Il Trovatore has doggedly survived in opera’s hit charts despite dispensing generous quantities of hair-raising as well as eyebrow-raising content. Verdi’s music is intoxicating, of course, but there is something to this work that makes it accessible beyond reasoning. It depicts instincts and strong emotions in an almost Shakespearean way, but the absence of much development in the characters makes their erratic negotiation of recurring problems extremely poignant and archetypal: Azucena, whom Verdi would have liked to have had as the title heroine, is traumatized by the execution of her mother as well as her own crime, whereas Manrico’s lot is to fight, get wounded and stand up again. Leonora and di Luna share the fate that they cannot have whom they want, but while her frustration turns into violence against herself, his goes outward against Manrico.
Philipp Stölzl’s production is intellectually challenging as well as visually interesting, and one sees a clear concept to the stage direction and remarkable choreography by Mara Kurotschka (di Luna’s men dance to Ferrando’s tale of the gipsy and at her arrest, Azucena is dragged around in chains like the bear that is part of the anvil chorus scene). Fascinatingly, this staging blends elements of different periods, so just as the opera is set in Spain around 1400 to mid 19th-century music with partly Baroque poses, this production gets a visual 16th-century commedia dell’arte treatment topped off with surrealistic paintings, looks and moves in part like a comic strip, and is inspired – as the programme states – by the inquiries into hysteria by Freud’s teacher Jean-Martin Charcot. But in the end Il Trovatore shows that society hasn’t progressed from the archaic rule of an eye for an eye: Azucena will burn for burning a child.
The set (by the director and Conrad Moritz Reinhardt) is an open quadrangular room of which one corner is tilted towards the pit; on this incline the quartet of principals often gravitates towards its brink, or, metaphorically, the verge of a nervous breakdown. The two walls of the rooms are each divided into 48 squares that partly open so singers can make their entries or to show the procession of the nuns in the convent from which Manrico abducts Leonora. But what looks like a conventional backdrop at the beginning is soon transformed through the elaborate video work by fettFilm. Miraculously, the squares suddenly change in look and shift or are replaced with excerpts from paintings by Salvador Dalí or René Magritte (like the latter’s famous rose during Manrico’s troubadour song). Predictably, the walls partly collapse to Manrico’s military defeat and are doused with blood as Leonora is dying, only to get busted into cubes and out into a starry universe in the finale.