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Carmen and the Psychopath Wexford
Jerome Hynes Theatre
10/18/2025 - & October 20, 22, 24, 26, 28, 30, November 1*, 2025
Georges Bizet: La Tragédie de Carmen (adaptation by Marius Constant)
Sarah Richmond (Carmen), Dafydd Allen (Don José), Roisín Walsh (Micaëla), Philip Kalmanovitch (Escamillo), Conor Cooper (Zuniga), Vladimir Sima (Lillas Pastia), Jonah Halton (García)
Rebecca Warren*/Nate Ben‑Horin (piano, music director)
Tom Deazley (director), Lisa Krügel (sets & costumes), Maksym Diedov (lighting)
S. Richmond (© Pádraig Grant)
Carmen is unquestionably one of the most perfect operas ever composed. It features an inspired setting, a marvelous orchestration and brilliantly-conceived vocal parts, and, most of all, intense drama. It was highly‑admired by no less than Gustav Mahler, who championed the work while Director of the Vienna Court Opera. It’s thought of as an indestructible work, a glorious stage success no matter whose vision we are witnessing. Carmen herself could be interpreted by a mezzo or a soprano; dialogue can be spoken or sung; the opera could be set in Seville, as originally conceived, or during the Spanish Civil War, the Mexican Revolution or even a circus.
One case in point is Otto Preminger’s powerful filmed version, a musical-comedy adaptation named Carmen Jones, set in the segregation‑era U.S. South. Peter Brook’s 1981 La Tragédie de Carmen is a smart adaptation of the opera into a shorter compact version of ninety minutes (instead of three hours). Carmen’s partners in crime, the smugglers Mercédès, Frasquita, Dancaïre and Remendado are omitted, in a (somewhat successful) attempt to focus the action around four main characters: Escamillo, the toreador; Micaëla from José’s village in Navarra; Don José, and not least, Carmen herself.
In this production, while the era is not specified, judging from the sets and costumes, it could be the late‑nineteenth to the mid‑twentieth century. José is not a soldier, but works for the police. Carmen is not a worker at a cigarette factory, but a pickpocket, a fortune‑teller and possibly a prostitute. Instead of Bizet’s smugglers, her partner in crime is Lillas Pastia, a silent role in the original opera. In some respects, this abridged version is more faithful to the opera’s inspiration, Prosper Mérimée’s novella, Carmen (1845). Don José is not an ingénue country boy from Navarra, but a malevolent man with a vicious streak.
The best aspect of this production was its singers, all young artists from Wexford’s Factory Academy. All four were impressive. Northern Ireland’s Sarah Richmond was an outstanding Carmen, endowed with a beautiful dark mezzo. An excellent actress, she was able to convey the required emotions of the strong-willed gypsy, her seductiveness, nastiness, love, hope and despair. Her reduced Act I “L’amour est un oiseau rebelle” was charm and seduction personified, yet Richmond eschewed the often‑used vulgarity of this aria. Her Act II “Les tringles des sistres tintaient” was titillating, thanks to Irish musical director Rebecca Warren, who accelerated the tempo to emphasise the frenzy at the end of the aria – no mean feat considering it was one piano. To top it off, Richmond’s diction was exemplary.
British tenor Dafydd Allen had the right timbre for the role: robust and youthful. His diction wasn’t as good as Richmond’s, but it was certainly understandable. His acting, according to British director Tom Deazley’s vision of the character, was completely convincing. From the start, Allen conveyed a darker side. His interpretation of Don José’s signature aria, “La fleur que tu m’avais jetée,” was near perfect, save for the final diminuendo, but perhaps it’s written as such in this lighter version of Bizet’s opera. For reasons I will explain later, Allen did not express much sincerity or despair in this aria. I believe this was deliberate.
Irish soprano Roisín Walsh was an exemplary Micaëla, fresh sounding and endowed with a bright, brilliant lyric soprano. This Micaëla was no pushover, and managed to show force of character as well as innocence. She managed to bring her to life, in a role that’s often dull, especially when juxtaposed with an overwhelming Carmen. Her Act III “Je dis que rien ne m’épouvante” was luminously touching.
Canadian bass-baritone Philip Kalmanovitch was a striking Escamillo, physically imposing and exuding masculinity. His bass‑baritone has just the right colour for this role, which is often sung by lighter baritones who don’t do the role justice. His Toreador Song was well executed, but hampered by poor diction. A pity, as he has ample charisma and a powerfully virile voice.
