Critic’s Notebook: New Production of the Rosenkavalier in Graz
Also reviewed for Die Presse: „Rosenkavalier“ in Graz: Wo die Frauen hauen und stechen
Marschallin across Generations: New Rosenkavalier in Graz
Philipp M. Krenn’s new Rosenkavalier in Graz is a production brimming with ideas, gently nudged toward the present. In the way it succeeds at explaining itself, it comes startlingly close to a directorial ideal.
Strauss and Hofmannsthal are always about human relationships. In the new Graz Rosenkavalier that’s literally true, so liberally do director Philipp M. Krenn and set designer Momme Hinrichs deploy the revolving stage. We move seamlessly from foyer to antechamber, to servants’ quarters, to billiard room, bedroom, and kitchen. This way, Krenn manages to stage the Marschallin and Octavian’s early-morning dalliance during the overture already, while revealing – in an Upstairs/Downstairs type scenario – how the staff sorts laundry, stocks shelves, listens at doors, whispers and gossips. There are fewer secrets in this household than you’d think. Small wonder that the Marschallin (Polina Pastirchak) and Octavian (Anna Brull) are so surprisingly indiscreet.Hinrichs’ sets and Eva Maria Dessecker’s costumes span a parallel palette from early 20th century (the aristocratic society, dueling type student fraternities) through the 1970s (replete with Bubble Chair and large-floral wallpaper) to a subtle present-day — expressed, among other things, in the kitchen where the Marschallin makes her morning coffee and where Ochs and the ever-present Leopold (Arthur Haas) brazenly help themselves to anything in sight. Whether the “carnal offspring”, as Leopold is referred to in the libretto, is Ochs’ illegitimate son or on-and-off lover... with this sexually insatiable opportunist Ochs, anything is possible.
Apropos. Wilfried Zelinka’s Ochs was magnificent: He nails the greasy vulgarian who thinks far too highly – and all the more imperturbably – of himself with fearsome ease. Someone for whom women are mainly status symbol; sunglasses casually cocked in his hair that’s a good deal longer than advisable and thinner than desired, dress shirt stretched across the paunch, lordly manner, and shoes without socks. Whether petty nobility or Mittelstand nouveau-riche – if you’ve been to Austria long enough, you know the type. That his lowest notes weren’t quite there was irrelevant amid such a vivid display of character.
In Act II Zelinka also becomes a hybrid of Ochs and the Feldmarschall, who still rightly rankles the sensitives of Sophie, even as he’s a bit more dashing, kept keep in check by his manners where his morals wouldn’t, and displaying the debonair cool of a man not used to being flustered. This whole act is the coup de théâtre Krenn has been preparing since Act I, when a Super-8-movie flashback takes us to the Marschallin’s own wedding. At the very end of the act, she finds herself face to face with her younger self in the bridal gown: This is simultaneously the young Maria Theres’ and Sophie (Tetiana Miyus). It’s a passing-of-the-torch moment. And this is also how the second act, throughout which the Marschallin is silently present – begins. She is there to support Sophie and, by extension, herself – in her struggle for marital self-determination. Sophie’s marriage is actually the memory of her own. The Marschallin’s fate (none-too-bad, if sprinkled with regrets) was not hers to decide; Sophie’s, at least, should be. It is Sophie, too, who settles the matter of the Ochs-Octavian duel when she takes a carving knife to Ochs’ calf, to make sure worse does not befall young, out-fenced Octavian.
You can like this sort of thing or not (at the premiere it was unabated applause for the directorial team), but for Krenn to pull off this act of doubling – past and present; amending the past to cure the future – in a way that explains itself with such self-evidence, brings the production startlingly close to a directorial ideal.
The orchestra under Vassilis Christopoulos supported the proceedings well, often superb; the winds especially; the violins at times rather less so. It certainly wouldn’t have hurt throughout most of the performance, if the orchestra could have played a touch more quietly throughout. The acting meanwhile was superb: the deeply moving, full-voiced Marschallin, the nuanced Ochs, the adorable, feisty Sophie. Even the torn-and-striving Octavian hardly lagged behind, and the cast as a whole delivered very decent (and better) vocal performances without, admittedly, threatening to redefine the standards for excellence. Noteworthy, however, among smaller roles were Leitmetzerin Corina Koller and Neira Muhič’s Annina. The social-media-addicted Italian singer (Iurie Ciobanu), meanwhile, had a small message for young Mr. Chalamet ready: He took selfies with a “#WECARE, Timothée” sign.
At the close, the Feldmarschall wanders past Sophie and Octavian’s embrace and finds Faninal’s “Sind halt aso, die jungen Leut’!” put in his mouth. When he watches with rather too much interest, his wife gives him a tender-but-firm tap – “Come along now, darling” – and leads him away, back to their reality.
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