Truncated and mistreated: the “Carmen” of contrasting hysteria in Salzburg

Few productions, such as the new "Carmen" at the Salzburg Festival, have sparked such a bitter debate. Setting aside the opposing outbursts of hysteria, it is clear that this highly anticipated production presents a number of "critical issues", as they say in Cretinese. The first is that it is, in fact, a "semi-Carmen", a sort of "greatest hits" of Bizet, like those summarised books for readers in a hurry. And so, out go all the spoken dialogue, out go all the recitatives, out go the mélodrames, replaced by nonsensical stage noises or even José’s mother humming Spanish-sounding tunes in Lillas Pastia’s tavern – where it’s not entirely clear how she ended up. Even some of the musical numbers have been cut: I don’t know whether this was the director’s or the conductor’s decision, but whoever made it was wrong, and even more so whoever approved it. We all know Carmen because we’ve seen so many (indeed, too many) productions of it, but if a Martian were to pop into the Grosses Festspielhaus, they might quite legitimately wonder who those two blokes are who turn up in the second act babbling about ‘tromperie’ and ‘volerie’.

Second problem: the director, Gabriela Carrizo, is not a director at all, but a choreographer (of the famous Belgian company Peeping Tom, incidentally). She therefore conceives of "Carmen" as an endless ballet in which the characters’ doubles perform mysterious actions, whilst the chorus remains largely standing motionless in a line. It is unclear what Carrizo’s vision of "Carmen" is, and if she has one, it is rather confused; the main merit of the production lies in Tom Visser’s lighting, which creates scenes reminiscent of Goya’s paintings amidst a setting that is mostly pitch-black, as if the power had gone out – which does not seem very much in keeping with the ‘quelque chose de gai’ that Bizet had in mind when he conceived his sun-drenched Mediterranean. As is often the case when they don’t work, ‘modern’ productions end up as mere pretty pictures, much like those of ‘traditional’ set-design-focused directors: plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. The singers are left to their own devices. Asmik Grigorian dished out the usual buckets of charisma, but it’s not entirely clear where her Carmen is heading; Jonathan Tetelman plays the usual testosterone-fuelled, verismo-style José, albeit sung a little better than usual; Davide Luciano is a good Escamillo and Kristina Mkhitaryan a dreadful Micaëla, with the mitigating factor that her lungs simply aren’t up to the catatonic pauses in the ‘human lungs’ aria.

And so we come to Teodor Currentzis conducting his excellent Utopia Orchestra, and he is good, very good, absolutely brilliant – verging on virtuosity. There are moments that literally make you jump out of your seat, for example “Les tringles des sistres”, where the accelerando, taken to a fever pitch, can only be compared to Abbado (though Teresa Berganza wasn’t obliged to shout like Grigorian). The problem – or rather, the critical issue – is, however, that whilst many moments taken individually are splendid, the performance as a whole is not; and above all, Currentzis seems to lack an overarching interpretative vision, apart from showing us just how cool he is – but we already knew that. In general, it seems to me that anyone approaching "Carmen" today cannot avoid tackling the stylistic challenges of this work, starting with the fact that it is by no means an opera but an "opéra-comique", with all that that entails. I would recommend reading Patrick Taïeb’s essay on Célestine Galli-Marié, the first performer of the role – though, of course, it hasn’t been translated into Italian – which is illuminating in many respects. Meanwhile, this Carmen – so self-referential and yet so highly acclaimed, apart from the ritual boos directed at the director – brings to mind what Wagner said of poor Meyerbeer: “Wirkungen ohne Ursachen”, effects without causes.