A muddled new Ariadne auf Naxos in Prague

It’s a comedy. It’s a tragedy. Richard Strauss’ Ariadne auf Naxos is an awkward mix of both, and striking the right balance is a tricky business. A revival of the opera 112 years after it was first performed in Prague hits all the right notes vocally and in the pit. The staging, unfortunately, leans more toward tragedy.

The blood-red colors that saturatd the Prologue set a somber tone that spirited singing never quite overcame. Arnheiður Eiríksdóttir was in good voice as the Composer, though not exactly playing a trouser role, with long blond hair flying and five attendant doubles multiplying the distaff look. Prague favorite Dagmar Pecková pulled off the gender reversal much more effectively in the speaking role of the Major-Domo, issuing biting, imperious commands. The difference was mainly in their approach. Pecková was over the top but with a sardonic backbite, clearly aware this is all an elaborate put-on; Eiríksdóttir played the Composer’s overblown anguish straight, without a hint of irony or satire. The imbalance is characteristic of the entire evening, with the opera’s sly takes on high and low art lost in the muddle.

The bit parts in the Prologue worked better: Pavol Kubáň as the exasperated Music Teacher, Jaroslav Březina an eager-to-please Dancing Master. And Ziyi Dai injected some badly needed color as Zerbinetta, clad in a hot pink satin cowgirl outfit and singing with a delicate coloratura. Her troupe of four equally colorful cowboys (Lukáš Bařák, Josef Moravec, Jan Hnyk, Daniel Matoušek) reinforced her sex appeal but not much else, with the many opportunities for creative choreography falling flat in both the Prologue and Opera proper. Director Sláva Daubnerová handled both the staging and the choreography, with similarly leaden results.

The set changes in the second half to a gloomy bedroom where Cornelia Beskow, as a disheveled Ariadne, sleeps off her sorrows with pills and booze. A charming trio of nymphs (Lenka Máčiková, Michaela Zajmi and Yukiko Kinjo) offered glowing solace and a reminder of the opera’s classical roots, and Zerbinetta and her cowhands did their best to awaken and cheer up Ariadne with song-and-dance routines. But the promised blend of highbrow art and lowbrow entertainment never happens; it’s more like a study of clinical depression with not-so-comic interludes. When Beskow's Ariadne finally got to her feet she showed a surprisingly strong voice that was a good match for Magnus Vigilius, who made a rather unassuming entrance as Bacchus. Their duets were powerful but mostly sung at opposite ends of the stage, which they wandered about aimlessly in slow motion, trading wary glances. 

Daubnerová's extraneous additions don’t help. There are passing references to Theseus and the Minotaur, including images on a television that seems entirely out of place. Composer doubles make occasional appearances, mostly to wave their arms in time to the music like they’re doing calisthenics. And the Composer herself is onstage for the entire second half, neither saying nor singing a word, wringing her hands and cleaning up behind the comedy troupe, reinforcing the misplaced anguish of the Prologue. When a large neon EXIT sign inexplicably flashed on at the conclusion, it was a relief.

What life there is in this production came from the orchestra, led by Prague National Theatre Music Director Robert Jindra, who showed a fine feel for the complexities in Strauss' music. Jindra provided everything missing onstage – expertise, verve, imagination – with a carefully balanced, detailed rendering of the score that featured nimble woodwinds, graceful strings and fine dramatic flourishes. And he neatly teased out the occasional touches of humor, like laughing brass. Most impressive was doing all this at a pace and volume that kept the spotlight on the singers, supporting them rather than stepping on their lines.

As in most Strauss operas, the demands on the female singers in this one are severe, and Eiríksdóttir, Dai and Beskow rose to them admirably. Despite all the unnecessary baggage, Eiríksdóttir dominated the Prologue, and Dai’s agile coloratura work – mostly sung from awkward positions on the floor – was entrancing in the second half. Beskow’s bracing resurrection was particularly striking, given that her costume made her look like she was wearing a crown of thorns. And for light moments of pure musical pleasure, both the nymphs and the cowboy quartet turned in entertaining ensemble performances.

In all, a missed opportunity. There’s a wealth of ideas and influences to explore in Ariadne, few of which make an appearance in a production that, like Daubnerová’s overwrought Composer, just doesn’t get it.