Photo: Jef Rabillon
Suzanne Daumann
Some works cannot be separated from their place
in history and from the destiny of their authors. Der Kaiser von Atlantis is such a work and a genuine forgotten
masterpiece to boot: Written and first performed in the concentration camp of
Terezin, this work is a poignant cry, reaching us straight from hell, a cry for
peace. Petr Kien’s libretto, written in Terezin as
well, has the poetic qualities of some nightmares: Death encounters Harlequin,
alias laughter, alias life, and tells him that he has had enough of his job,
because it’s become too mechanical. Actually, he refuses to continue his work.
In a castle all alone, separated from the world outside, lives the Emperor
Overall. He communicates with his soldiers and outside world by way of a
loudspeaker, and the Drummer transmits his orders to the people. The Emperor
declares the war of everybody on everybody else, but then finds out that people
don’t die anymore. One the battlefield, two soldiers are fighting. One of them
realizes that the other is a girl and they fall in love. Death comes to the
Emperor in order to explain that his task is not to bring terror, but peace. At
the end, they all sing a choral that brings a new commandment: Do not take the
name of Death in vain. Viktor Ullmann’s musical language adapts itself
to every situation in the libretto. He uses all the means of his time, a bit of
music-hall, a bit of jazz, Weill, Strauss, a children’s song… In the beginning,
there is a lot of Sprechgesang, strident brass sounds, sometimes quite harsh
and rugged. The interventions of the Drummer have something of Hitler’s
hysterical prosody, and one can but wonder how even one performance has been
possible in Terezin, under the very eye of the Nazis. As the work advances,
sweeter motives emerge and the final chorus is a creation of unreal and
overwhelming beauty. Louise Moaty’s staging respects and translates
the work’s nightmarish beauty. There is a
simple scaffold on a stage that’s almost bare, and three large elements
of white fabric, half parachute, half jellyfish, that move up and down, or blow
in the wind. Alain Blanchot’s costumes are sombre and sober as well, only the
Drummer wears a dress of deep red. Philippe Nahon conducts the Ensemble Ars Nova
with finesse and flair. A pity that both Sébastien Obrecht, Harlequin, et Wassyl Slypak, Death, are having a bit of trouble with the high
notes in their first scene together. Tonight is the last show, the voices might
have suffered during the run, and both the tenor and the bass have to sing two
roles… It doesn’t matter, as a while later, they are impeccable, just as the
rest of the cast: Pierre-Yves Pruvot,
baritone, is a convincing Emperor Overall, the mezzo-soprano Anna Wall gives just the right measure
of hitleresque dementia to her Drummer, the soprano Natalie Pérez is an adorable Bubikopf, the young girl, and as they
all advance together in the final chorus, it would take a heart of stone not to
shed a tear with them over our ever-trampled hopes of peace. And so we go out into the night, with heavy
hearts, giving thanks to Angers-Nantes Opéra for putting on this work, and
wishing that the Grand Houses of the world might follow the lead, and that the
weapon dealers and the generals and the leaders and deciders of the world might
get to see this heart-rending work one day.
