Carmen in German? I must admit I was sceptical.
It’s not that opera doesn’t work in German – Wagner certainly saw to proving the contrary – but I’ve always
felt that the passion and glamour of Carmen is closely
connected to its sundrenched Seville
setting. Transplanting it to Frankfurt, amid a backdrop of modern
skyscrapers and with an audience of bankers and businessmen, just
wouldn’t come off in my
opinion.
Our first impressions upon arriving at the venue
seemed to confirm my thoughts. The doors to the botanical gardens, where the
concert was being staged in an outdoor arena, were opened an hour before it
was due to begin. We arrived a respectable three quarters of an hour early,
to find that the majority of the seats had already been reserved with
typical German efficiency. We tottered past rows of couples in shorts and sandals, feeling
ridiculously overdressed in posh
frocks and heels, and settled for a side
view.
It wasn’t all bad though – the couple next to us
immediately offered to share their picnic spread of Brezel, Bratwurst and
Weißbier, and we readily tucked in. It wasn’t a glitzy champagne and oysters
affair, but neither was it pretentious and snobby. As I chomped a little too
eagerly on their offerings and spilt curry sauce down my blouse, our new
friend Herr Fischstein slapped me on the back and lifted his beer glass,
proclaiming ‘Prost!’
But how would Bizet’s opera sound in German? Would the
beauty of the French original be lost in translation? Even as a German
speaker, I struggle to find the phrase ‘ich liebe dich!’ as charming as ‘je
t’aime!’ But funnily enough, as the overture set in and
then the first few lines were sung, I barely noticed
the change in language. The well-known music remained the same, the powerful
scenes continued to entertain, and our sausage-savouring companions even
showed an unexpected sense of humour as Carmen eclipsed poor Frau Fischstein
by sitting on her husband’s lap and helping herself to a generous gulp of
his Bier.
It seemed that neither German opera stars nor
its spectators take themselves as seriously as I’d
anticipated. During the interval, the chorus joined us for mugs of Apfelwein
and freshly barbecued sausages, entertaining us with tales of various
rehearsal mishaps and performance mistakes. The tiny daughter of the first
violinist was seated in the
front row throughout and knew every piece off by heart, prompting an
audience member to lift her in the air as we applauded the orchestra. Above
all, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves – from the drunken parties
portrayed onstage to the couples watching from their picnic
rugs.
But the powerful and moving scenes ought not to be
overlooked either. There was something ominous about the drunken revelry,
with the women outlandishly displaying
neon-coloured underwear,
clutching a gun in one hand whilst caressing a man with the other. The
jealous tension that ultimately drives Don José to kill the woman who has
tormented him so intensely was so
ingrained in his character that we held our breath at every entrance he
made. Even as Carmen paraded around the stage, ostensibly revelling in her
command over the male protagonists, ominous
undertones to her behaviour remained tangible. The inevitable
culmination, a dreadful stabbing that imposed a sudden, horrible end on the
intoxication, stunned us into a silence that transcended all language
barriers and differences.
They say that music is a universally spoken language,
and I’m inclined to agree. My mother, who speaks only a few words of German,
left lauding the talents of Frankfurt’s Kammeroper, and has already booked tickets to
their next production. This time the beers will be on
us.
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