One might speculate as to why this 2008 performance of Carmen
from Zurich has just been released, but frankly, it is not quite
worth the concern. The draw here–unless you’re a Vesselina
Kasarova groupie–is Jonas Kaufmann’s Don José. He does not
disappoint, but he’s heard to very similar effect in a finer
performance and production from Covent Garden with Anna Caterina
Antonacci as his Carmen, recorded just a couple of years prior
to this one.
This production is directed by Matthias
Hartmann and designed by Volker Hintermeier and Su Buehler. The
action is updated–to the early 1970s, perhaps; in Act 2 there is
a small TV with an old-fashioned rabbit ears antenna, and dress
is similarly “modern”. The minimalist set is a round disc on
which the barest of props are used: Act 1 has a white umbrella
and beach chairs that Don José sits on, and a small gate with a
neon sign in the shape of a cigar (there’s also a stuffed dog
that remains in position throughout the act); the second act is
chock-full of chairs that get knocked over a lot (in addition to
the TV) and also has a string of colored lights; the third
features suitcases and trunks and sleeping bags for the
smugglers; and the last, back in the blaring sun, sports one big
tree. There is no attempt at Spanish flavor or verisimilitude,
not even a gypsy dance.
In addition to this lack of
Spanish-ness, director Hartmann has few new ideas. José is more
nerdish and bookish than usual, with no hint at all in the first
act of any sort of temperament other than nervousness: he mostly
sits and does a puzzle of some kind while everything goes on
around him. When Micaela shows up, the soldiers tear her dress
off, leaving her in a slip; when José spots her, he doesn’t even
notice. She seems very hot for him but he is thoroughly
disinterested; he turns away when she tries to kiss him on the
lips.
In Act 2 he crawls on the floor when Carmen
upbraids him for wanting to return to his barracks. It’s as
embarrassing to watch as it must be to act. His rage in the last
act seems almost arbitrary, but he continues to act like a
teenager. Carmen is not a slut here; there’s the occasional
hip-swinging, but otherwise she’s a cool character with a bad
hair-do and tacky dress (which she never changes, throughout the
four acts). Escamillo is less subtle and amorous than a
braggart. The smugglers are a particularly vicious crew–they
slash Zuniga’s throat near the close of Act 2–but the rest is
par for the course.
Kaufmann, within the framework of the
production–nerd-pathetic nerd-jealous nerd-killer–is his usual
magnificent self. He looks great and the voice is in superb
form, able to spin out long, legato lines softly and to release
cascades of power when needed. At times he seems to be trying
too hard here–his whole performance is more integrated at Covent
Garden–but he still earns his superstar stripes. Kasarova has
precisely the right voice for Carmen–smoky, darker at the
bottom, and with secure top notes. But she is not in very good
voice, with serious intonation issues and register breaks that
sound more out-of-control than being-used-for-effect. She’s also
not particularly graceful, and the murky direction, poor make-up
and costumes, and weird, non-sets do not help. I did enjoy her
second-act mood-swings–coquettish one minute, utterly spiteful
and cold the next.
Michele Pertusi’s Escamillo, as
mentioned, is bull-headed, but he sings the role handsomely and
is particularly impressive in the third-act duet with Kaufmann.
Isabel Rey’s Micaela is cookie-cutter but well-sung; walking
around in a slip all evening can’t be easy. The others–gypsies,
smugglers, soldiers–are all top notch.
The edition
includes some spoken dialogue and occasional bits of music in
places I’ve never heard before–the “revised score” is credited
to Michael Rot. There’s nothing jarring about it. Franz
Welser-Möst’s leadership is classy and never less than expert,
but nice, French transparencies are sacrificed for a driving
energy and build-up. Only French, English, and German subtitles
are included; a booklet contains track listings and an unhelpful
essay about the production. Stick to the Covent Garden version,
although the Met’s, with Elina Garanca and Roberto Alagna, both
in peak form, is superb as well.