Indianapolis Opera's 'Carmen' as tragically resolved dialogue between fate and freedom

Carmen's body language works on Don Jose's soul.

There could be more of an issue deciding whether Georges Bizet's "Carmen" might better be titled "Don José" than the minor matter of whether the "j" in his name should be pronounced the Spanish way or in the French manner, like the "s" in "pleasure." (The latter is correct, by the way, given the French libretto.)

As Layna Chianakas, the director of Indianapolis Opera's current production, points out in her program note, the action and the musical development highlight changes in the love-besotted Spanish corporal's character, while the tempestuous gypsy remains the same throughout. The fascinating puzzle about Carmen is whether her oft-proclaimed devotion to personal freedom has a chance against the recurrent, and decisive, power of fate.

This show uses a few telling gestures indicating Fate is boss. The flower that the combative cigar-factory girl flings at Don José in the first act has been handed to her by an interpolated silent actor, a slender young woman in black. In the third act, Carmen examines her fate in a pack of cards handed to her by the same figure, different from the fortune-telling deck used by her blithe accomplices in the group of smugglers she's joined. And in the finale, the Fate representative nods at her in the pause before Don José, inevitably, stabs her to death. It is her time, as the cards predicted. By implication, her freedom has been wishful thinking, a vain attempt to justify her erotic volatility. 

Nina Yoshida Nelsen commands all the right notes of gesture and facial expression to project a woman difficult to deal with and apparently self-possessed. Carmen is prone to interpret matters in her own terms, and the superfamous "Habanera" indicates her indelible commitment to having whims of iron. Her seductive manner was iron-clad in the "Seguidilla," and extended credibly as strong influences on the lieutenant Zuniga (Andrew Boisvert) and the matador Escamillo (Young Kwang Yoo).

Fate presents Carmen with fortune-telling cards.

At the same time, Carmen is not so doom-eager that she welcomes harbingers of mortality.  Nelsen had that aspect of the role down, too. The Card Trio in Act 3 was among the best numbers as performed opening night, not only because Nelsen projected so well Carmen's dread of her likely demise, but also because Victoria Korovljev and and Liz Culpepper were well matched as those "blithe accomplices," Frasquita and Mercedes.

Adam Diegel brought a robust tenor to the role of Don José. Sometimes, unfortunately, he lost tone and tore off the ends of loud high notes. But in mid-range his tone was admirable, if a little deficient in dynamic variety. Granted, few tenors can soften up high at the end of the Flower Song; I suspect that's about as rare as a Radames ending "Celeste Aida" quietly as written. 

Diegel was called upon to cap the smugglers' rough treatment of the captured Zuniga, who tries in vain to reestablish authority over the lower-ranked Don José. Many years ago Indianapolis Opera mounted a production of "Carmen" that was much darker and, in this scene, more bloodthirsty. This one was nowhere near so torturously stomach-turning.  

But I'm convinced that José's drawing a knife across the officer's throat, presumably with fatal results, is contrary to the trajectory of the plot and the character's nature. There should be only one murder in that role, and that of course is the one that brings the whole dismal course of Don José's life (and the opera itself) to a close. When the intruding officer is removed from the scene by the smugglers, it is already clear that the AWOL soldier has thrown his life away out of his Carmen obsession toward the dark side. 

This production's Micaela is about the best imaginable.

The good life, provincial and quiet, that the errant soldier has abandoned forever was remarkably summed up in the portrayal of Micaela by Kierstin Piper Brown. It's easy to see that role as largely symbolic of the promise of Don José's return home and reconciliation with his mother, possibly resulting in his marriage to Micaela. Thus, despite the fine music Bizet gave her, she can be seen as a bland goody two-shoes, the opposite pole of Carmen. But Brown gave a fully proportioned performance, glorious vocally and apt in gesture, carriage and facial expressiveness. 

Physical rightness in the role was also characteristic of Yoo's opening-night performance as Escamillo. The baritone moved with the self-confidence bordering on narcissism that star bullfighters seem to have long commanded in Spain. His voice matched those qualities in every particular except for a little weakness in the lower range. While we can believe that Carmen, if she had survived, might have cast him off, too, Yoo's performance held out the possibility that even her fickleness wasn't necessarily permanent.

Alfred Savia conducted the performance with aplomb. Coordination between stage and pit in the Tarkington Theater was nearly absolute, with a few bobbles when the chorus (well-prepared by Cara Chowning) was involved. The brief entr'actes had picturesque accuracy and variety of color. 

The staging of the choruses leaned toward directorial manipulation. When the cigar-making girls go into

Escamillo and cape-wielding Carmen play to the crowd.

their smoking break in the first act, the reason for their regimentation was unclear. The director clearly set aside the emphasis some productions have on bringing natural crowd movement to the fore. This was also the case with the way the smugglers grouped in full-frontal position to sing before they are about to go on their contraband-goods mission. 

They don't seem as worried about security or deliberate speed as the text suggests, yet it looked odd that so many of them are provided with rifles. The whole mood of their preparation and the usefulness of their new recruit would seem to be predicated on clandestine activity. 

The stage direction is more to the dramatic point where individual movement is concerned. I loved the way Escamillo autographed a few female admirers' body parts (nothing naughty, mind you)  while he sang proudly. The distant circling of Don José and Carmen like stalking wild animals outside the arena in their final duet was a clever change from the forceful, grappling intimacy with which that final episode is sometimes staged. 

In short, this looks like a production whose staging and musical rightness rarely falls into error. Yet I'm still trying to get over the chorus turning toward the audience to echo Carmen's refrain of "Garde a toi" (beware!) during the Habanera. 

The reason for breaking the fourth wall? I guess it's to warn operagoers that all of us need to be on guard against misplaced love. It resembles the admonition at the end of Verdi's "Falstaff" when the chorus asserts "Tutti gabbati!" (all are cheated, all are fools). And then the singers point to the audience. 

Duly noted.

[Photos by Denis Ryan Kelly Jr.]