For almost three hours, it's hard to move or breathe, and impossible to look away. Such is the force of Martin Kušej’s Rusalka: the 15-year-old production remains gripping, this Munich Opera Festival outing proving an ideal marriage between an intelligent, arresting concept, a perfectly committed cast and remarkable musicianship.
Though the performance is nothing short of magical, little remains of Antonín Dvořák and Jaroslav Kvapil’s fairy tale romance. Kušej's is a nightmarish story of familial abuse and trauma, inspired by the case of Elisabeth Fritzl. The curtain goes up on the barren home of Vodník and Ježibaba, the former a ghastly sight in a dirty shirt and a bathrobe, the latter hunched over the sink, frozen in fear. The rising stage then reveals, with brutal immediacy, the “waterworld” below: the concrete basement populated by Vodník’s children (from the adult Rusalka to little kids), all standing around in poos of water, cowering, waiting for their tormentor’s arrival. Their desolation makes Rusalka's desperate need to escape into the “real world”, and her ultimate failure to gain a place in it, all the more poignant.
Rusalka's fatal ‘in-betweenness’ works twofold. Abuse and imprisonment have alienated her from any sense of normalcy: that, when left to her own devices, she will be unable to assimilate, is a foregone conclusion. (Little could be more gutting than watching her trying to claw her way back into the basement in Act 3.) At the same time, the outside world she longs for – here, rural German society – is petty, superficial and hostile. Its emptiness is signalled in Act 1, first as Ježibaba turns Rusalka into a “real woman” by putting her into a pink dress and red heels, then as the giant, picturesque image of Alpine landscape in Vodník’s home is drawn back, revealing only a dark chasm. This world proves merely a less overt version of Vodník’s twisted microcosm, abounding in casual cruelty: the Cook harasses the Kitchen Boy (here, a girl), the party guests laugh as Rusalka is bullied by the servants, then fight rabidly over plates of food. Most tellingly, the Prince first reaches for his gun upon Rusalka’s appearance, then, following his love confession, he throws her over his shoulder and carries her off like his kill. Even in Act 3, following Vodník’s arrest, his victims end up confined to a psychiatric ward, barely cared for: a suffocating, forlorn end to their tale.
Unrelentingly tense from the first bar to the last, this tragic arc is compellingly drawn, with fine Personenregie and outstanding stagecraft. The combination of Reinhard Traub’s highly effective lighting, Martin Zehetgruber’s domineering yet worn and empty spaces, and Heidi Hackl’s characteristic costume design create a striking atmosphere throughout.
But what makes this revival triumph with searing freshness is its outstanding cast, led by reigning diva Asmik Grigorian. Following in the footsteps of Kristine Opolais’ tour de force, the production’s exacting physicality clearly fits Grigorian’s no-holds-barred acting like a glove. All wounded innocence, aching for happiness, her Rusalka is the production’s lynchpin, magnetic even in her bruised stillness. Though the morose interpretation of the Song to the Moon felt more overtly suited to the production than the music, Grigorian’s smoky, cutting soprano scorched with its intensity throughout, offering a finely shaded, utterly devastating reading of the role.
Christof Fischesser’s grimy Vodník matched her every step of the way, his commanding performance vocally and scenically pungent with menace. Pavol Breslik’s beefed-up tenor lacked true force on his top notes, but he brought beautiful lyricism and moments of startling tenderness to the otherwise bullish portrayal of the Prince. Okka von der Damerau packed a proper punch as the tortured Ježibaba, while Elena Guseva’s slender, dark mezzo-soprano and deliciously vampy stage presence made for a delightful Foreign Princess. Young members of the State Opera’s opera studio and ensemble did the house proud, with Ekaterine Buachidze’s spry, vivacious Kitchen Boy, the beguiling Wood Nymphs of Mirjam Mesak, Arnheidur Eiríksdóttir and Natalie Lewis, plus the mellifluous Hunter of Vitor Bispo.
Edward Gardner's sure-handed leadership matched the gripping tension of the staging. From the dark, menacing pulsation of the first measures to the ethereal shimmer of the final chords, his conducting ensured a smooth, enthralling dramatic flow, drawing a rich, gorgeously coloured sound from the orchestra, revelling in the bombastic outbursts with full-blooded romanticism. The word “powerful” is perhaps overused, yet there would hardly be a better way to describe this performance.
