Richard B. Fisher Center at Bard College, New York; July 27, 2012—SummerScape at Bard College in Annandale-on-Hudson is devoting its musical summer to a “French Connection”, and opened with Emmanuel Chabrier’s Le roi malgré lui (The King in Spite of Himself). An unabashed Wagnerian—he claimed that hearing Tristan und Isolde changed his life, and his opera Gwendoline is as “Wagnerian” as it is possible to be—“Roi” is something else entirely.
The 1887 farce concerns Henri de Valois, who, at the close of the 16th century, briefly reigned as the King of Poland. He and his courtiers find Poland dull and Henri does not want to be King; he’s more interested in Alexina, with whom he had a dalliance in Venice and who is married to his Venetian Chamberlain, Fritelli. At the same time, his dear friend Nangis has fallen for a serf named Minka, who may be a spy for the Polish—she “belongs” to Laski, a Polish nobleman who plots against Henri. Since nobody in Poland knows them yet—they have just arrived—Henri demands that Nangis claim to be King and vice-versa, and he, as Nangis, joins the conspiracy to stop his own coronation and have himself overthrown. The complications in the libretto are daunting and at times too complex for enjoyment. Even English sur-titles do not entirely clear up the confusion.
The music is sui generis. It is filled with recognizable forms such as choral numbers, dances (waltzes and mazurkas), arias, duets, ensembles, a nocturne, and a barcarolle. But Chabrier’s unique harmonies (Maurice Ravel said that the opera “changed the direction of French harmony”, and added that he “would rather have written Le Roi malgré lui than Wagner’s Ring Cycle)—unexpected, dissonant but never unpleasant, occasionally “popular” and almost music-hall style, with ancient impressions among the modernisms—and his odd syncopations can be off-putting and keep the listener both on his toes and at somewhat of a distance.
The word “idiosyncratic” comes to mind; “Roi” is filled with flavors we don’t often taste. But repeated listening (I boned up with a 20-year-old recording) delights the ear—Chabrier was a great orchestrator and had no fear of making a fine racket. The opera was a modest success at its premiere in 1887; sadly, the theater burned down a week later. It was a hit in Germany (even though the cranky Cosima Wagner, after seeing it in Dresden in 1890, called it “utter trash”), but it was soon forgotten until 1929, when it returned to Paris with a new libretto. Music director Leon Botstein is using the original version at Bard.
The score is filled with great moments: The opening chords from the brass welcome us into a new, agreeable-if-alien soundworld; the huge first-act finale is a fine, witty jumble; the second act opens with a “Fete Polonaise”, which is a spectacular ballroom scene and features a Gypsy Song for Minka that is both hot and funny, and a stunning barcarolle sung by Henri and Alexina (recalling their time in Venice) that is weirdly introduced by an argument between the two (it quickly becomes Offenbach-with-a-twist). The third act contains an exquisite little lament for Minka and a duet for her and Alexina that’s as inviting as it is harmonically unpredictable. Romance alternates with farce in fine balance.
Director Thaddeus Strassberger and his cohorts do not help the mix-ups in the plot. A small screen in the center of the proscenium shows us the credits for the opera in black-and-white movie stock, as if it were a 1940s movie; we soon see a man in his living room watching it on TV under a framed photograph of Pope John Paul II. The curtain rises on a scene presenting Henri’s courtiers, stage left, in white satin, 16th-century clothing, while at stage right people are in modern dress. The 16th century soon disappears and the production revolves around a grand media event in Poland: the Election of a New King, complete with red carpet, TV coverage, and great brouhaha.
Henri’s entrance is on a wheeled-in tanning bed; characters perform in their underwear; costumes (by Mattie Ulrich), as mentioned, span decades and keep changing; the King’s bodyguard turns out to be gay (why?); and in the opera’s last moments a pregnant Alexina (why?) is on the verge of giving birth. Kevin Knight’s sets are made up of everything but the kitchen sink, and a quartet of winter-dressed roller-bladers (supposed to be ice skaters) does not help. Most annoyingly—or entertainingly if you like your attention taken away from both music and plot—is the directorial decision to have things going on at the far ends of the stage: little romances, arguments, etc. Too many sight gags. The head spins.
Musically, Botstein and his American Symphony Orchestra (and chorus) pull out all the stops. Accurate, exciting playing and singing take the place of a certain French suavity that the music actually requires, but the energy level is wonderfully high. Liam Bonner’s Henri, for one, could have used more lyricism and dynamic control, but he’s a fine artist, with a big, impressive baritone. Michele Angelini, as Nangis, has a nice “ping” to his young tenor, and like Bonner is comfortable on stage. Andriana Chuchman has all of Minka’s music well-in-hand, including the sweet moments and flights into the stratosphere, and she looks great. Encumbered by her fake pregnancy, Nathalie Paulin nonetheless was an excellent Alexina, blending beautifully in all of her duets. Fritelli is a comic role, and Frédéric Gonclaves played him to the hilt, always with a rich baritone. Jeffrey Mattsey as Laski is elegantly wicked. The chorus, with plenty to do, is superb (kudos to chorus master James Bagwell), and the orchestra was in full command of the tricky rhythmic changes. “Roi” will, I suspect, always be on the fringes of the repertoire, but in its own way it is a terrific work. Despite too much stage business, the work’s special qualities came across.
There are four more performances, running until August 5th.