(Credit: Ben Ealovega)

Few countertenors today command the international stage with the authority and musical intelligence of Iestyn Davies. Renowned for his interpretations of Baroque repertoire as well as his compelling performances in 20th-century opera, Davies has become one of the defining voices of his generation.

During his recent return to Teatro Real in Madrid to perform Oberon in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” by Benjamin Britten, OperaWire spoke with the British singer about the enduring power of Shakespeare’s magical world, the unique sound and psychology of the countertenor voice, and the place of opera in a cultural landscape increasingly dominated by speed, digital media, and viral commentary. In an era of fleeting digital trends, Davies’ insights offer a vital argument for the deep, slow-burning relevance of Britten’s psychological theater.

OperaWire: I saw you two years ago in Händel’s “Theodora.” You sang Didymus and were remembered for an absolutely stunning vocal and dramatic performance. We are very happy to hear you in Madrid again!

Iestyn Davies: I am always very happy to be here! I love returning to Madrid, and I truly enjoyed the role in “Theodora.”

OW: I would like to start with the most discussed topic right now—Timothée Chalamet’s comments about opera and ballet: “I don’t want to be working in ballet, or opera, or things where it’s like, ‘Hey, keep this thing alive, even though like no one cares about this anymore,’” he said. What would a person who once chose opera over a career as a rock star say to him?

ID: Well, first of all, I think he said it in the context of a discussion where he was probably trying to be witty. I’ve said stupid things myself when trying to be funny. However, it turned out he had said similar things before. His family worked at the New York City Ballet. Sometimes people disparage or “trash” where they come from because they are actually afraid of it or in denial. I think it says more about him than about opera or ballet.

If we asked him seriously, he might not even believe his own words. But to those who might agree with him, I would say this: opera is a term for a specific kind of expression of classical music on stage, and it has existed much longer than cinema. This art is often mistakenly compared to Netflix. But attending an opera or ballet requires a much deeper engagement. It’s like reading a novel compared to a magazine. You can read a magazine, get the information, and throw it away. But you return to a novel; you reread it and think about it your whole life.

Opera doesn’t have to be popular all the time. I believe that as soon as things become mass-popular, they stop being deep and serious. I like opera precisely because it is not about popularity, but about something else. You can go to the opera, and it might not affect you immediately, but in a few days or even six months, you’ll find yourself thinking about it. That rarely happens with Netflix.

The dangerous thing about the Chalamet situation is how it spread online. It’s ironic: everyone is on their phones trying to refute him instead of putting the phone down, reading a book, or going to the opera. We, as artists, need to just ignore such comments and do our job. The opera I will sing tonight will still be alive in 50 years. We don’t know if Chalamet’s work will be revered after such a time. I am singing an opera written in 1960—it is 66 years old, and it is considered quite modern.

You have to trust the art itself. Opera is like the people who built huge estates and planted hectares of gardens in England: they planted trees knowing they would not see them in their full beauty because they would be dead by then. They did it for future generations. Chalamet is just afraid of depth. In his business, people are always looking over their shoulder. I think he is just afraid of being deep and serious.

OW: To me, it sounded like a teenage protest. But many colleagues from musical theater felt truly devalued by his words.

ID: The fact that people spend years honing their craft already deserves admiration. His comments won’t affect those who come to the opera today. It’s cultural relativism. Half the audience doesn’t even know who he is. It doesn’t matter. We decide what is important to us.

OW: We really loved the production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” here at the Teatro Real, and your Oberon especially! It was like a fairy tale; I watched it twice.

ID: Oh, it’s such beautiful music! Britten had great connections with Russia, by the way. I also performed “Death in Venice” in Moscow with Gennady Rozhdestvensky.

OW: And yet, Britten’s music is not as complex as Schoenberg’s or Berg’s. It is quite easy and pleasant to listen to.

ID: It is satisfying. When you “get into” it, you feel smart. Britten wrote brilliantly for amateurs and children, but he didn’t make the music simple—rhythmically it is complex, you have to work on it. But the satisfaction of doing that difficult work is something very inspiring and intellectual.

OW: We all admire your photo shoot on the roof of the Teatro Real. How does the aesthetic of this production resonate with modern Madrid? What is this fairy tale about for today’s audience?

ID: I don’t think we are obliged to explain why something is relevant. Every viewer brings their own relevance with them. Shakespeare is eternal because he sheds light on life itself. Britten took Shakespeare’s play and refined it with music. Opera elevates this plot.

In this play, there are many layers. For Shakespeare’s audience, many jokes were about contemporary gossip or “quotes of the week,” much like Timothy Chalamet’s unfortunate comment today. In the ENO production, everything was very dark; the forest fairies were not cute creatures but characters from the Brothers Grimm—ominous and frightening.

For me, this is a story about how opera can elevate any plot, how music subtly makes us feel the mood.

OW: But Oberon’s jealousy feels very real; he acts like a real man there?

ID: Yes, and over a little Indian boy. It’s truly interesting. But they are not quite human; they are metaphors. I once said in rehearsal that Oberon is the libido. The conflict over the boy is actually because Titania brought a human child into the fairy world, which shouldn’t happen. She shows maternal human qualities here. There is a version that this boy is Cupid himself. And the struggle for him is a struggle for power in love. It’s a chance to look at one’s own shadow side—which is very modern.

OW: Oberon is a master of manipulation and invisible observation, a being on the edge of two worlds. How is this duality expressed in your vocal part?

ID: In 1960, Britten brought the countertenor to the opera stage for the first time. He heard the voice of Alfred Deller—an otherworldly, unearthly sound—and realized it was the perfect voice for the Fairy King. For many, the countertenor voice is still a novelty; they ask, “How do you do that?” This immediately turns your character into a magical one. But I always try to make him human through the text.

OW: Do you agree with Dostoevsky that beauty will save the world?

ID: Will beauty save the world? No.

Beauty is often part of the problem. It is superficial. I like—and the world needs—ugliness, imperfection, darkness, and melancholy. If everything is beautiful, it becomes boring. We are moving toward a strange aesthetic of perfection—an internet catastrophe that is slowly spilling into the real world. Great art is not always beautiful. In empathizing with someone else’s pain, there is its own beauty.

OW: As you said, and I absolutely agree, art and opera are for future generations. I don’t understand how one can be a leader without realizing this.

ID: I believe in the future. My father, when he went to Russia to see Shostakovich in 1975, faced paranoia face to face. His briefcase was stolen at the hotel. Imagine that paranoid world; it was pure madness. But even that passed; it ended.

OW: And one last question: you are a Member of the Order of the British Empire (MBE). How does that feel?

ID: It is, of course, a great honor. The award was presented to me by the then Prince Charles, now the King. It turned out he studied at Cambridge at the same time as my father; they played cellos in the orchestra together. I’ll never disparage this system.

Meetings with the Queen were always special. When you shake her hand, you think, “This hand is connected to Henry VIII, to Elizabeth I—wow!” It is legend, tradition.