At Prague’s National Theatre, a witty, well-kept Smetana Secret

Handed the job of staging Smetana’s 1878 opera Tajemství (The Secret), director Ondřej Havelka faced a daunting dichotomy. The music: brilliant. The libretto: ouch! Weak plot, naive dialogue and humor long ago gone stale. How to reconcile the two? Havelka decided to go retro, taking the opera back to 19th-century acting and staging practices, embracing the anachronisms rather than trying to hide them. With the help of atmospheric sets and strong performances both onstage and in the pit, the results were delightful.

The story involves a pair of star-crossed lovers: Kalina, who for lack of money and willpower lost his true love Róza years earlier, and his son Vìt, whose burning love for Blaženka is forbidden by her father, Malina. Kalina’s discovery of a letter that will guide him to a hidden treasure does not remain a secret for long, and he has to negotiate a large and colorful cast of rivals and supporting characters, as well as a trip through the underworld, to reclaim his lost love. Vìt, more determined than his father and aided by tearful pleading from Blaženka, finally persuades Malina to relent, setting up a celebration by the entire village.

Magical sets by Martin Černý place this in a storybook setting. Unlike the harshly realistic villages in other Czech operas (Jenůfa, The Bartered Bride), this one has a fairy-tale quality, with a moonlit castle overlooking the town square and detailed period costumes and props adding a veneer of realism. Kitschy effects like a heart framing two lovebirds that floats above Vìt and Blaženka whenever they meet in secret would seem ridiculous in another context, but in this production add a touch of charm.

The action begins behind a scrim during the overture, with the characters revealing personality traits – Kalina can’t stand powdered wigs, the suave stonemason has apparently gotten a young lady pregnant – in silent pantomime. That acting style continues once the scrim goes up and the singing starts, employing exaggerated body language and facial expressions, the latter reinforced by heavy facial makeup. The effect is just short of comical, real enough to create an engaging narrative yet also tongue-in-cheek, a nod and a wink to the audience to come along for an ironic ride.

Havelka keeps the story fresh with running sight gags and dashes of humor like occasional freeze-frames and deliberately clunky thunder and lightning whenever the ghost of Friar Barnabas is invoked. He is also facile with crowds. Other than the love duets, the stage is almost always filled with people, none of whom just stand around. They focus attention on a character or scene, or suddenly pop out from behind rocks, cupping their ears to hear the secret being passed around. Sharp choreography by Jana Hanušová injects rhythm with a percussive routine by hop threshers and humor from seven dwarfs who wobble out of a mine.

Only a seasoned Czech cast could pull this off, and Havelka was fortunate to have top-of-the-line talent in National Theatre regulars and alumni. Adam Plachetka, who grew up on Prague stages and now sings at prestigious venues like the Wiener Staatsoper and the Met in New York, showed a world-class voice as Kalina, particularly in the extended aria that opens the second act. František Zahradníček made a commanding Malina in both voice and bearing. Jana Kurocová (Róza) sang with pained regret, and Jana Sibera (Blaženka) was an endearing ingenue, giddy with romantic yearning. Aleš Briscein offered an ardent Vít, while Jan Martiník (Róza’s buffoonish suitor Bonifác), Martin Šrejma (a wandering minstrel) and Jiří Hájek (the stonemason) turned in strong supporting roles.

Conductor Robert Jindra was a wizard in the pit, casting the music in grand dimensions in the overtures and then spinning out infectious melodies and lively dance rhythms in the village scenes. His detail work with the characters’ motifs and dramatic flourishes was smart and precise, and the National Theatre Orchestra was in good form, as energetic and emotionally charged as the singers.

For all that, at the final curtain it was Havelka who got the biggest hand – almost. The opera concluded with a surprise appearance by the composer (or at least a convincing lookalike), rising out of the stage on a pedestal in a burst of smoke, like a musical divinity. Librettist Eliška Krásnohorská, her shortcomings notwithstanding, quickly joined him. Corny? You bet. But a big, big hit with a thrilled and appreciative audience. There will be more tributes to Smetana in his anniversary year, but none quite as imaginative and entertaining.