Maybe this is not the right time to watch an opera about a world that is gripped by a mad surge of despair, violence, and fatality. On the other hand, maybe it is the right time to watch an opera about the power of devotion, solidarity and human dignity. The Met’s 2019 reprise of its 1977 production of Poulenc’s Le Dialogue des Carmélites, streamed for free for two (why only two?) days this week, delivers both.
I saw this production, originally directed by John Dexter and meticulously reprised by David Kneuss, last year, which now seems like eons ago, when the world was in a comparatively stable state. The opera is based on a play about the courage and tragic fate of the nuns of a Carmelites convent during the last weeks of la terreur, the darkest and most murderous phase of the French Revolution (people who like to call for a “revolution” at the drop of a hat should bear in mind that the roles of arbiters and victims are very shifty and that it’s not hats but heads that drop in actual revolutions – see Robespierre.) To say that I was moved by the opera would be an understatement: When the final curtain came down, I was haplessly sobbing. And so, it was with some apprehension that I decided to watch the Met’s free online broadcast of it. But as I had been so deeply moved by the stellar performances of the entire cast and the somewhat traditional but sharply directed 19 …. production, I was eager to see it again in close-up, as it were, since my regular seats at the Met are usually way up in balcony land, combining the luxury of a private booth for two, excellent sound, and restricted views. Seeing it again was, again, emotionally draining but also deeply rewarding as it directly spoke to the particular tragedy we are witnessing right here, right now.
A few hours before the online streaming, I logged on to a live Instagram chat between the production’s star, mezzo-soprano Isabel Leonard, and one of her co-stars, soprano Erin Morley. The two shared stories about the intense rehearsal process of the production and the strong sense of bonding that developed among the cast in those weeks and during the all-too brief run – it was only performed three times, albeit to full houses (they could have easily performed it six times.) But even without listening to their candid conversation, I and everyone who saw this production would have picked up on the deep level of comradery among the cast members, mirroring the bonding among the characters they were portraying. On the narrative level, this is after all a story of a matriarchal society under existential threat. But reading it on a deeper level, it reveals itself to be about something else, and it took me this second viewing to figure it out. I might never have drawn my conclusion had this production not benefitted of a fantastic cast where every single performer on that stage presented a crystal clear and complete characterization of her or his role. Observing the monastery life through their lens was very moving and also absolutely fascinating – the relationships were drawn as clearly as with a knife, not the knife of cruelty but the knife of rigorous order, discipline and structure, mixed with real maternal (or sisterly) care. The story unfolds as, amidst the turmoil of the French Revolution, a young noble woman decides to enter the convent, hoping to find security there. Before long, the revolutionary guard dismantles the convent, but their unanimous vow to keep at their religious practices and willingness to become martyrs for their cause has fatal consequences.
Isabel Leonard, cast as Blanche de la Force, played the young noble ingenue who enters this world of renunciation with incredible finesse, looking genuinely terrified of both the outside world and the confinement of the convent, and understanding exactly when and how to reveal her character’s epiphany, at the 11th hour. Erin Morley, playing the chatty young nun Constance, struck up just the right chord that blended her character’s Christian fervor and tenacity with a touch of manic, virginal hysteria and genuine benevolence. We probably all have known people with that “Jesus” gleam in their eye, but rarely have I seen it portrayed with such convincing compassion and empathy. Just brilliant. It’s hard to find words to describe Karita Mattila’s gut-wrenching tour de force as the convent’s authoritative Mother Superior, Madame de Croissy. The deathbed scene, during which her character suffers dehumanizing levels of agony that lead her to all but curse God for abandoning her in this moment after she devoted her entire life to him, left me shattered. This is one of the rawest scenes I have ever seen in an opera, and Miss Mattila takes it almost too far, reaching a level of intensity that would be unbearable if it were not beatified by Poulenc’s glorious music – and Maestro Yannick-Séguin’s impassioned baton. And here, the true theme of the opera is starting to become apparent: the juxtaposition of individual suffering versus collective suffering. Madame de Croissy’s begging for mercy and, lastly, completely understandable loss of the stern dignity she had maintained during her entire life until now, when she is facing the most cruel of tests, is not for the faint of heart. A similarly heart-breaking scene happens later, when Mother Marie of the Incarnation, played with intense abandon by Karen Cargill, learns that all nuns have been arrested and given the death sentence. Forced by the well-meaning monastery’s Chaplain, played very effectively with priestly warmth and understatement by Tony Stevenson, to renounce her urge to join them in their fate, she is virtually condemned to life, forever marred by survivor’s guilt. Her outcry of pain and helplessness, all within Poulenc’s extraordinary music, was, for me, too much to bear. I completely broke down. Adrianne Pieczonka, as Madame Lidoine, the new prioress, also made some phenomenal acting choices in her characterization – showing warmth and kindness and a level of courage, humility and acceptance of their joint cruel fate that, one could very well imagine, would have given the actual nuns the force to march to the guillotine with their heads held high, accepting the collective pain for the sake of an idea – that is, holding on to their beliefs that their faith will be redeemed in death. Faut le faire, as the French say, meaning, you try it! And there you have it – the one thing that I consider the greatest of all possible human achievements: the combination of resilience and grace, even in the face of death. It could hardly be shown in a more extreme scenario than in the opera’s famous last scene, set to the sound of the Salve Maria the nuns sing on the way to their execution. Here, once again, the director added a brilliant detail by placing the Chaplain in the front lines of the mob, incognito and discreetly making eye contact with each of the nuns as they march past him, blessing each of them with the sign of the cross. And just when you think that you have already turned yourself inside out as you watch one nun after another disappear behind a downstage curtain and repeatedly shuddering at the ear-shattering sound of the guillotine (the production mercifully refrained from showing the ghastly instrument), Sister Constance, last in line and already on her way, suddenly, impulsively turns around once more, just in time to be joined by Blanche, who has made up her mind that the death of a martyr is favorable over a life of subordination under a tyrannic new order. To see them hold each other’s hands and smile at each other in that very moment opened up earth and sky – and the floodgates. We know that these things actually happened, many times over in history; that they are happening right now, today, and possibly every day ever since human life came into being; that in fact they may happen to us at any moment, and that there is no way to tell if we would live up to these brave soul’s example. It’s deeply unsettling.
As I sat there, once again dissolving into sobs, I asked myself, Why are you doing this to yourself? – until I remembered that the kind of pain I felt was not really mine, but the pain of true empathy, which is exactly what great art can teach us. It is not self-pitying or self-indulgent, it is all-embracing, exhausting and yet, also, in a strange way, cleansing, like a ritual. It puts us in touch with the lineage of human history that has always been marred by suffering ye also given the world the highest level of beauty, grace, and joy. And so, our task is to find our way back to the light. And love ourselves and our fellow human beings a little more. And pay attention, which is, as Simone Weill wrote, the purest and rarest form of generosity.