Jenufa

The Metropolitan Opera

This was the sort of evening that makes you want to go to the opera every night of the week. Karita Mattila is an amazing soprano. Moreover, she is particularly well suited for Janacek. So long as she is willing to sing at the Met, something of a Janacek revival will be welcomed by all. I heard her sing in Janacek's Kata Kabanova a year or two ago and was simply stunned. And, then I heard her sing in Lohengrin and did not leave nearly as impressed. I do believe that she would make a stunning Donna Elvira in Don Giovanni, a role she has sung before. Her voice is crystal clear, but rich. She is perfectly musical and just when you think the voice is contained in these tight, neat patterns she lets loose just enough to fill the role and the outer emotional moments that come up from time to time in the opera. She fills out the emotional moments, but does not let loose to the point of over doing it.

Notably, she was well supported by the two tenors of the evening: Jay Hunter Morris and Jorma Silvasti. The people went crazy over Anja Silja, but I imagine that was as much on memory as on her vocal performance that night.

Act I: Jenufa is about a woman who gets pregnant in a small village. She is very much in love with the father of the baby (Steva), but he has yet to experience true love with her. He is attracted to her, but does not love her. His brother (Laca), however, is in love with her. In a complicated story twist, Laca and Jenufa end up fighting and he mars her face with a knife. It sounds awful, sort of Jerry Springer, doesn't it?

Act II: Jenufa is understandably altered by the pregnancy. And, with her freshly marred face Steva is no longer attracted to her and does not want to marry her. Jenufa's stepmother hides her away for several months until the baby is born. When the baby is born and Steva won't marry Jenufa the stepmother becomes concerned that the baby will ruin Jenufa's chances for a happy life. Laca stops by and confesses that he does still love her. The stepmother, in order to not lose an opportunity of marrying Jenufa to a good man, reports that a baby had been born, but died during childbirth. Faced with the problem of the baby still being alive, she drugs Jenufa and kills the baby.

Act III: Laca and Jenufa are getting married. Steva and his new fiancee come to the wedding on Laca's invitation and have awkward conversation. While the ceremony is happening, the dead baby is found by villagers. Jenufa recognizes that it is her baby. And, the stepmother confesses to the killing. Jenufa recognizes that this was done out of love. And, finally, in a bittersweet ending Laca and Jenufa find that they have a relationship that will take them through the next phase of the journey of life.

Each of the acts were structured in a similar way. They began with Jenufa's relationship to family, with scenes with her grandmother or stepmother. Then, the act would report on the status of her relationship with Steva. And, then it would document the progression of the relationship with Laca. Very neat and tidy, eh?

The strongest moments, by far, were the duets with Jenufa and Laca, especially at the end of Act II and Act III. The strongest emotional moment came when Jenufa and Laca decide to get married in Act II and have a very honest "conversation" about what they are getting married for and what they bring to the table emotionally. In Act III, the ending is touching and true. While they will never have the giddy love of Steva and his new woman, they find a respect for one another. Jenufa becomes more than an object of affection to Laca and Laca finally becomes a good and respectable man for Jenufa. In Act II, the feeling was "you'll do." In Act III, there was gratitude for the other and a sense that they might, at the end of life, have found love after all.

Now, for the production--there were rocks, lots of rocks, in this production. I feel confident, that after pondering what they were doing in the sets for two and a half hours I came up with a plausible solution. Let me paint the picture for you. In the first act, we are in an old mill. It's a beautiful, bright day. There is beautiful barn wood. The set makes a symmetrical triangle of sorts. But, in the middle of the stage, coming up out of the mill's floor, is a rock. It would be easy to overlook if you weren't staring at a sparse set for an hour. At first I thought it was a statement on the topography of the setting. But, that didn't make sense. Even in Europe people still build over rocks, around rocks or move them. So, I let it go in my mind for a bit and just sat back and enjoyed.

In the second act the rock dominates the stage. Same triangle, although we are now supposed to be in the stepmother's and Jenufa's house. There is no chair, no table, no crib in the house. There is a huge, enormous rock in the house. So, this is a bit strange. They are touching the rock, interacting with the rock. This is also strange. Although, they don't sing about the rock, so it's not original to the opera. At this point, I realize that the rock certainly means something I just can't figure out what.

Intermission between Act II and Act III--I talk to my neighbor. He has noticed the rocks but does not know what the hell they mean either. I say, "I wonder what sort of rocks we will get in the next act." He says, "I don't think we'll get any more rocks." I quietly disagree.

Curtain comes up in the third act: This is the wedding scene. We are back in the old mill. There are many, many small rocks around. People are sitting on them. They are broken up and everywhere. I have been testing every word in the opera against the rocks, seeing if I can figure out what is up. And, fifteen to twenty minutes in I get it. The rocks are the baby. Well, hot damn. In the first act the rock/baby was barely showing but present. In the second act, it was unignorable, a huge problem, it could not be gotten around. In the third act, it was broken but present. I am right. It could only have been the baby. If it's not, if you find it in an interview, don't tell me. I must be right about this.

During the bows, I lean over and tell my neighbor it was the baby. He says, "You might be right. I think you might be right." I'm sure I'm right. Out of something over 3,000 people I was one of the few, very few, that walked out knowing what those damn rocks meant. I believe I may have been 1 of 10 people who even gave it some thought. So, I ask you--was it effective? I don't know. The moral of the story: pay attention to rocks at the Met. Ponder them. Run them through your mind until you are completely distracted with what is going on in the drama on stage, only to find out that they represent a little baby.