“Beautiful soprano notes and laboured imagery cannot save a problematic portrayal of women”
Although I wouldn’t call myself an opera fan, I admire the athleticism of the singers and quite enjoy the heightened melodrama. Carmen is one of my favourites, with exquisite music underscoring a woman being murdered for her free choice of lovers. However, like any classics, they demand the question – why program this now?
Kát’a Kabanova opens with imposing, clinical, white walls washed with evocative shadows as the protagonist appears. In great distress, she presses against the wall, balancing at the edge of river Volga. Is she going to jump? She is, or rather, she will, but within these first few minutes her trajectory is hardly a mystery.
This Czech opera by Janácek, is based on the play “The Storm”, originally exploring repression and social constraint in 19th century Russia. Alas, the opera fails to embody this complex world. The characters are one-dimensional and the libretto painfully banal, clashing awkwardly with a very dynamic score. Like Nora in a Doll’s House, Kát’a is a sort of infantalised character. Trapped by a featureless husband and his archetypically cruel mother, we learn very little of her dreams and desires. When the husband goes away for business, Kát’a is ordered to keep her eyes off other men. This instruction is repeated so often, we can only assume her infidelity is impending.
Varvara, Kát’a’s sister-in-law, encourages her to sneak out and meet Boris, her lover’s friend who is self-confessedly in love with Kát’a, having seen her angelic expression in church. There’s little build-up to the ensuing affair, no real sense of desire or pay off, just an impulsive act followed by Kát’a’s immediate guilt and desire for death.
After the interval (and a lovely picnic, it must be said Glyndebourne’s gardens are stunning and worth a visit in themselves), Act 2 opens with a storm. The men debate whether it is due to electrical charge or God’s wrath. Kát’a, consumed with guilt, needlessly confesses her affair to her returned husband and anyone within earshot. She flees into the storm, spiralling into psychotic madness.
Her husband searches for her, torn between heartache and his mother’s command to violently punish Kát’a. In a heartfelt moment he confesses how his love prevents him from ever laying a finger on her. This sensitive moment is completely undone when Kát’a suddenly tells Boris that her husband beats her. Boris, appalled but passive, explains that he’s leaving on his uncle’s orders. Alone, Kát’a follows through on her initial impulse and jumps into the river.
Despite Katerina Kneziková’s phenomenal performance her character, unlike Nora, neither has nor develops any agency. In fact, she explicitly states “I have no will of my own”. The characters overall lack complexity, clarity and motivation. The production’s heavy-handed symbolism and overt design choices feel reductive. Without transformation, the story leaves a bitter aftertaste of sexism and misogyny. While Carmen too fulfills a “whore/madonna” trope, she is driven by strong desire whereas Kát’a appears to be a weak and hollow victim of circumstance.
That said, the performances are physically committed – gone is the stereotype of the stiff and static opera singer. The whole company are both excellent singers and embodied actors. The music feels almost cinematic and is skillfully played. Brief choral moments in Act 2 enrich the texture and leave me wanting more from the chorus. Though a bit over-egged in relation to the libretto (the conduction not quite serving the story), there are some to-die-for moments. Kněžíková’s breathtaking soprano notes, especially in delicate a cappella passages, are enough to soften even the fiercest feminist critic.