After the spectacular success of Rusalka, Antonín Dvořák spent nearly two years looking for an appropriate subject for a new opera. He finally settled, reluctantly, on Armida, a libretto offered to him by the Czech poet and playwright Jaroslav Vrchlický. The story of the ill-fated love between the Saracen sorceress and the Christian knight Rinaldo had already been the subject of several popular operas (Lully, Handel, Gluck, Rossini), and Vrchlický’s libretto was overly long and creaky, with glaring plot holes. Nevertheless, tired of the delays, Dvořák set to work and produced a romantic adventure fueled by raging passions, cultural clashes and gripping tragedy.
Very little of which is to be found in the National Theatre’s revival of this neglected work. Instead, director Jiří Heřman offers a bloodless new production of Armida, long on style but short on substance. Spirited work in the pit and heroic efforts by cast members at the premiere were not enough to pull the production up from mundane to magical.
In this version of the story, taken from Torquato Tasso’s epic poem Gerusalemme liberata, the sorcerer Ismen is the king of Syria. After being spurned by Armida, he is able to convince her father Hydraot, the ruler of Damascus, to send her to infiltrate and sow dissension among the advancing army of Crusaders. There she falls in love with the knight Rinald, and they run off together. Ismen exacts revenge by luring them into his castle and giving the other knights a magic shield they use to draw Rinald back, a betrayal that sets up a final, tragic encounter between the lovers.
Heřman’s stylized treatment requires a lot of imagination on the part of the audience to transform a muted drawing room set into a royal court, military camp and enchanted castle. The sparse décor puts the focus on symbols, some of which work well, like the whirling dervishes that open and close the action. Others are less successful. A large ring that periodically descends from the ceiling is at first an effective frame, but eventually stands in for so many props and purposes that it becomes confusing. A stuffed gazelle seems more like a toy when it is waved around than an image of Armida’s yearning and vulnerability. And a cleverly done dragon offers promise when it first appears as a manifestation of Ismen’s scheming, but by the time it pokes its smoking snout through yet another doorway in the third act, the effect is almost comical.
The ritualistic style of acting that Heřman prefers doesn’t help, either. Characters move robotically and often in slow motion, draining the life out of many scenes. Nor is there any emotional impact in Armida singing “Hug me tightly” to a lover standing on the opposite end of the stage. Worse, the stiff presentation and obsession with style keep the story entirely on the surface, ignoring the real potential of the opera. Armida offers tantalizing opportunities to go deeper into a Muslim-Christian clash of faiths, the perils of a cross-cultural romance, dueling wizards casting spells – all ignored in this production.
Rising above it all in the lead role is Alžběta Poláčková, one of the most versatile singers in the National Theatre company and a trouper, manhandled by aggressive men more than once in this production. While her lyric soprano is not ideally suited for a dramatic part like Armida, she gave a commanding performance. So did Svatopluk Sem as Ismen, a threatening figure with a dark, ominous voice to match. Aleš Briscein was a fervent Rinald, though his high, piercing tenor doesn’t quite have the gravitas to portray a romantic hero.
In some respects, this is a perfect evening to close your eyes and listen to the music. The score is a marvel of narrative sophistication, a through-composed opera with vivid colors and rich expression that practically tells the story by itself. At times, it seemed as if the singers were accompanying the orchestra rather than the reverse. Credit to conductor Robert Jindra for a ringing performance in the pit, and the National Theatre Chorus for bracing interludes that added vibrancy and an edge to the sound.
Ultimately, Heřman's production seems misplaced. The polished look and refined approach would suit a psychological drama or murder mystery, but are a poor fit for a sword-and-sorcery fairy tale. In fairness, Armida presents some vexing staging problems that previous directors and conductors have resolved by reworking the libretto or making cuts in the score, changes not suited to a faithful revival. But fundamentally, the material begs for a swashbuckling approach that would energize the story and transport contemporary audiences to a time of legends and wonder.
