It's not a good sign when Carmen's program notes are more
entertaining than the performance, but Stephen Jay-Taylor's
writing proves more fresh and illuminating than Simon Rattle's
work with the Berlin Philharmonic and an uneven cast. Recorded
just after staged performances at the 2012 Salzburg Easter
Festival, this Carmen, touted as the "original" version,
restores dialogue and musical material cut from the opera's
first performances. Jay-Taylor's booklet essay details the
bureaucracy and nepotism of Paris's nineteenth-century opera
venues and hints at the difficult gestation and rehearsal period
surrounding Carmen's 1875 premiere, since everyone involved
later blackened over or ripped out pertinent pages of their
diaries.
As it turns out, the musical additions are
mostly expansions of existing material — a repeat here and
there, some variant vocal contours; José's "C'est mal à toi,
Carmen, de te moquer de moi" receives a taunting riposte from
the Gypsy using the same tune, and he gets an extra "ma Carmen
adorée" at the work's climax. The inauthentic accompanied
recitatives are omitted, leaving Micaëla without the "C'est des
contrebandiers" introduction to her aria, but not much spoken
dialogue remains.
Musicological interest aside, why
present an un-Mediterranean Carmen, even with a glamorous
orchestra? When Jean-Paul Fouchécourt enters as the smuggler
Remendado, his authentic French is as startling as the pop of a
Veuve Clicquot cork. Jonas Kaufmann and Magdalena Kožená
could not be more poorly matched, with his massive and
expressive baritonal sound and her pale, pristine, short soprano
voice. (Among the four women, not one brings real color.)
Rattle's attempt to return to an opéra comique feeling to
accommodate his wife's sinewy sound, by stripping away the
work's grand-opera accretions, is belied by the opulence of the
Berlin Philharmonic and the grandest of grand operatic tenors.
Kaufmann is the best thing about the recording.
He's got the dark, tormented, choked-up sound that fits Don
José's dangerously psychotic nature, and he inhabits the role
totally, delivering the flower song as a measured,
heartbreakingly intimate confession. The final scene is a model
of vocal acting, as the tenor begins "Je ne menace pas" an empty
shell of a man, drained of spirit and direction. His first "Tu
ne m'aimes donc plus?" is hushed and incredulous, the repeat a
challenging roar, and José's final bellowing demand — "démon,
veux-tu me suivre?" — seems to come directly from the abyss.
Kožená growls and snarls a few lines effectively, but the
choices seem driven by technical limitations rather than
dramatic concerns, and it's hard to imagine how vocal balance
worked in a live situation. She skims over high notes and
resorts to hooty, pressed tones, the phrasing often compromised
with weird rubatos (as in the card scene). It's distressing to
experience this winning and thoughtful artist stretched beyond
capacity.
If Rattle wants us to hear Carmen freshly, he's
got to cast more carefully, because this is not a tone poem.
Orchestral color doesn't disguise the opaque and charmless
Escamillo of Kostas Smoriginas or provide bloom for Genia
Kühmeier's Micaëla. Christian Van Horn brings some vocal swagger
to the role of Zuniga, and one senses an effective
characterization there, but Andrè Schuen's Moralès sounds too
genteel, though his voice is attractive. If you can get
through Rattle's frenzied, rushed overture and are able to enjoy
Kaufmann in a vacuum, this is the Carmen for you.
