National Theater Mannheim’s Hippolyte et Aricie review – a contemporary take unfit for Rameau’s classic opera
Good job for Jean-Philippe Rameau that Louis XV of France was not Kim Jong-un. In 1733, Rameau’s revolutionary opera, Hippolyte et Aricie, premiered; it poked sharply at the institution of monarchy. Rameau went on to be a highly prolific and successful court composer.
Recently Yu Hyun Woo, conductor of The National Meritorious Choir of North Korea, was not so lucky. After privately mocking Kim’s childish appreciation of a shadow puppet performance, part of a concert he conducted before Kim and his recently re-emerged wife Li Seol-ju in Pyongyang earlier this month, he was publicly executed in front of his choir. Ninety bullets delivered at a range of 10 metres – some reports say fired personally by Kim – reduced him to mush.
Hippolyte et Aricie is a typical classic-theme opera of the 18th century. Allusion and metaphor were safety valves through which critique of the establishment could be delivered without adverse consequences – like being shot at close range.
What is it all about? Here is the nutshell version. Phèdre loves Hippolyte. Hippolyte loves Aricie. Hippolyte is the son of Phèdre’s husband King Thésée. Trouble at court.
Rameau’s artifice was to expose the hypocrisy of contemporary society, all the dubious mores, mistresses and the like, but have matters resolved by the goddess Diane procuring an eventual marriage of Hippolyte and Aricie, and the authority of kingship acknowledged and re-affirmed. King Thésée is resurrected and returned from the underworld.
One view might be that operas such as this are contrived and have no relevance today. Why bother reviving them? But, are they any less contrived than the works of 18th century French painters, still acknowledged as masters? Behind Fragonard’s soft pastoral idylls – swings, shepherdesses, sheep – lurk disquieting demons. We value his work because he lets us see through the eyes of 18th century society. He and contemporary artists are our Hubble view into a past we can never regain by other means.
Same with court opera. So, to properly understand the works of the likes of Lully and Rameau, contemporary settings are important. Updating puts the work in the wrong focus. Would crowds flock to view a tarted-up Fragonard, a hip Leonardo?
This production from National Theater Mannheim, directed by Lorenzo Fiorini, is tarted up and tries – relentlessly – to be hip. Sig Fiorini has used lockdown and an empty auditorium to meld every effect known to opera into this production. The result is a distracting hotch-potch. Given the keys to the Willy Wonka opera special effects factory, Sig Fiorini has gorged.
True, there are occasional 18th century references. The king intones repeatedly, “Après moi, le deluge”. He was right. A small screen located top stage left shows exaggerated footage of what is being enacted on stage – seemly embraces transformed into lurid bonking – and a large drop screen with massive images of a slavering Pluton dominates the end of Act 2.
Why is there a pool table? A set of mammoth pop concert speakers that serve no purpose? What’s that on the singer’s foreheads? Taped on microphones – in exactly the wrong place to accurately amplify the voice, but well located to make them resemble dystopian robots.
Costumes are anarchic. Hippolyte sports an Armani dinner suit. Aricie is a got up Goth. Diane pouts, a periwigged porcelain doll. Phèdre shimmers in a tight blue cocktail dress and hat, alternatively a revealing white corset. Her distorted assets still fail to convince Hippolyte. The powdered-wig king arrives in a carriage drawn by pantomime horses, who later double as cocktail waiters.
King Thésée favours 19th century formal white tie and decorations. Hippolyte attempts his escape in a very second-hand silver Mercedes E Class and dies onscreen in a head-on car crash. Simultaneously onstage, a Fury pours a bucket of blood over his head through the Merc’s open sunroof. He is dragged from the driver’s seat, a bloodied corpse. But, not before he’s remembered to turn the headlights off. Hades welcomes careful drivers.
The chorus, dressed in 17th century court finery, doubles as audience, sprinkled languidly across the empty auditorium, some with numbers on their backs (why?) singing behind plastic Covid screens on which they occasionally spray messages in reverse writing with, perhaps, shaving foam.
The set is littered with torn up books, crowded with tables, globes, fruit bowls, candelabras, misaligned portraits and assorted paraphernalia. Negotiating this obstacle course is a nightmare for the performers.
Too much! Too much! Opera in the era of Rameau was spare, apart from the dance sequences. Characters were defined by their entrances and exits. The libretto was the focus of attention. Sig Fiorini has demoted the libretto to second fiddle and become obsessed with demonic action. Everyone is onstage at once, flowing hither and thither.
