Outside the Czech lands, the warrior-maiden Šárka is best-known as the subject of one of the symphonic poems in Smetana’s nationalist masterwork Má vlast. She first appeared in the 12th century as a central character in the Maidens’ War, a legendary tale of a distaff uprising against male rule. Ever since, Šárka has been a prominent figure in Czech art, literature and music, with the late-19th century composer Zdeněk Fibich devoting an entire opera to her. A revival of the eponymous work as part of the Year of Czech Music illustrates both the promise and perils of updating a mythical heroine.
The recurrent theme in portrayals of Šárka is her forbidden love for Ctirad, a soldier in the service of Prince Přemysl. In the libretto for Fibich’s opera written by his romantic and creative partner, Anežka Schulzová, the first act sets the scene of a gender war highlighted by an intense enmity between Šárka and Ctirad. The second act recounts a famous scene: Šárka has herself tied to a tree to lure Ctirad into a trap, but when he encounters her alone in the woods, they realize their deep feelings for each other are actually love. A smitten Šárka betrays the women warriors waiting out of sight to kill Ctirad, and in this version of the story, she comes to a deservedly tragic end in the final act.
Rife with contemporary topics like gender issues and political tyranny, this piece practically begs to be updated, which German director Kay Link does by grafting a modern episode onto the story, told mostly through video clips projected onto the scrim at the beginning of the first and second acts. Using a mix of original and historical footage, he recasts Libuše, the wife of Prince Přemysl and legendary ur-mother of the Czech people, as a revolutionary leader. She dies onscreen, which fades out to the opening scene of the first act, in which a group of grieving women are brutalized and hauled away by Prince Přemysl’s goons. The setting remains thoroughly modern, with girls in guerilla gear, combatants toting guns, with costumes from the communist era, mostly in blacks and greys and colors not found in nature.
It’s a clever approach but ultimately a poor fit, muddying rather than sharpening the original story and stripping it of any traditional trappings or historical resonance. And the gender issues are almost entirely gone, replaced with repression by a generic autocracy. Which is a shame, because technically, the production works very well. Link knows how to run a lively stage, moving large groups around with smooth efficiency and keeping the main characters in perpetual motion. A charming moon-and-stars set by Frank Albert in the second act lends the entire production a beguiling romantic glow.
In the premiere performance Maida Hundeling dominated the stage as Šárka, a cutthroat (literally) whose dramatic soprano rang out with piercing authority. Tenor Tadeusz Szlenkier got off to a weak start as Ctirad, especially next to the stentorian baritone and bass voices of Svatopluk Sem (Přemysl) and František Zahradníček (the priest Vitoraz) in the first act. He finally found his voice in his woodland encounter with Šárka, turning in a strong love duet. Mezzo Ester Pavlů had the perfect high pitch for Vlasta, the commander of the women warriors. And the female half of the National Theatre Chorus turned in a stunning performance as the warriors, voices like knives in their calls for resistance and concluding entreaties for the treacherous Šárka to join them in death.
Fibich was years ahead of his time with the score, which is cinematic in tone and scope, packed with colorful details and kaleidoscopic in structure, constantly changing, only settling in one place long enough for an occasional aria. It’s overwrought at times – not every plot turn can be apocalyptic – but conductor Robert Jindra handled it masterfully, leavening the dramatic demands with wit and flair to craft a bright, animated musical narrative as illustrative as anything happening onstage.
When Link and his creative team joined the cast for curtail calls, they were greeted by a hearty round of booing – which seemed churlish, though not unusual. When an updated version of Šárka was performed in nearby Pilsen in 2000, it reportedly got the same reception. Closed-minded? Perhaps. But if you are ever in Prague, spend some time at Vyšehrad, where much of this is said to have happened, and you’ll see why it is still considered hallowed ground.
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