A finnish voice for Katya

Performances of Leoš Janáček’s operas in Western Countries are still all too rare events. Theaters often take the risk of producing them only at the request of a celebrated prima donna or of an equally well-known conductor. Starting from the 1980s, Sir Charles Mackerras has put much of his energies in promoting these works both by editing philologically accurate versions of the scores in cooperation with the Viennese publisher Universal, and by convinging Decca to record them. The recording enterprise profited not only from Mackerras’s inspiring conducting, but also from the presence of a remarkable cast led by the Swedish soprano Elisabeth Söderström, who achieved world-wide popularity with the title roles of Jenufa, Katya Kabanova and The Case Makropoulos, and became closely associated with them for over a decade. At the turn of this century, another singer contributed to the popularity of Janáček’s operas as much as did Söderström: Anja Silja. Unlike the former, who took the roles of Janáček’s unfortunate heroines, Silja privileged evil characters such as Kostelnicha in Jenufa and Kabanicha in Katya Kabanova.

More recently, Karita Mattila has carved out her own place within this gallery of prima donnas, giving memorable interpretations of both Jenufa and Katya. Last fall, the Finnish soprano performed the latter role also at the Lyric Opera of Chicago to the great enjoyment of the audience, who received her with a well-deserved standing ovation at the end of the evening. Indeed, Katya Kabanova is a perfect fit for the soprano’s present vocal features: it blends an overall lyrical vocal writing, which enhances Mattila’s pure timbre, with burning dramatic passages that the singer boldly faces with technical maturity. In addition, Mattila’s elegant figure is ideal for a role that represses a considerable erotic potential under the constraints of bourgeois respectability. Frustration about family and social constrictions, desire for freedom, carnal pulsions, and guilt all found a proper means of expression in Mattila’s outstanding singing, which reached its peak in Katya’s act 1 monologue, in her love duet with Boris at the end of act 2, and in the final scene of the opera.

Two complementary female figures surrounded Mattila’s portrayal of Katya in the Chicago production: thanks to her fresh voice and convincing stage presence, Lithuanian mezzo Liora Grodnikaite portrayed a youthful and light-hearted Varvara, while Judith Forst powerfully gave life to Katya’s ruthless step-mother Kabanicha despite occasional vocal incertitudes. I was surprised that some spectators responded to Forst’s performance with sonorous boos at the end of the evening: considering the effectiveness of the singer’s interpretation and that the Lyric Opera audience has sometimes been known to cheer less-deserving artists in other productions, I found the bad reception to Forst simply unworthy of her overall rendition.

The Lyric found three excellent tenors for the three main male roles: Brandon Jovanovich perhaps had too Holliwood a look for the semi-depressed Boris, but in fact he acted credibly and his self-confident singing had both the charm of a lover, and, especially in the final act, the despair of rejection. Garrett Sorenson’s Kudrjas was the perfect match for his fictional lover, Varvara, thanks to a fresh and spontaneous interpretation. Jason Collins aptly rendered Tichon’s weak nature and personality. Next to them, Andrew Shore’s crude bass voice served particularly well the violent and perverted Dikoj.

Conductor Markus Stenz’s interpretation, instead, sounded somehow constrained to me: he faced Janacek’s suggestive orchestration with professional conscientiousness, but he did not manage to effectively combine the orchestral colors, or to exploit them for dramatic purposes. The orchestra itself sounded somehow lacking of power and finesse.

The visual frame of the performance was provided by Jonathan Miller’s production, revived in Chicago by Paula Williams. For the outdoor scenes, Miller had conceived a truly basic setting, leaving most of the stage empty: only a few buildings at the back and the threatening presence of the wall of the Kabanovs’ house on a side were the main elements on stage. The inner scenes, instead, stressed the claustrophobic domestic environment in which Katya has been trapped after her marriage. The detailed reconstruction of a Biedermeier-like living-room, overcharged with ideological meaning, clashes effectively with the desolation of the outer scenes, as if to point out that the freedom Katya, Varvara, Kudrias and Boris are longing for can be achieved only by escaping their village. But for Katya, who unlike the other three is imprisoned in the village by the bond of marriage, freedom is only a vision, and drowning herself in the Volga becomes her only way to fly away from her situation. The lack of visual reference to the river is perhaps the weak point of the production: that the Volga plays a fundamental role in the dramaturgy of the opera is highlighted by the music itself, which, starting from the Prelude, insists on figurations that represent its majesty and dangerousness. But in this staging, for instance, when at the beginning of the opera Kudrias praises the beauty of the river, the Volga was treated as an external presence of the setting and the character simply addressed the audience – a solution that, in my opinion, impoverished the coherence of Janáček’s musico-dramatic choices.

Nonetheless, in spite of a few questionable elements, with this production the Lyric Opera put its audience in touch with one of the masterpieces of Slavic opera, and at the same time provided an enjoyable context to Karita Mattila’s praiseworth interpretation.