Metropolitan Opera House, Lincoln Center, NY; January 12, 2024—The Metropolitan Opera’s new Carmen is mostly being dismissed as an unnecessary updating, with what director Carrie Cracknell calls “a feminist point point of view”. Much of this is true: the updating and move from 19th-century Spain to the present day American Southwest, with a rodeo (instead of bullfight), complete with clowns, doesn’t do the job.
The locales on Michael Levine’s sets go against the grain: while outside a factory remains “outside a factory” (it seems to be a munitions plant now), the inside of a dirty 18-wheel truck careening down a highway has little of the allure or comfort of a smoky café just outside Seville, and a “wild spot in the mountains” as suggested in the libretto for the third act’s smugglers’ lair should most certainly not be a truck stop, complete with overturned (?) truck and gas pumps.
The rodeo atmosphere in the final act has much of the bloodsport of a bullfight, so no issue there, but the black iron stands, which rotated often on the Met’s overused turntable were simply ugly. A no-fun rodeo, if that’s really what it was. Nothing on stage is physically sensual; the audience sees sharp, metallic edges and wild, blinding, neon lights. It’s an assault on the senses, and it avoids any warmth. The Met titles have been liberally altered to lose all sense of Spain and bullfighting.
Guy Hoare’s lighting is, as they say, something else. The entire Met stage is fitted with uneven rows of horizontal, LED-like lighting in eye-popping red and white. In the second act, as the girls get drunk and dance, the lights are almost an assault–the effect is as exciting as it is strange. They’re just stupid in the third act, backing up the overturned truck, and the ugly glare in the finale is an extra bat to the head.
Carmen doesn’t need updating. Opting for a life of crime, mistress of her destiny, and living only by her own rules, she embodies the essence of the independent woman, here and in traditional productions. In the final showdown, when Don José arrives, weaponless, he and Carmen are on equal footing. But when she picks up a baseball bat (remember? America), swings it and misses him, and he furiously snatches it away from her, well, talk about a crime of passion. Headache inducing.
All of this aside, which isn’t easy, and due to the musical component of the show, this new Carmen is a success. Aigul Akhmetshina, the Bashkortostani mezzo, sings Carmen. Just 27 years old, her voice and artistry have ripened young. In addition to being stunning and moving with utter comfort around the vast Met stage, Akhmetshina’s medium-sized mezzo-soprano fits Carmen like a glove. Never overusing chest voice or pushing high notes, her even register covers every aspect of the role. Perhaps the Card Scene could have been somewhat darker, but she had other ideas. Audible at the top of her voice in ensembles and tenderly manipulative with José, their duets rang true and were very sexy, which is not easy when you’re dancing on a gas pump.
Piotr Beczala adds another role to his mid-career successes. Pleading, manly, and a total wreck when he realizes his destiny, his focused acting and stinging delivery of the text made one tremble. He ended the Flower Song pianissimo as written, so soft it was barely audible; when the accompanying strings stopped playing, we were left with an ethereal B-flat.
Kyle Ketelson was the Escamillo, arriving in a red sports car followed by a gaggle of rednecks in pickup trucks; his “Toreador Song” was delivered with verve and clear low notes. He has just the right swagger for the role. The usually glorious Angel Blue was given the task of making Micaela interesting. Poorly costumed, she looked like a milkmaid in denim, but her third-act aria was show-stopping. (The loose, pink bathrobe-like dresses of the “cigarette girls” in Act 1 were equally un-appealing.)
Frasquita and Mercedes (soprano Sydney Mancasola and mezzo Briana Hunter) and Remendado and Dancaïro (Michael Adams and Frederick Ballentine) as Carmen’s smuggling pals were excellent; the a cappella quintet in Act 2 came off without a hitch, due, one can guess, to Daniell Rustioni’s tight leadership. It was a no-nonsense reading, but with time enough for the gorgeous Act 3 interlude to hypnotize with its flutes.
Hard to fault, musically; a big mix-up, theatrically.
