The New York Times, AUG. 7, 2015
|By ANTHONY TOMMASINI
Beethoven: Fidelio, Salzburger Festspiele, 4. August 2015
Review: A Divisive 'Fidelio' Draws Boos at Salzburg
SALZBURG, Austria — What's a summer at the Salzburg Festival without at
least one opera production that provokes vociferous booing on its opening
night? That requisite rite took place here on Tuesday, at a new staging of
Beethoven's "Fidelio," when the German director Claus Guth and his
production team appeared during curtain calls at the Grosses Festspielhaus.
The hostility from the audience was clearly directed at Mr. Guth and his
partners. The conductor Franz Welser-Möst, who led the great Vienna
Philharmonic in a transparent and majestic account of Beethoven's score, won
a huge ovation, along with the excellent singers, especially the two leads.
They are the astonishing tenor Jonas Kaufmann, who makes a wrenching,
haunted Florestan, a Spanish nobleman unjustly jailed by the ruthless
governor of a state prison for espousing principles of liberty the opera
leaves vague, and the compelling, bright-voiced soprano Adrianne Pieczonka
as Leonore, Florestan's tenaciously loving wife. She has disguised herself
as a man (Fidelio) and secured a job in the prison where she suspects that
her husband is being held —hoping, somehow, to rescue him.
makes a good point that a prestigious festival should foster "nonnormative"
approaches to repertory work, as he argued in an interview included in the
program. "Fidelio," long thought a great, profound yet problematic opera,
One problem involves its stretches of rather
stilted spoken dialogue. Mr. Guth presents "Fidelio" as a psychological
exploration of the idea that we all live within self-devised prisons. That
dialogue impedes his concept. So he has simply eliminated it, replacing the
libretto's spoken lines with recorded sounds by the sound designer Torsten
Ottersberg: subdued rumbling, industrial creaks and clanks, moaning and
breathing. During these stretches, the singers either act out the story
silently, or stand around trying to look absorbed in thought.
course, that dialogue has a purpose: to convey crucial details of the story.
Mr. Guth assumes that what's going on comes across anyway. But the actual
sounds are dull, like snippets from some faceless sci-fi film score. All
that moaning and groaning is more cliche than the usual spoken exchanges.
The intriguingly abstract set is by Christian Schmidt, who also designed
the costumes. He places the opera in a large, eerie room, with white wood
walls and a tiled floor, suggestive of Freud's salon of the unconscious, Mr.
Schmidt said in the program. Now, an abstract "Fidelio" set in a dream space
could have been interesting.
But the philosophical generalization
driving this concept bothered me. Maybe we are all trapped in psychological
prisons of our own devising. Yet Florestan's story does not fit into this
contrivance. Two years of unjust solitary confinement and near-starvation
represent a horrifically real trap.
Leonore, in Mr. Guth's concept,
lives in a constant state of internal debate, in which her persona as
Fidelio struggles to communicate with the woman she actually is. This idea
is turned theatrical by having Ms. Pieczonka followed around by Leonore's
Shadow, an invented silent character (Nadia Kichler), who communicates
through physical gestures, like sign language for the hearing-impaired, a
heavy-handed touch that winds up seeming glib. The villain, Don Pizarro (the
sturdy bass-baritone Tomasz Konieczny), has a shadow, too. So, rather than
settling for yet another traditional "Fidelio," with actual chains and
dungeons, what is Mr. Guth's experimental innovation? He trots out
The supporting characters seem diminished by this
Freudian production, even though the roles are strongly cast, with
Hans-Peter König as Rocco, the weak-willed jailer; Olga Berzsmertna as his
daughter, Marzelline, who falls for the "man" she knows as Fidelio; and
Norbert Ernst as Jaquino, who pines for Marzelline.
explored in this staging works better: that during periods of separation,
people in love struggle to retain images of each other, and that prison, the
worst separation, can change you. This concept conies alive in Act II, when
we see Florestan in prison, mostly because Mr. Kaufmann gives such a
courageously vulnerable performance. During Florestan's great soliloquy, Mr.
Kaufmann's voice is burnished and penetrating, his singing anguished and
poignant. You sense remnants of dignity in this wretched man, even as he
thrashes about like a caged animal, all wiry limbs and spastic twitches.
Later, when he realizes that his rescuer, young Fidelio, is his wife, he is
too crazed to take it in and recoils from her touch.
In the final
scene, the townspeople sing Beethoven's chorus of joy over the liberation of
the prisoners and the vanquishing of Pizarro. Mr. Guth keeps the choristers
out of sight as they sing from the wings on the sides of the orchestra pit.
So when the celebratory choral singing starts, Mr. Kaufmann's Florestan
freaks out: He thinks he's hearing things.
It's an intriguingly dark take
on this scene. Still, I missed hearing the music as Beethoven conceived it,
with a full chorus onstage, trading jubilant phrases with the reunited
husband and wife. In any event, Mr. Guth ruins his own effect by having
Leonore's annoying shadow grab attention at the front of the stage, making
exaggerated sign signals to the audience.