Bizet’s Carmen is one of those operas that never seems to lose its appeal. Its unfailing tunefulness and exquisite craftsmanship are of course among the reasons for its popularity. But I suspect its underlying theme of power relations between the sexes provides the strongest attraction for directors and audiences.
Calixto Bieito and Barrie Kosky both made powerful statements in their ENO and Covent Garden productions – Damiano Michieletto less so in the most recent staging at the Royal Opera.
But a female perspective on the story of the woman whose allure allegedly provokes her infatuated lover, Don José, to a fatal crime passionnel, is all the more welcome and the approach of the American director Diane Paulus was awaited with keen interest.
She does not disappoint. She and her Carmen, Rihab Chaieb, manage to show the protagonist as both a strong, courageous woman – a free spirit full of vitality – and a victim of a jealous lover’s desire to control. The socio-psychological context is well drawn from the start: the soldiers are an occupying force in an unspecified border location (sets by Riccardo Hernández), who oppressively compel female factory workers and travellers/refugees alike to run their gauntlet.
Unlike Michieletto’s production, which dispensed with pelvic-thrusting traveller stereotypes but also the chemistry of sexual passion altogether, here we had sensuality aplenty. Not only did Chaieb exude it with both vocally and physically, but a group of lithe dancers – barechested or red-skirted according to gender – strutted their stuff in stylish, modern choreography by Jasmin Vardimon.
Robin Ticciati’s superlative conducting – his overture teemed with energy that spilled over into the first and ensuing acts, while introspective episodes were also given their due – contributed to the dramatic effect.
I did wonder whether the sensuous charm he gave the cigarette girls quite matched their boisterous behaviour. But the cumulative sexual frenzy in the disco-like bar hosted by Lillas Pastia (lighting: Malcolm Rippeth) was thrilling and the scene at the mountain pass, where a wonderfully frisky Frasquita (Elisabeth Boudreault) and her friends are bringing refugees rather than merchandise across the border, was also engagingly spirited.
The macho rituals around the bullfighters – the pecs-flexing, the liquor-swilling, the primal grunts – are splendidly parodic, though I’m not sure this Escamillo, Dmitry Cheblykov, was ideally cast. He certainly looks the part, but vocally he must be one of the most sensitive toreadors ever to have graced the stage.
Alongside Chaieb’s accomplished Carmen, Dmytro Popov’s Don José was vibrantly, stirringly sung. Dingle Yandell contributed a sturdy Zuniga.
Succeeding in avoiding clichéd, stereotypical gesturing, Paulus and Chaieb offer an intelligent and original perspective on the problematic issues of this perennial favourite. But it’s ultimately a meticulously prepared, invigoratingly delivered company effort that throbs with sexual and psychic energy.
