Don Carlos at The Met review – a gloomy production that strayed too far from the libretto

Don Carlos, the final opera in Verdi’s series based on the plays of Friedrich von Schiller, is one of the most significant “history” operas in the repertoire. As politically powerful today as it was at its premiere in Paris in 1867, this David McVicar production packed a punch, but did not deliver a knockout blow. 

Too much David McVicar in the gloomy, grey-walled, all-embracing, amphitheatre set and not enough Verdi. Too often directors forget they are the servants of the libretto, as indeed are composers. 

Give this production five stars for “atmosphere”! The atmosphere of the sepulchre. 

In the Prelude, how can this be the gardens at Fontainebleau, with birds, flowers and splashing fountains, referenced as Don Carlos, son and heir of Philippe II of Spain, and his beloved fiancé, Élisabeth — soon to be his mother — sing to each other of love in this iconic French palace garden of pleasures?

Hang on! His mother? She becomes his mother by being unexpectedly betrothed to Philippe II as part of the peace settlement of his war with her father’s Valois France. In the midst of a love duet. Bummer!

David, I understand that the idea was to create the forbidding, authoritarian atmosphere of the Spanish court, and grey is a sort of depressing colour, but has your GPS gone wonky? This is FRANCE — and the contrast between the French/Spanish locations as the opera moves from joy to despair and conflict is an essential element of the drama.

I know, I know, the grey walls at the rear did open a squidgin to let in a shaft of Fontainebleau garden light, but there was no getting around the tombs dotting the stage. They gave bad impressions as garden seats. And where were the fountains?

And did you really think the same set could be transformed into Philippe II’s famously confined study in Act III by simply hanging a humungous crucifix — about 30 feet long — diagonally stage right from the flies? 

As fellow Glaswegians, we both “get” atmosphere. Who can have been in the Sarry Heid (Saracen’s Head) in Gallowgate and failed to absorb “atmosphere”, along with a hauf and a hauf?

But isn’t it a good idea to allow the audience to absorb the plot, in settings intended by the librettist and composer, interpret the contrasts, and then reach its own conclusions about what is going on? 

As the whole opera hinges on the ambiguity of the relationship between church and state and the eventual subjugation of Philippe to the Pope’s Grand Inquisitor and the ultimate authority of Rome, the moral certainty of the set elided the complexity of the characters as they resolve their several moral dilemmas, working towards the opera’s climax. 

We need to travel to our conclusions, not have the producers stuff them down our throats from curtain-up.

One more gripe. Negotiating the onstage obstacle course required much of the singing to be delivered towards the rear of the stage. That matters at the Met, where it’s problematic enough for voices to carry over the massive orchestra pit. 

In particular, Eric Owens, the American bass who sang Philippe II, found some difficulty in getting the stoic stubbornness of the king across to the audience. His voice often did not carry as it should. The staging made his miscasting worse. 

Owens’ problem is that he exudes the essence of pleasantness! Fantastic voice and presence, but he just doesn’t do “bad guy”. 

For a Philippe to scare the bejesus out of you, turn to the Met’s 2010 Nicholas Hytner production, featuring Italian bass, Ferruccio Furlanetto as the conflicted monarch.

Furlanetto adopts the menacing stillness he has perfected in the roles of Simon Boccanegra and Boris Godunov to huge effect. He adopts the mantle of opera’s baddies as convincingly as his countryman, Bela Lugosi, earlier defined Dracula on celluloid. 

Matthew Polenzani, tenor, delivered an outstanding Don Carlos, Sonya Yoncheva, the Bulgarian soprano, carried off the haughtiness of Élisabeth de Valois and Jamie Barton, American mezzo, was an enthralling, dynamic Princess of Eboli, eyepatch and all.

That eyepatch! Apparently, the real Princess of Eboli lost her right eye in a swordfight at the age of 14 — with her brothers! Memo to self: Avoid afternoon tea at the Eboli household. Barton embodied the spirit of her tomboy character. 

Etienne Dupuis, Canadian baritone, sang Rodrigue, Marquis of Posa and John Relyea, Canadian bass-baritone was The Grand Inquisitor, a walk-on, but critical role. 

This is as strong a cast of voices as can be assembled, which explained the sell-out Saturday matinee. At the end of the day, opera is about the “voices”, stupid. The Met can still pull it off when it tries.

For those unfamiliar with the plot, here is the full synopsis. 

There are many versions of Don Carlo/Don Carlos. This is the French version, which premiered in 1867 in Paris, minus the ballet. Ballets were compulsory at the Théâtre Impérial de l’Opéra back in the day.

McVicar makes a nod to the dance thing by introducing a gratuitous traipsing, harlequin tumbler into the action. No credit on the programme. Actually, pointless. May have wandered in from a Pagliacci rehearsal somewhere else, by mistake? A sly reference to André Gide’s literary “l’acte gratuit”? 

Maybe just a comedian in need of work. Whatever, he got in the way.

Verdi was commissioned by Paris Opéra to create an adaptation of the Schiller play, Don Karlos, Infant von Spanien in 1850. It took him seventeen years of hard graft until his work reached the stage. 

Well known as a supporter of Italian nationalism, the Risorgimento, and seeking an end to Austrian rule, Don Carlo was Verdi’s not so oblique tilt at the political repression of his homeland. As always, there was a mad tussle to slip the opera past the Austrian censors. The Paris goons were easier meat.

Spanish occupied Flanders is Italy’s doppelganger. By 1867 Verdi was a legend in Italy. The politically inflammatory graffiti — “Viva Verdi” was daubed everywhere. At first sight an innocent plaudit, the “Verdi” was an acrostic —“Vittorio Emanuele, Re D’Italia”, the focal point of Italian nationalism. 

Last Saturday the Spanish/Flanders plot unfolded, as freshly relevant to the war of oppression in Ukraine, as it did to the Paris audience in politically turbulent Europe in 1867. The continent was in ferment. Three years away from the Franco-Prussian war.

When Don Carlos sang to his father of the wasteland the Spanish were creating in Flanders, the morning headlines confirming devastation in Mariupol were conjured up. This make-believe was unsettlingly close to reality.

The last of the Schiller operas — the others were Giovanna D’Arco/Joan of Arc; I Masnadieri, based on The Robbers; and Luisa Miller — Don Carlos is a five Act blockbuster that never fails to thrill.

The finale is variable. Does Don Carlos die or escape? In this Met production, we were treated to the redemptive ambiguity of Carlos being welcomed in the last scene by the ghost of Emperor Charles V, his grandfather and escorted, we know not where. Suffering is unavoidable. It ceases only in heaven.

Verdi and Schiller’s concoction may have little to do with historical accuracy, but they are telling bold truths that, sadly, resonate in every age.