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Financial Times, 26.11.2018 |
Shirley Apthorp |
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Verdi: Otello, Bayerische Staatsoper, 28. November 2018 |
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A storm-wracked Otello at the Nationaltheater, Munich
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Amélie Niermeyer’s production of Verdi’s opera for the Bayerische Staatsoper
features compelling performances
A storm is raging with such fury
that you can almost taste the salt from the spray. Munich is a long way from
the sea, but Kirill Petrenko makes the waves crash out of the orchestra pit
with such violence that you fear for Otello’s life.
Which is not
inappropriate when Jonas Kaufmann is singing the title role. In this
storm-wracked Venice, the tenor is out of his depth, close to drowning
throughout, not only in the prelude. For stage director Amélie Niermeyer,
this is Desdemona’s story; Otello is a military everyman, terribly damaged
by the trauma of war, and his new wife has too much faith in the
transforming power of love.
Christian Schmidt’s stage is a cavernous
room containing only a bed, a fireplace and a chair or two; a ghost room,
featuring the same objects, often appears in front of the original,
presumably representing a state of mind. In this ghost room, as the opera
begins, a Desdemona double thrusts her hand into the burning fire before
running, arm in flames, through the crowd. She is, all too literally,
playing with fire.
Annelies Vanlaere’s costumes place the action
everywhere and nowhere, perhaps in 1950s America, perhaps today. The chorus,
generally black-clad, often sings from the shadows; the focus is firmly on
the principals.
Fortunately, Anja Harteros is well able to carry
Niermeyer’s fixation with Desdemona. She lives and breathes the role, her
voice unfolding yet another dimension each time you thought it could get no
better. Hers is a proud character, allowed a tiny moment of
self-determination when she throws Otello’s crumpled handkerchief into the
fire, almost fierce enough to save herself, yet fatally self-destructive.
Most compelling of all is Gerald Finley’s Jago. He makes a towering,
charismatic figure, sliding into pure evil through a process of
self-recognition, a Machiavellian puppet master who finds joy in
destruction, with a voice equally strong across the registers, cracking with
danger, rich in complexity.
Petrenko takes it all at a rollicking
pace, always forceful, so taut that it is close to breaking point,
thrilling, terrifying. His singers surf the wild waves — all except poor
Kaufmann, who struggles audibly, and often lets the swell wash over his
head. The role is a size too big for him; he would have been better advised
to leave it alone.
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