There is, I believe, a tacit agreement between opera enthusiasts that opera films generally don’t work. Save a few notable exceptions, attempts to adapt much-loved titles from the repertoire usually result in clunky products that leave both connoisseurs and newcomers dissatisfied. But what if an opera was conceived with film already in mind?
Such is the case of Melancholie des Widerstands, the Staatsoper Unter den Linden’s new commission from composer Marc-André Dalbavie which had its premiere at the end of the season. Adapting László Krasznahorkai’s novel of the same name (already set as an opera by Peter Eötvös), librettist Guillaume Métayer and director David Marton worked together to transform the source material into a complex piece of theatre where multiple media concur to tell a story of political unrest.
In its final form, Melancholie des Widerstands is rather a film-opera, whose two constitutive elements play an equally important and structural role. Marton’s staging operates on three levels: the stage, a background screen, and a veritable film set that is placed behind the screen. These three areas intermingle constantly. As part of the story unfolds on stage, the audience is also shown what happens on the set behind it, which is filmed and projected live on the partitioning screen. The bare forestage – dark, only equipped with minimal props – is thus expanded with a number of interiors and exteriors that give shape to an unnamed city, exposed in its squalor and bleakness. In this desolate setting, à la Weill's Mahagonny, the triggering event is the arrival of a circus whose main attractions are a giant whale and a mysterious three-eyed Prince. It is their presence that precipitates the fall of the city under violent, ruthless forces.
The choice of filming actors live, instead of pre-recording scenes, preserves the performing aspect of theatre while multiplying its possibilities. Through inquisitive, mobile camerawork, Marton inserts the audience into the characters’ homes and the streets they roam. Sudden movements, wide angles, transitions and close-ups all bear the mark of a filmic glance. Chris Kondek’s plastic cinematography is enhanced by Amber Vandenhoeck’s set designs, all incredibly meticulous and vivid – Madame Pflaum’s overfull apartment, for instance, or the city’s run-down bar. The constant motion between set and stage contributes, creating a sense of alienation, as characters interact seamlessly at different levels. Acoustically, this translates into a murmur where music, noises and words overlap from various sources. Sounds like the clang of the train, the broadcast of an operetta on Madame Pflaum’s TV, or people chattering at the bar punctuate the playing of the orchestra, coalescing into a layered polyphony.
At the foundation of this soundscape, Dalbavie’s score proves his experience in writing for theatre. Distinctive, personal vocal profiles which readily identify each character and a well-timed orchestral presence are the opera’s trademarks. Conductor Marie Jacquot made the most of such features, soliciting the Staatskapelle Berlin to keep a low profile when needed, in order to spotlight core moments. With a score that is often drawn towards a tonal centre, it’s crucial not to allow the static to turn into stagnation. Even in the more understated moments, Jacquot preserved a tension which could easily be discharged in seconds through abrupt orchestral outbursts. This dialectic – mostly between strings and brass, with notable percussion appearances – benefits from isolated movements, where simple elements like a scale, a chord, or repeated notes take on unusual significance. Jacquot leaned into Dalbavie’s ability to do so much with so little, proving a fastidious attention to the grain of the sound. The orchestral highlight of the evening was the fugue, memorable in its build-up of timbres and dynamics.
As for the vocal highlights, Philippe Jaroussky’s Valouchka shone as the last beam of hope and beauty amid the townsfolk’s corruption. His character, the city’s postman, is the binding thread of a strained social fabric: it’s only thanks to him that Monsieur and Madame Esther, personifications of the story’s opposite ideals, remain in touch after their separation. As such, he is the embodiment of innocence and peace, his countertenor being a direct emanation of the harmonia mundi. Up until the end, Jaroussky’s singing soothed the coarseness of its surroundings, elevating the musical texture not just with its ethereal high register, but also with a keen, smooth sense of melody.
Tanja Ariane Baumgartner was a textbook Madame Esther. Her ease in front of the camera and her full mezzo shaped the sly appeal of the character, which relies on occasional lyrical momentum while concealing darker motives. Sandrine Piau’s light, agile soprano was just as good a match as Madame Pflaum, who is defined by her anxiousness and escapism through operetta. Lastly, Monsieur Esther, the austere academic who laments the state of things, isolating himself from the world, was played by Matthias Klink, whose mostly spoken role gave him the chance to showcase solid acting skills.
