It is blatantly evident that there is a connection between the advent of cinema and the decline of Opera. Once the main form of entertainment, the operatic stage lost its prominence to the silver screen. There is something that opera used to give that cinema somehow gave, too—the question is what?

Last year, the Salzburg Festival attempted to bridge the two art forms by staging Verdi’s “Falstaff,” but it was a disaster. Now, they are trying again—with a similar approach—this time with Jacques Offenbach’s masterpiece, “Les Contes d’Hoffmann.” There is much in common between those two productions: a similar attempt to give autonomy to the female characters,  similar relationship to filmmaking and masculinity, similar complain about the romantic figure of the artistic creator, and even similar scenarios and costumes…

The result was similar too: a disaster of theater.

Butchering Hoffmann

The German-speaking press has relished the opportunity to expand its negative lexicon in order to criticize Mariame Clément’s staging of the opera. They are not wrong—it is indeed a fiasco—but it is worth discussing why it failed so miserably. After all, Clément is a competent stage director, and many—myself included—had high expectations for her Salzburg début.

Beyond the clear mismanagement of the festival (why insist on a concept that failed so badly before? How hard is it to pull the plug before it is too late?), Clément seems to have misunderstood the very characteristics that make “Hoffmann” such a unique opera. Unlike most operas, “Hoffmann” functions almost as a first-person narrative—with many tensions, of course. The opera works like a traditional opera, with its multitude of characters and a series of dramas over which Hoffmann has no control or awareness (such as the muse and her apparitions). However, the central acts of the opera represent Hoffmann’s stories, with the goal of having the opera offer a bittersweet exploration of the individual journey of literary creation.

In the program, Clément expressed her distaste for this romantic notion of the artist (calling it “a little fascist”), and in her staging, we see how much she has butchered Hoffmann’s character. Here, the famous writer is portrayed as a failed filmmaker who drags a stolen shopping cart around the back of a film studio (as a homeless man). It wasn’t always this way—he was once a screenwriter (in Olympia’s act) and even a film director (in Antonia’s)—but he lost it all, believing that this happened because his beloved, the actress Stella, betrayed him with a film producer.

The problem is that at no point is Hoffmann shown to be even minimally talented or bright. Worse, none of the women seem to have ever been in love with him. Olympia, portrayed as a Britney Spears-meets-Barbarella type of character, is considered a doll not because she is one, but because she refuses his advances. Antonia, who is Stella, complains about Hoffmann’s lack of attention to her while she was acting in a film he was directing, and she leaves to pursue her career. Giulietta, a nightmarish amalgamation of these  women, is simply a sadist. On the bright side, Clément manages to give private lives and motives of self-interest to all these female characters, who are usually overshadowed by Hoffmann’s genius; however, she does so at the cost not only of the opera’s protagonist but of its very cohesion.

Rarely have I been as displeased with a staging composition as I was this time. There was attention to detail (for example, instead of Hermann’s mayonnaise, there was Hoffmann’s, and a celebrity magazine featured Kathryn Lewek’s face), but the stage design was too focused on its meta-narrative purposes to be visually appealing—or narratively coherent. In Antonia’s act, I felt that my eyes moved as quickly as a little fly. In Olympia’s, the action was confined to just one-third of the stage. By the time we reached Giulietta’s act, it was clear that the scenes were designed more for whimsical photographs than for compelling theater. Moreover, the film projections were done with a Windows Movie Maker black and white filter from 2005 that really should have been retired in 2006.

It’s all a pity, but also a lesson: If a stage director, even a brilliant one, does not enjoy the opera, why should they stage it?

Mostly Solid

Marc Minkowski’s musical direction is mostly correct and solid. While perhaps less dramatically engaging than usual, it’s clear that he understands “Hoffmann’s” music well, likely in all its various versions. I was particularly impressed with the quality of the Vienna Philharmonic string soloists: lyrical, but dark and melancholic.

