|
Back
A Stepmother’s Sacrifice Montreal
Salle Wilfrid-Pelletier
11/22/2025 - & November 27, 30, 2025
Leos Janácek: Jenůfa
Marie-Adeline Henry (Jenůfa), Katarina Karnéus (Kostelnivka Buryja), Edgaras Montvidas (Laca Klemen), Isaiah Bell (Steva Buryja), Mikelis Rogers (Starek), Megan Latham (Grandmother Buryja), Isaac Galán (The Mill Foreman), Colin Mackey (Mayor), Camila Montefusco (Mayor’s wife), Tessa Fackelmann (Karolka), Justine Ledoux (A shepherdess), Bridget Esler (Barena), Odile Portugais (Jano), Ellita Gagner (Tetka)
Chœur de l’Opéra de Montréal, Claude Webster (Chorus Master), Orchestre Métropolitain, Nicole Paiement (Conductor)
Atom Egoyan (director), Debra Hanson (sets & costumes), Michael Watson (lighting), Noëlle-Emilie Desbiens (choreography)
M. A. Henry, K. Karnéus (© Vivien Gaumand)
Jenůfa was Janácek’s third opera and his first operatic triumph. Son of a schoolteacher from the region of Moravia, young Leos’ musical talent convinced his father to allow him a musical career. Never a conformist, he was by all accounts a gifted though perturbed student at the Brno Conservatory, and later the Leipzig Conservatory. An enfant terrible, he wrote a scathing review of his teacher’s conducting at the Brno Conservatory, which got him expelled (his teacher later relented, allowing his return). Later in life, another virulent review of an opera by Czech composer Karel Kovarovic gained him the latter’s bitter enmity. When Kovarovic eventually became director of Prague’s National Theatre, he understandably refused to premiere Jenůfa there as retribution. This feud persisted for twelve years after its 1904 Brno premiere, until the director was forced to yield to the pressure of swelling popular demand.
The 1904 Brno premiere of Jenůfa took place when Janácek (b. 1854) was already middle‑aged. He’d survived as a provincial music teacher and organist in Brno, but after Jenůfa’s debut in Prague and its ensuing international success, he embarked on a remarkable second wave of productivity, during which he wrote what are now considered seminal works: Kátia Kabanová (1921); The Cunning Little Vixen (1924); The Makropoulos Case (1926); From the House of the Dead (1928); Taras Bulba (1921); Sinfonietta (1926); the Glagolitic Mass (1927); String Quartet No. 1 (1924); and String Quartet No. 2 (1928).
Staunchly anti Wagnerian, he was firmly committed to creating a fresh musical idiom inspired by his Czech heritage. As Bartók would later do several decades later in modern day Hungary and Romania, Janácek researched and collected the folklore of Bohemia, Moravia and Silesia. He was particularly interested in the inflection of the Czech language, which he integrated into his compositions with intriguing results.
For this reason, Janácek’s works now benefit from the present day avoidance of presenting opera in the vernacular, as was once de rigueur. Indeed, until recently, Janácek’s operas were routinely performed in English in the United States. In the nineties, I heard Jessye Norman at the MET in Janácek’s The Makropoulos Case, in English. Likewise, I heard Hildegard Behrens in 1990 in that same opera, in German, in Munich. These were riveting performances, but they would have been even more powerful in their original language.
Janácek’s “speech-melody” is one the composer’s trademarks, dependent on the magical fusion between Czech texts and his inspired music. Though I don’t speak the language, the major roles in this Montreal production were filled by performers comfortable with it (based on my own familiarity with recordings of Jenůfa).
Though the story is typical of early twentieth century rural Czech society, it’s a universal story of turmoil and family tensions in all conservative societies. Contemporary to the Italian verismo of Mascagni, Leoncavallo, Giordano and Cilea, this opera is in fact musically and dramatically vastly superior. A quartet of leading roles, rather than the usual amorous duo, lend dramatic density to the action, especially since all four characters – Jenůfa, her stepmother Kostenicka, Steva and Laca – evolve significantly throughout the opera.
Jenůfa is first seen as a naïve girl enamoured with the handsome but wayward Steva. Through her tribulations, first being romanced, soon becoming pregnant, then ultimately rejected, she then heartwrenchingly loses her child through infanticide, after which she triumphantly matures into a loving, forgiving woman. French soprano Marie‑Adeline Henry had just the right voice for this demanding title role, displaying both the vocal range and the required temperament.
Henry’s intensity was palpable from the start, even in the scene when the jubilant Steva celebrates not being conscripted to the army by dancing and openly flirting with another woman, her joy at hoped-for engagement shattered. Henry managed to convey the fragility of Jenůfa through her beautifully expressive voice. She was marvellously effective in Act II’s “Salve Regina,” the opera’s most lyrical scene. Unable to find her infant son after awakening from drug‑induced slumber, Jenůfa prays for his safety at the very moment her stepmother Kostelnicka drowns him. It’s a powerful scene, and harrowingly bleak, supported by haunting string and woodwind passages, with ominous brass.
Jenůfa was not the opera’s original title; it was originally named Her Stepdaughter, for at the center of the drama is the difficult love of the Sacristan, Kostelnicka, for her stepdaughter Jenůfa. Often, the role of the stepmother is sung by a declining grande dame who relies more on charisma and histrionics than her voice. Sixty‑year‑old Swedish soprano Katarina Karnéus’ greatest quality is her intelligence. Kostelnicka is a vocally demanding role and Karnéus knew just how to use her instrument sparingly (perhaps too much so) in the first act. However, she improved as the opera progressed, and throughout Act II and especially Act III she was outstanding.
