresden. He highlighted the Wagnerian side of Dvorák’s music with brio, and worked the folk tunes briskly and energetically. He’s also a conductor preferred by singers, as he’s particularly sensitive to their needs.
Most who viewed this performance will retain the excellent singing and music making, as well as the image of Rusalka as a monstrous worm. Since its Berlin premiere in 1968, Berliners have waited fifty‑seven years for a new production of Rusalka, only to be subjected to Kornél Mundruczó’s half‑baked conception. Let’s hope they don’t have to wait another half century for a better one.
Ossama el Naggar
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