THE DEATH OF CARMEN
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The problem is, the Bussert-Borski Death of Carmen feels as recycled as its fliers. This is a solution to a marketing problem, not a work of art. And it seems so unnecessary: after all, there’s hardly much public hue and cry for a new version of Carmen, nor is there anything wrong with the old one. In her long and generally artistically rewarding association with Pegasus Players, Victoria Bussert has directed such fine productions as Pacific Overtures, The Frogs, and last season’s marvelous Anyone Can Whistle–all flawed works by Stephen Sondheim that profited from the inspiration of a talented young director who could make the shows work better than they had on Broadway. Here, Bussert has been assigned to fix problems that didn’t exist, simply because Pegasus’s season demanded a Carmen. One is reminded of Dennis the Menace’s motto: “If it ain’t broke, break it.”
The Death of Carmen is considerably shorter and less expensive to stage than Bizet’s original. The main reason for both differences is that Bussert and Russ Borski, her designer and co-adapter (and husband), have stripped the opera of its chorus, leaving us with a cast of six in the principal roles. Though much music has been cut and replaced with spoken dialogue, most of the famous material is preserved–not only the arias, but also big choral numbers like the “Torreador Song,” performed here by the bullfighter Escamillo with the coarse backup of a couple of buddies. And the score’s luster is remarkably well served by the chamber orchestra led by music director Joseph Thalken.
sign, as his designs so often are, is both elegant and earthy: a long wood wall set in a stageful of sand, suggesting the outside of a small-town bullring but also serving acceptably as a gypsy camp in the hills, often lit by flames from a campfire or candles. But the mood of gypsy magic suggested by firelight is undermined by modern touches in Jeff Kelly’s costumes and Bussert’s staging: Carmen runs around in spandex pants and a bra, like a suburban brat punking out at Medusa’s before she heads back to Lake Forest; Escamillo boasts of his bullfighting bravery to a crowd of microphone- and camera-waving reporters. Gestures like these seem intended to cast the old tale in recognizable relevant terms. But the story’s really relevant element–intense sexual passion–is notably absent. There’s some hip-grinding here, a little crotch-jutting there, some writhing in the sand now and then, even an occasional caress, but not a moment that’s believably erotic or emotional. The tragedy of Carmen–the reason the story has gripped audiences’ imaginations for more than a century–is that an overwhelming life force leads so inexorably to death. Without that life force, Pegasus’s The Death of Carmen is stillborn.
