The New York Times, OCT. 11, 2017
|By ZACHARY WOOLFE
Verdi: Don Carlos, Paris, 10. Oktober 2017
Review: A Starry "Don Carlos" Brings Verdi, in French, to Paris
PARIS — What a difference a letter makes.
One of Verdi’s greatest
works is best known in its Italian translation as “Don Carlo,” but he
originally wrote the opera’s music to a French libretto, “Don Carlos.” While
the music remains the same, the mood feels subtly yet completely altered.
In a wrenching duet with Carlos — who was first her fiancé, then, sigh,
her stepson — Élisabeth, the miserable queen of Spain, begs him to know her
heart is not indifferent, to understand her silence. In Italian the word is
“silenzio,” capped with a broad, extroverted “oh” sound. But in French, it’s
“silence,” with a soft, gentle “eh” at the end.
emotion in the voice of an artist like the soprano Sonya Yoncheva, who sings
Élisabeth, for her first time in either language, in a starry yet sober new
production of “Don Carlos” that had its premiere at the Opéra Bastille on
Tuesday. While Ms. Yoncheva didn’t dwell on that not-quite-syllable at the
end of “silence,” she used it — to create a brief aura of melancholy, a puff
of dark cloud.
The tenor Jonas Kaufmann, who previously had sung
Carlos only in Italian, found here in French a match for his hooded tone.
And on Tuesday, French seemed, time and again, more reflective than Italian
of the work’s emotional temperature: When the brutal, conflicted King
Philippe II (Ildar Abdrazakov) sighs that his wife doesn’t love him, the
line “Ella giammai m’amò” is more declamatory — say it out loud — than the
veiled, introspective “Elle ne m’aime pas.”
In Italian, it’s a public
moment, even as a soliloquy. In French, it’s the murmur of a tortured soul.
The return of “Don Carlos” to the Paris Opéra in its original tongue,
for the first time since 1986, brings a masterpiece back to its home. Verdi
finished the score in 1867 as part of his play for recognition in Paris,
then the grand-opera capital of Europe. Variously snipped and slashed for
artistic and logistical reasons — the Paris audience needed to be out in
time for the last train back to the suburbs — it was then translated when it
traveled to Italy. Now it exists in more versions than any of Verdi’s other
Sprawling, meditative and unsettled, “Don Carlos” eventually
fell out of favor, and when it returned to the repertoire in the mid-20th
century, it was sung almost exclusively in Italian. And almost always, it
was missing its crucial first act, depicting Carlos and Élisabeth’s first
meeting in France — the moment of happiness which they spend the rest of the
opera mourning — and their despair when she is called to Spain to marry his
father, Philippe, as part of a peace treaty.
A shadowy, vigorous 1996
production of the five-act French version was a highlight of the impresario
Stéphane Lissner’s tenure at the Théâtre du Châtelet here. The director of
the Paris Opéra since 2014, Mr. Lissner is now attempting to recreate some
of that magic. (This new staging includes material that Verdi cut in the
lead-up to the Paris premiere and omits a ballet commonly cut today but de
rigueur for 19th-century grand opera.)
Krzysztof Warlikowski, the
director, has not created magic, but his production here is restrained and
thoughtful, decorous without being chilly. The work has been updated from
the 16th century — seemingly to the 1940s or ’50s, the stage wrapped in
dark-wood paneling — but gently and without provocation. The aim appears
less to distort the libretto than to add touches of old-Hollywood glamour
with sets and costumes by Malgorzata Szczesniak and film-noir foreboding.
Cinema, one of the recurring themes in Mr. Warlikowski’s work, is again
a key element. Philippe’s study is an Art Deco-luxurious screening room; the
opera’s omnipresent nostalgia is echoed in flickering splotches of old
celluloid; stage-filling close-up projections capture frozen tears on
Élisabeth’s cheeks and Carlos with a gun to his head. (The plot’s locations
are projected, too, like intertitles in a silent film.)
is on illusion and fantasy: The opera’s characters continually arrive at
ideas for saving themselves and others, yet these notions uniformly fail. In
Mr. Warlikowski’s staging, even Élisabeth and Carlos’s initial meeting in
France is wary, a little detached — so their constant references to it as a
kind of lost Eden just feel like invocations of more false memories.
Seemingly solid walls open and close; the lighting, by Felice Ross, makes
barely noticeable shifts and changes the mood completely; nothing is
Even gender comes, wittily, into question: We first see
Eboli — the princess who falls for Carlos and sleeps with Philippe,
betraying almost everyone — as the leader of a court of androgynous
ladies-in-waiting in fencing uniforms, before she shifts to slinky
femme-fatale gowns and an omnipresent cigarette.
Elina Garanca, singing Eboli for the first time, never makes an ugly sound
with her smooth, even voice. It wraps adroitly around the sensuous curlicues
of the “Veil Song,” soaring at the top but lacking fullness lower down; the
effect of her “Ô don fatal” was one of poise and determination rather than
Mr. Abdrazakov, also making a role debut, sang
with solidity and spirit, but like Ms. Garanca, lacked a certain weight: His
unusually youthful Philippe skirted the part’s psychological depths. But
Ludovic Tézier, his sound stalwart and stylish and his face oddly pale,
captured the strange ambiguity of Rodrigue, who vacillates between loyalty
to Carlos and Philippe.
Mr. Kaufmann, so natural at playing
outsiders, is, with his gloomy croon, a foil for Ms. Yoncheva’s mix of
girlish clarity and haunted vibration, her acute tone piercing his smoky
one. Intelligent, reserved and wounded, she seemed inward-wrapped even in
her outpouring near the end, “Toi qui sus le néant,” the great aria of
The chorus, a bare whisper at the start and fearsome in
the auto-da-fé scene, was superb. Philippe Jordan, the Paris Opéra’s music
director, led a light and agile, brisk but not rushed, performance. It was
polished and professional, but also less than inspired. There was little
sense of glacial undertow, of mahogany darkness, of velvety richness.
Instead, the effect was cool, refined, self-contained.
This, too, was