A thoroughly modern water nymph

Modern times have overtaken the National Theater, not only in the budget cuts plaguing every arts organization in town, but in another updated production, this time of  Dvořák's crowning operatic achievement, Rusalka. Whether this transposition works depends on how you like your Czech classics: served straight-up and steeped in romantic tradition, or polished to a cold contemporary sheen and wrapped in angst.

Rusalka has been in the repertoire of the National Theater almost continually since the day it premiered there in 1901. The very first production had a run of 69 performances, establishing a cultural touchstone second only to Smetana's Bartered Bride, largely on the strength of some of the most beautiful music Dvořák ever wrote. The story borrows heavily from Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid, with librettist Jaroslav Kvapil weaving a heart-rending tale of a water nymph desperate to become human and experience love, with tragic results. It appealed to Dvořák's love of nature, fondness for folklore and fairy tales and incomparable romantic spirit.

There's not much of that onstage in this production, which opens with electronic surf sounds and the shadow of an archer on a translucent scrim shooting an arrow, setting in motion a grim, inexorable chain of events. The remainder of the evening is equally spare, with minimalist sets - a couple of shallow splash pools and falling mist evoke the seminal lake setting - and most of the action suggested by slow-moving, backlit characters in black profile.

This austere, abstract environment creates a subtle but significant change in the opera. Instead of being a sentimental story about hopeless love, it becomes a fatalistic story of doomed love. Granted, it's not the same old stereotypical Rusalka, and the brilliant chiaroscuro design gives the production a visual and emotional integrity. Still, staging the climactic meeting between Rusalka and her human lover atop a long banquet table invokes the sterility of the National Theater's recent Eugene Onegin debacle more than the emotional resonance of Dvořák's mysterious underwater grotto.

Based on this and his staging of Monteverdi's Orfeo in May 2007, it seems director Jiří Heřman has a standard bag of tricks he employs, no matter what the specific opera. These can roughly be described as follows:

The stage must be filled at all times with extras in underwear and nightgowns, doing things that may or may not be related to the action;

They must always move in slow motion;

Props should constantly be dropping from and rising to the ceiling;

When in doubt, throw in plenty of smoke and mist.

It's a distinctive style, though whether it's appropriate for a traditionally romantic subject is open to debate. Even more baffling is the way Heřman handles his performers, in particular Dagmar Pecková, the world-famous mezzo-soprano who sang the double role of the foreign princess and the witch, Ježibaba, at the first and second premieres. As the latter, Pecková lurched about the stage like a hunchback, striking odd, contorted poses, often with her mouth open like a fish. That may be why she had trouble finding her voice at the first premiere, not really settling in until the second act, still overplaying the role of the foreign seductress but at least sounding like herself.

Dana Burešová in the title role got the biggest applause of the evening, and deservedly so. Her alternately tender and brittle singing was perfectly pitched and carried most of the emotional weight of the production - no small accomplishment in a role that is silent for nearly a third of the opera. Martin Gurbal turned in a strong Vodník, the water goblin, but the other audience favorites were the three water sprites: Yukiko Šrejmová Kinjo, Lucie Hájková and Michaela Kapustová. It's probably no coincidence that theirs was the brightest, liveliest singing of the evening.

The real highlight of the production was hidden in the pit most of the night. Conductor Jakub Hrůša, a rising star on the Czech music scene, showed an impressive command of the score, eliciting a rich, mature sound from the orchestra. Rusalka is principally about melody, but it's filled with colorful nuances and shimmering asides, which Hrůša clearly knows how to handle at the remarkable age of 27.

Too bad about the direction, which ultimately becomes tiresome. Why is the man in the underpants wearing a white stag's head? Who are those women coming up through the floor? Why has Ježibaba been recast as a sexual vixen? It's provocative at first, but, over the course of three and a half hours, wearing to the point of not caring.

Musically, however, it's an enjoyable evening and, if you've seen Rusalka before, certainly a change of pace.  Do yourself a favor and don't think about it too much. Just enjoy the music, which is still captivating 108 years after its debut, and deservedly finding a larger international audience every year.

Frank Kuznik can be reached at
fkuznik@praguepost.com