TCHAIKOVSKY Eugene Onegin
Dmitri Tcherniakov’s deceptively naturalistic and deeply personal take on a hallowed Bolshoi favourite arrived in the Palais Garnier, Paris wreathed in controversy, having shocked the Moscow elite and outraged an 80-year-old Galina Vishnevskaya, a legendary Tatyana, who left the first night in a fury declaring “I’ll never enter this theater again!”
It was a bold (but timely) move to replace the Bolshoi’s emblematic, 60-year-old production, but Tcherniakov, who recalls seeing Boris Prokovsky’s perennially revered account at the age of 12 – his first ever opera experience – subtly alludes to the traditions and tropes that accrued around that interpretation’s long life on stage. In a move that outraged purists, Tcherniakov makes Onegin kill Lensky by accident during a fight at Tatyana’s birthday gathering where Lensky is impersonating Monsieur Triquet.
Vishnevskaya’s declaration notwithstanding, Tcherniakov is not the “barbarian” his detractors called him. His Onegin alludes to that venerable first production while leaving his own innovative mark, one that is not far removed from tradition and is, undeniably, essentially Russian. He uses only one, exquisite, Chekovian-inflected scenic frame to achieve uncommon unity of the six ‘lyric scenes’ while infusing them with cinematographic scope. Indeed, some poetic touches call to mind the movies of Nikita Mikhalkov and Ingmar Bergman, particularly in Tcherniakov’s treatment of the passing of time and the feminine neurosis of the three generations of women onstage. Set in an unspecific era, the action (a.k.a. life) takes place around a dinner party table, first in an upper-class country house, then, in the last scene, in a decadent red palace in what is unmistakably the Soviet capital. Playing with inner and external forces, Gleb Filshtinsky’s lights add a magisterial sheen to the stark and oppressive setting.
There are serious reservations in the constant intrusive stage noises, the excessive mood swings and pantomime between characters – especially veterans Makvala Krahasvili (Mme. Larina) and Emma Sarkisyan (Nurse), an illustrious former Tatyana and Olga respectively – which proves to be an irritable distraction.
Taking advantage of Mariusz Kwiecien’s involvement as the only foreigner in the otherwise all-Russian cast, Tcherniakov emphasizes the eponymous hero’s position as an outsider. The Polish baritone creates a multifaceted, unstable and insecure Onegin: though painfully aware of his own demons he seems powerless to control or contain them. It’s a devastating portrait magnificently sung.
Tatiana Monogarova is a valuable Tatyana, Margarita Mamsirova a no less successful Olga. Andrei Dunaev sings an appropriately lyric Lensky with veteran Anatolij Kotscherga vocally dry but perfectly cast as a fatherly Prince Gremin. The Bolshoi chorus and orchestra under conductor Alexander Vedernikov (son of the famous bass) gives a refined, vibrant performance.
On DVD, the first recommendation is the Met production by Robert Carsen with Hvorostovsky and Fleming – an instant classic (Decca). Andrea Breth’s somewhat incongruous Salzburg account shines thanks to the unforgettable Onegin of Peter Mattei (DG) while Graham Vick’s Glyndebourne interpretation still offers a lesson in beautifully effective simplicity (Kultur).
But even in spite of my reservations above, this remains a strong, memorably detailed production combining classical tradition with an irreverently contemporary point of view. Watching again the revival of Prokovsky’s venerable but now aged 1944 production (TDK), Tcherniakov’s remains unmissable and, in more ways than one, essential.