Kostelnicka, a dour woman at the beginning of the opera, initially rebukes Jenůfa for her irresponsible behaviour, but becomes more fragile as she witnesses her stepdaughter hiding in her house to give birth. When she discovers Steva will marry the mayor’s daughter and has lost interest in the now disfigured Jenůfa, she encourages Laca’s interest. But as he expresses he wouldn’t be ready to raise Steva’s child as his own, Kostelnicka decides the only way out of the situation is to give Jenůfa a sleeping potion in order to drown the hapless infant, without interference. An intelligent singer and actress, Karnéus avoided excess in portraying the tragic character, thus rendering her horrific crime in Act II credible and her breakdown in Act III utterly convincing.
A devout woman, the sacristan Kostelnicka soon realizes the sin she’s committed, and is rightly devastated by it. When the corpse is discovered and the villagers want to lynch Jenůfa, Kostelnicka confesses her crime and Jenůfa is relieved of any punishment. Karnéus admirably conveyed Kostelnicka’s different facets and the changes she undergoes without resorting to facile histrionics, a common pitfall of this role.
The scene between Kostelnicka and Jenůfa, in which the latter forgives her stepmother, knowing her actions were borne of love and not malice, is transformational for both women, and devastatingly effective. More than those of other composers, the operas of Janácek require as much great acting as great singing. In that regard, both Henry and Karnéus delivered resoundingly.
Often, the dearth of tenors is a huge problem in opera. Fortunately, this opera, with its two leading tenor roles, was blessed with two excellent but decidedly distinct tenors. Lithuanian singer Edgardas Montvidas was a vocally powerful Laca. He is first seen as a petty man, unable to accept that Jenůfa prefers his stepbrother. He becomes a monster when he disfigures Jenůfa to render her unappealing to Steva. Once Jenůfa shows him gratitude for proposing to marry her despite her condition, he is gradually transformed by love. As the roles of Laca and Steva are both tenors, it’s essential their voices be distinct. Canadian-American Isaiah Bell, admired as the flamboyant Count Johan in the world premiere of Julien Bilodeau’s La Reine‑garçon in 2024, proved his amazing acting skills. His portrayal of the weak, womanizing rich kid was spot on. Despite Steva being a despicable man who rejects the woman he ruined once she is disfigured, Bell managed to humanize him, even rendering him amiable, by conveying his fragility and weakness. His Mozartian lyric tenor contrasted perfectly with Montvidas’ more spinto voice.
The supporting roles were well‑sung and acted, with the exception of mezzo Megan Latham, who was miscast in the small yet important contralto role of the Grandmother.
Canadian conductor Nicole Paiement, a specialist in contemporary music, conducted Janácek’s score with exciting enthusiasm. There are many lyrical passages where Paiement allowed the music to soar. Janácek’s marvelous score is also filled with achingly gorgeous solo passages, and these were beautifully performed by the musicians, notably those of solo violin and bassoon. There may have been several moments lacking intensity (particularly in Act I), but the powerful finales of Acts I and II were played majestically.
Canadian film director Atom Egoyan’s forays into opera have not impressed me thus far. His Die Walküre, Salome and Così fan tutte for Toronto have been the worst stagings of these operas that I have ever seen. Mercifully, Jenůfa is so powerful a work that it’s hard for a director to destroy it.
For reasons unknown, Egoyan opted for a change of epoch. The villagers wore drab, unpleasing contemporary clothing, and the celebration of Steva’s exemption from military service used a boom box as a prop, suggesting the 1980s. One hoped for an allusion to the oppressiveness of the fading years of the Communist regime. Alas, this was not the case; the boom box was used for appearances only. In Act III, Karolka, the Mayor’s daughter, also Steva’s new fiancée, had a cellular telephone that occupied her more than Steva, indicating the present. The absurdity of this change of era is that it rendered the plot’s premise nonsensical. In 2016 for example, half of all children born in the Czech Republic were out of wedlock.
One good idea was the rosemary tree that Jenůfa tends to. It’s referred to in the text, and is important in Czech tradition. It’s used in wedding ceremonies, symbolizing love, fidelity and good luck. In the libretto, Laca states he’s put worms in the pot to kill the tree. At the end of Act I, a remorseful and irate Laca violently uproots it from the pot.
Debra Hanson’s sets were quite hideous. Central to the production was a huge stone that’s likely the boulder used in the mill. In the second act, it turns to show the icy river in which Jenůfa’s infant son was thrown to its death, a good idea ruined by its intense blinding brightness. Why assault the audience midway through the performance with such a nonsensical gimmick? It could easily have been a blueish light, with greater effect. The sets included three columns on each side with spotlights that were also unpleasant for those who value their eyes. This kind of assault would have been more appropriate in a staging of Arthur Koestler’s Darkness at Noon (1940).
The operas of Janácek are not performed often enough in Montreal, where predictable warhorses still rule (La bohème, Madama Butterfly, La traviata, Carmen). The last time Jenůfa was presented by L’Opéra de Montréal was 1997, almost three decades ago. Happily, the enthusiasm of the public proved this city may now be ready for less familiar repertoire. Might we hope for Kátia Kabanová, The Cunning Little Vixen and The Makropoulos Case in the near future? I certainly hope so.
Ossama el Naggar
|