The opera opens with a gypsy woman reading tarot cards to Don José. There’s no “Avec la garde montante” children’s chorus here. Instead, the destiny theme from the Act III “card trio” is played. Micaëla arrives, seeking Don José near the police station where he’s stationed. Her meeting with an indifferent José is observed by the gypsy, who is revealed to be none other than Carmen. José is more interested in the money his mother sent him than in Micaëla. Out of pure viciousness, she flirts with José, delivering a shortened version of her famous Habanera, “L’amour est un oiseau rebelle.” The not‑so‑spineless Micaëla wards off Carmen from José, before a catfight erupts between them, resulting in Carmen slashing Micaëla’s face.
Zuniga, José’s commanding officer, emerges from the station, ordering José to bind Carmen and take her to prison. The wily Carmen convinces José to let her run away. For his infraction, he’s demoted and imprisoned.
Firstly, Carmen’s fight and disfiguring of Micaëla is pure malice, no mere co‑worker altercation at the cigarette factory (as in the opera). Secondly, Don José is no innocent country boy. He’s appealing to Carmen not for his indifference (as in the opera), but because he appears to be already spoken for by Micaëla. Both protagonists are less sympathetic than in the original opera, and it’s hard to imagine the public identifying with either.
There are no intermissions in this shortened version, which ought to intensify the drama. Act II opens in Lillas Pastia’s tavern. The innkeeper is no longer a silent role, but an acting one, providing comic relief with complaints about his working condition “working hard/hardly worker.”
Romanian tenor Vladimir Sima, portraying Lillas Pastia, is a remarkable actor with natural comic gifts. Zuniga, José’s Commanding Officer, arrives at the tavern where he’s seduced by Carmen, who deftly picks his pocket during a kiss. In the meantime, Lillas Pastia has a go at his jacket’s pockets. Carmen and Zuniga step into the tavern to fornicate. When he exits, an infuriated José attacks and kills him. When the toreador Escamillo arrives, Lillas Pastia places the corpse on a bench to conceal Zuniga’s very dead condition, providing more comic relief, despite the sordid situation. The overly jealous José attempts to fight a flirtatious Escamillo. Here, composer Marius Constant (1925‑2004) had a stroke of genius, amalgamating Escamillo’s scene in Act III with his first appearance in Act II. In Act III, an amorous Escamillo seeks Carmen in the mountains during her smuggling enterprise and has a mano a mano fight “à coup de navaja” with José. José wins the fight and Escamillo is saved by Lillas Pastia’s interference. García, Carmen’s husband, a speaking role not in the opera, returns and is chased away by José. Thus, trouble between José and Carmen starts early on. No wonder, as José is a murderous psychopath.
With the elimination of the smugglers, one of French opera’s best ensembles, the Act II quintet, “Nous avons en tête une affaire... Et nous avons besoin de vous,” is dispensed with. With its syncopation, it is years ahead of its time, and it is both melodious and complex in an avant‑garde way. Its absence was a real pity, especially as José’s flower song, “La fleur que tu m’avais jetée,” was kept. Astonishingly, it was placed at the end of Act II, after José had murdered Zuniga and chased Escamillo and García away. It takes an especially sick person, devoid of either empathy or conscience, to revel in his own feelings of love after having committed a gratuitous murder. If the intent was to make the audience hate Don José, it succeeded.
Act III was eliminated, save for an abridged version of Micaëla’s aria “Je dis que rien ne m’épouvante,” at the end of which Carmen blends in with her lines from Act III’s card trio. Alas, this fusion is less felicitous, as both melodies are blurred, and the resulting sound not appealing. Micaëla’s aria, beautiful as it is, makes little sense, as it’s meant to take place in the rugged mountains where the smugglers are hiding. Given that Micaëla has no role to play other than to attempt to save José from the criminal crowd he frequents (they do not exist in this production), she and her aria are utterly superfluous.
The final act was reduced to the final scene (or part of it), opening with Carmen’s scream. We conclude that the gallant torreador has been killed by the bull. A devastated Carmen is confronted by José, though he had not been away (as in the original). The confrontation does not escalate to her dumping him by throwing her engagement ring, “Cette bague tu m’avais donnée... Tiens !” Rather, he draws his knife but does not stab her, indicating that he could. She seems indifferent. With Escamillo dead, so is hope, and Carmen is already dead inside. This was powerful in a cynical way, but it also struck one as superficial.
Despite its great young singers, the excellent musical director at the piano, and the intelligent staging, La Tragédie de Carmen was sadly lacklustre, a pale imitation of Bizet’s opera. Most of the favourite melodies remain. It may be a fitting introduction to opera for young people, but we should give the young more credit. Bizet’s Carmen will always be the better choice, and by far.
Ossama el Naggar
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