Glyndebourne’s Poulenc double-bill was a highlight of the 2022 country house opera season. Hopes were high that this year’s Dialogues des Carmélites, the debut of Poulenc’s only full length opera at Glyndebourne, would reach similar heights, particularly as the piece was entrusted to director Barrie Kosky, whose facility for wrenching maximum heat and heartache out of an opera is well-known. It was a canny decision. Kosky’s production unleashes a torrent of, at times almost unbearable, emotion through direction of the highest calibre.
We are faced with Katrin Lea Tag’s empty set, akin to a corridor in a failing hospital. Walls are peeling, a single strip light glares coldly at the rear almost encouraging comparisons with the horror genre (blink and Slenderman will take you). These walls become a presence in their own right, isolating firstly the de la Force family and then the Carmelites from the burgeoning horrors outside. An air of claustrophobia sets in, but when the outside world literally breaks in we realise that there is far more to fear beyond than within.
In this bare space, Kosky lasers in on his cast in blistering focus. Madame de Croissy’s slow decline is agonisingly depicted, the body twisting and wracked with pain, her head bloodied. It’s hard to watch, aware that we feel only a fraction of her torment. She’s brought in by her nuns who then mournfully traipse off supporting each other in their distress. De Croissy dies on top of Blanche, fracturing her damaged psyche even further. Kosky’s depiction of Blanche’s mental state is visceral; there’s frenzy and panic in her eyes, alarming switches from hysteria to unnerving calm.
Fear launches and pervades the entire opera. It stalks the de la Force family – the Marquis himself seems to be in the grip of untreated trauma – and haunts those within the convent. We start with period dress, but by the end it’s trainers and hoodies. In some productions, that might be gimmicky, but Kosky’s point about the timelessness of persecution, intolerance and aimless violence is strong; the coloured headscarves worn latterly by his nuns bring to mind pictures seen across the Middle East and Africa in recent years. Kosky’s moments between the music are equally demonstrative, particularly the stark snipping of the scissors removing the nuns' hair, both prefiguring the more lethal blades to come and further humiliating these women of God.
Mme Lidoine, the new Prioress, silently takes the hand of Mère Jeanne, the oldest of the nuns, in a quiet and subtle gesture of humanity. More brutality and some quite disturbing acting comes as the opera reaches the Salve Regina; the denouement is startling and genuinely shocking. Against the mob, against the spitting and the humiliation, the bonds between the women hold, a small flicker of light against the darkness.
To watch the opera is draining enough, but the emotional demands on the performers must be immense. Glyndebourne’s casting is particularly strong with not a weak link among the performers. Sally Matthews was compelling as Blanche, flying easily into the higher register with a steely soprano that contrasted well with Florie Valiquette’s pearly-voiced Sœur Constance. Valiquette’s instrument is smaller, but was well-projected and there was a real sense of the text in her performance. Karen Cargill was a deeply affecting Mère Marie, her cavernous mezzo-soprano rich and agile at the top. In Cargill’s empathetic Marie we saw a maternal warmth to her sisters and a fearsome defiance to the mob in Act 2. Her survivor’s guilt, aching and sorrowful, was plangently depicted.
Golda Schutz’s warm-toned soprano, honeyed and fragrant, was ably deployed as Mme Lidoine, the new Prioress, a beacon of optimism and serenity as the convent collapses. Katarina Dalayman as Mme de Croissy showed a soil-dark mezzo, somewhat overshadowed by the sheer physicality of her performance. Among the gentleman, Paul Gay stood out for his haunted Marquis, every word in his resonant bass-baritone laden with meaning, while Valentin Thill’s forceful, angry Chevalier left a degree of ambiguity as to his own moral character.
Driving everything forward in the pit, Robin Ticciati seemed to savour the score’s contours, drawing strong playing from the London Philharmonic Orchestra in a supple reading of the piece while the Glyndebourne Chorus, a mixture of rioters and soldiers, were a formidable presence. Kosky’s production is sobering, the correct blend of style and substance. Go if you can.