This is a basic “look how clever I am” mistake. Which is surprising, as Fiorini’s production of Martinü’s The Greek Passion for Austrian Opera Graz in 2015 was a moving masterpiece.
The spectacle of Hippolyte et Aricie can be viewed on Operavision here.
This is how the story unfolds.
In a Prologue, unaccompanied by orchestra, the theatre machinery sets itself in motion: layer by layer, a world emerges in which figures of the present meet figures who, like an old Louis XIV, seem to come from the past. ‘Amour’ welcomes her audience as an expert master of ceremonies and tells of the beauty and violence of love. With three strokes, the old king commands the overture to begin.
Act 1 focuses on Phèdre’s rage. Aricie is held at Thésée’s court. Phèdre urges her to swear an oath to the goddess Diane which will separate her from Hippolyte forever. The jealous Phèdre has sussed their mutual passion. When Aricie refuses to take the vow, supported by Diane and the court, Phèdre can no longer restrain herself. After a passionate outburst, she is left alone.
In this state of mind, news of her husband Thésée’s death reaches Phèdre. Oenone, Phèdre’s servant, got up as a Tiller Girl, gives her mistress hope. She can now chase stepson Hippolyte with impunity, even though the relationship would be socially outrageous.
Act 2 sees Thésée in the underworld. He is looking for his friend Perithoos, whom he wants to free from the realm of the dead. His negotiations with Pluton, king of the underworld and his servant Tisiphone are fruitless; instead, Thésée is shown the horrors of the underworld in all their brutality. An eerie parade passes him by like a nightmare, but with Neptune’s help Thésée manages to free himself from Pluton’s clutches. The three Fates, who spin the thread of fate and hold the world’ s destiny in their hands, prophesy terrible things.
Act 3 finds Phèdre in a dilemma. Oenone has contrived a meeting with Hippolyte. When he arrives, she blows it, revealing her love. Reaction? Ugh!!! At the critical moment Thésée obligingly appears. What’s going on? Loyal Oenone directs suspicion at Hippolyte. He has tried to seduce his stepmother. Thésée curses the son and asks the gods to kill Hippolyte. Court society flocks together to celebrate the return of their king.
Act 4 Hippolyte and Aricie want to flee. The E Class Merc is manhandled incongruously onto the 18th century set. They climb in but have a Tiger Woods encounter with a ditch, which Hippolyte does not survive. Summoned by the lamentations of bystanders, Phèdre – now grey-haired with worry – appears on the scene. Torn by guilt, she commits public suicide.
In Act 5, Diane and Jupiter hold a public inquiry into the debacle and decide how to bring about a happy outcome. Thankfully, Dominic Cummings does not appear. Love should triumph and so Diane assures the traumatised Aricie that Hippolyte will return to her side. Aricie reacts with incomprehension, but Hippolyte is brought back to life, with a sprinkling of golden foil, before her eyes.
In a scene of mourning that interrupts the wedding song, Oenone bids farewell to Phèdre. The party scatters, a new era begins. Hippolyte and Aricie grab suitcases and head off for a new life via the front stalls and a pre-booked Covid check-in with Ryanair.
Rameau was keen to break new ground, introducing complex harmony to French opera. He did not start the opera composing phase of his output until he was a mature 50. The lush complexity he brought to a traditionally “flat” and ritualistic artform defined by Lully was likely inspired by Handel, his contemporary in England. His Acis and Galatea had set the new style in 1718.
Conductor Bernhard Forck, and the Orchestra of National Theater Mannheim, deliver a sensuous performance, making the most of Rameau’s lush passages. That said, there is a lot of dull continuous music to endure.
Standout amongst the soloists is Sophie Rennert, Phèdre. The young Austrian mezzo soprano brings huge commitment to the role with a voice that cuts and drives the action. It is a pity that so many distractions are taking place around her.
Today the phenomenon of singular art works as monetised assets is flourishing. Non fungible art. CryptoArtNets trade BitArt works unavailable in conventional forms – painting in frames hung on walls. An online artist, Alotta Money, (I am not making that up) is making gazillions trading work by the likes of Eclectic Method, Nonfungerbils and Franksy.
Mannheim’s Hippolyte and Aricie is the non-fungible opera equivalent. Spawned by the Covid world to cater for non-audiences, it is a phenomenon that, hopefully, will pass from fashion as distancing restrictions are relaxed and audiences return. Rameau is worth reviving, but not in this filmic, self-indulgent form.