The cast was led by the leading French tenor of today, Benjamin Bernheim. There is very little to criticize in his singing: his enunciation is perfect, his voice has a piercing tone, and his legato is smooth. However, I cannot deny that even his vocal excellence was somewhat undermined by the staging. The portrayal of toxic masculinity and narcissism in Hoffmann seemed misaligned with Bernheim’s interpretation of the role, which emphasized tender lyricism. Unlike most tenors who sing Hoffmann today, Bernheim has the gift of performing the role as a man without any rough edges—even at times a perfect victim. His eyes radiate excitement, and though his tone is melancholic, it seems more focused on shaping the musical phrases than anything else. Such candor makes his violent outbursts particularly surprising, making it hard not to sympathize with his side of the story. Don’t get me wrong: he is violent, but he creates the illusion that he is perfectly capable of hiding his violence when necessary, which is something that his peers singing Hoffmann cannot covey at all. The problem is that, during most of the opera, I kept thinking, “how could such refined singing be confined to the role of an unsuccessful filmmaker?” and even, how can such a tender artist be so dismissive towards his female leads?

Despite Bernheim’s many merits—and there are many indeed—, the night was ruled by Kathryn Lewek. I think we can all agree that it’s extremely commendable for a singer to perform all four female roles in one night. While Lewek’s performance throughout the  opera was outstanding, her Antonia act was clearly the highlight. I had the privilege of attending this production twice—the first time, I sat in the highest seat in the house (the final row of the balcony)—and never before have I heard a lyric voice with such refinement and care, especially in the dramatic scene where she overhears the spectral voice of her mother. Lewek’s tone, full and rich, achieves moments of high dramatic tension without compromising the elegance of her sound. Her Antonia is, above all, a class act—refined and smooth. Her Olympia showcases her extremely flexible voice and charming coloratura, which has captivated Met operagoers in her many performances as the Queen of the Night (and proved that she should be much more than that one role there). While she perfectly caricatured Britney Spears’ “Hit Me Baby One More Time” persona, her Barbarella-inspired Olympia aria was actually amusing without resorting to the usual operatic gimmicks—perhaps the best scenic solution of the night, in my opinion. Her Giulietta, lascivious and aggressive, though slightly less brilliant than the other portrayals, also worked effectively.

I was also particularly pleased with Kate Lindsey’s portrayal of the Muse/Nicklausse. Few mezzos have as much affinity and familiarity with the role as she does, and it’s easy to see why. Although her voice exhibits some sharper nuances in the higher notes, her vocal core is warm and inspirational. Her vocal volume is substantial enough never to be overshadowed by Giulietta in the “Belle Nuit” duet. And while her Muse/Nicklausse is a true match for any of Hoffmann’s loves, Lindsey sings the role with a certain nurturing care—almost like a supportive mother—that leads the opera to an Apollonian final scene where she calls for art and inspiration.

Another thing I have rarely seen: Christian Van Horn performed the villain roles convincingly as perhaps congenial figures. Instead of embodying an active antagonist relationship with Hoffmann, his Lindorf (who progressively takes on all the villain roles) is dehumanized by the poet, who increasingly sees him as the incarnation of the devil. The result is that Lindorf himself comes across as somewhat indifferent to Hoffmann’s problems, which is not entirely a bad thing. Van Horn’s voice, sonorous and deep, was charming but never as truly demonic as his costumes led us to expect it would be.

The rest of the cast delivered compelling performances. Marc Mauillon was particularly graceful in his light tone and exquisite French, especially when singing Franz; and Michael Laurenz was a comic Olympia’s creator (here portrayed as an agent?). Special attention should be given to the excellent work of Paco Garcia as Nathanäel and Géraldine Chauvet as the voice of Antonia’s mother.

It’s hard not to feel bad about this production. While things went well musically—unlike last year’s “Falstaff”—the complete lack of competence on the scenic side made the experience bittersweet. As I mentioned, I saw this production twice. The first time, watching with no intention of writing about it, I could enjoy the music, even though I noticed the confusion on stage. The second time, paying more attention to everything on stage, it was hard not to get angry: it was one of those experiences where the more you think about it, the more disappointed you become. I truly hope Clément gets another chance—I have enjoyed her work in the past—but this time, it was very hard to enjoy.