Finally, after three weeks in Zürich, we actually went to the opera. I must be getting jaded: I looked at what was on and frankly, Parsifal aside, From the House of the Dead was the only prospect that really grabbed me. I had been half-tempted by the Anna Bolena, but then Elina Garanca pulled out of the last three shows and they replaced it with La bohème, one of my least favourite operas. So this was our first trip. Led by me, it has to be said, as I am definitely the Janáček groupie in this household. (Even though it's the other person in said household who actually sings the stuff.)
Peter Konwitschny's production is, well, weird. The reviews I've read seem divided as to whether it's good-weird or bad-weird. I'm pretty sure it's making some kind of point about the nature of exile or loneliness or isolation or something along those lines. No doubt it's all terribly Brechtian and clever, but I have to confess it passed me by.
Briefly: Siberian prison is replaced with a gentlemen's club, run by the Mafia and lit like a school cafeteria. The play-within-a-play involves writhing by strippers of both genders. The chorus leaves the stage and enters the auditorium at one point, as does a soloist who shouts "lies!" from various boxes, and there's a planted couple in the front row who leave in mock-disgust after playing out some enforced audience participation. There's no wounded eagle; Goryanchikov isn't really released; Shishkov doesn't really recognise Filka. And by the end, all the men are embracing various parts of a giant matryoshka doll. As you do.
The novelty of the weirdness was intermittently entertaining, at least; Sydney doesn't really do productions like this, although I half suspect that Patrick Nolan's Acis and Galatea was aspiring to the style of this show. Evidently some of the critics were quite struck by Konwitschny's take on it, but personally, I fear I missed the pathos of the only other production I've seen (Chéreau's, on DVD). There, the exiles were, in their shabby way, ultimately sympathetic (or at least pitiable) and there was a glimmer of hope and camaraderie amidst the misery. Call me unimaginative but for me, the self-imposed exile of a cocktail lounge just isn't as touching.
No matter. There's the music, and I'm a Janáček freak, so I was happy. I'd forgotten how much like Makropulos it sounds – and in particular, how much like the glorious final twenty minutes of Makropulos it sounds. You can, as my companion pointed out, play "Janáček Bingo" with it, but that doesn't trouble me; on the contrary, I love the recognisable-yet-different world of this score, with all the tics, tricks and motifs I love, bent to the will of a new story. Soprano fanatic that I am, I'll never love House of the Dead as much as his Kamila operas, but then again, it's not the kind of opera that's asking to be loved, is it? The singing was all good, sometimes very very good indeed. Don't ask me to single out soloists, because I've no idea: it's one of the ensembliest ensemble pieces out there, and not the opera for a baritone or tenor who wants to make a star turn. The Zürich Opera House orchestra played magnificently under Ingo Metzmacher, all shiny strings and creeping percussion.
Musically at least, I was in Janáček-groupie heaven. Drier-eyed than I might have liked (which was not the case with Chéreau) but satisfied just the same. Next stop: Parsifal, of course.
Photo: Suzanne Schwiertz
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