Jakub Hrůša Conductor
Bamberger Symphoniker

AN INTERDISCIPLINARY WAGNER LABORATORY

Richard Wagner’s music has long been a fixture in the concerts of the Bamberg Symphony Orchestra. Under Jonathan Nott, we gave concert performances of almost all of Wagner’s operas. In 2013 we were guests at the Lucerne Festival, performing the entire »Ring des Nibelungen«. The orchestra’s history likewise repeatedly reveals points of contact, from a »Walküre« under Joseph Keilberth, which we performed in Barcelona in 1955 as a Bayreuth Festival guest performance, to our predecessor orchestra at the German Opera House in Prague, which on 1 January 1914 gave the first performance of »Parsifal« outside Bayreuth, following the expiry of the copyright restricting performances of the work to the Festspielhaus.

This year we would like to give our curiosity full rein in exploring the effects of Wagner’s music. In a concert series inspired by the recent book by New York music critic and author Alex Ross, »The World After Wagner« will be brought to life in a kind of musical laboratory. Music, texts and images dealing with the Wagner phenomenon will be interwoven in an interdisciplinary fashion – a kind of tribute to Wagner’s concept of the »Gesamtkunstwerk«. In addition, we will perform the »Ring Without Words« in Lorin Maazel’s popular version and show Fritz Lang’s legendary 1924 silent film about »Siegfried« – accompanied live by the original film music.

We hope to (re)awaken your curiosity about Wagner and look forward to embarking on this journey of discovery together!

Jakub Hrůša Conductor

SONDERKONZERT »Die Welt nach Wagner«

Seit langem ist die Musik Richard Wagners ein Fixpunkt in der Konzerttätigkeit der Bamberger Symphoniker: In der Ära Jonathan Nott führten wir in Bamberg fast alle Wagner-Opern in konzertanter Form auf. 2013 waren wir mit dem gesamten »Ring des Nibelungen« beim Lucerne Festival zu Gast. Auch die Orchester-geschichte zeigt immer wieder Anknüpfungspunkte auf, von einer »Walküre« unter Joseph Keilberth, die wir 1955 als Gastspiel der Bayreuther Festspiele in Barcelona aufführten, bis hin zu unserem Vorgänger-Orchester im Deutschen Opernhaus in Prag, das am 1. Januar 1914 die erste Aufführung des »Parsifal« außerhalb Bayreuths nach Ablauf der Schutzfrist spielte.

Dieses Jahr möchten wir mit großer Neugier der Wirkung der Wagnerschen Musik nachspüren. In einer Konzertreihe, die durch das aktuelle Buch des New Yorker Musikkritikers und Autors Alex Ross inspiriert ist, soll die »Die Welt nach Wagner« in einer Art Labor zum Klingen gebracht werden. Musik, Texte und Bilder zum Phänomen Wagner werden interdisziplinär verwoben – im Grunde also auch eine Art Hommage an das »Gesamtkunstwerk«. Dazu führen wir den »Ring ohne Worte« in der beliebten Fassung von Lorin Maazel auf und zeigen den legendären Stummfilm von Fritz Lang über »Siegfried« aus dem Jahr 1924 – live von der originalen Filmmusik begleitet.

Wir hoffen, auch Ihre Neugier auf Wagner (neu) zu wecken und sind gespannt auf die gemeinsame Entdeckungsreise.

Jakub Hrůša Conductor
Bamberger Symphoniker

SONDERKONZERT »Der Ring ohne Worte«

»The Ring Without Words« – the title alone is enough to trigger one’s curiosity! This programme revolves around Wagner’s timeless parable of power and love, the monumental drama of the »Ring of the Nibelung«. Loriot once commented: »The perpetrators in the most powerful drama in the history of music are actually quite nice people – it is just that a common passion becomes their undoing. In the blind, callous pursuit of profit, they destroy themselves and their world.« We will perform a fascinating fast-forward through the four operas of this opus magnum, entirely without sets, singers or costumes, that was created in 1987 by the famous conductor Lorin Maazel, who said, »The orchestral score itself is the ‘Ring’, encoded in sound. When you decipher this code, it turns out to be a story, a legend, a song, a philosophy – in countless cosmic overtones and human undertones.« Maazel’s »symphonic synthesis« aims to bring this »sound code« closer to the audience. And indeed, the orchestral decoction has no need of words: prominent vocal parts are taken over by the instruments, which present the many catchy melodies and leitmotifs that Wagner called »emotional signposts« for the listeners. The music follows the operatic chronology of the »festival for the stage« exactly, from the first note of »Rheingold« to the final chord of »Götterdämmerung«. The performance of this great symphony of music theatre is truly something to look forward to – a concert of just under 75 minutes, both for curious newcomers to Wagner’s world and for die-hard fans who simply don’t have the time for a 15-hour »Ring« marathon!

»Der Ring ohne Worte« – allein der Titel macht schon neugierig auf das, was in diesem Konzert zu erwarten ist. Alles dreht sich um Wagners zeitlose Parabel der Macht und der Liebe – das monumentale Weltendrama vom »Ring des Nibelungen«, das Loriot einmal mit den Worten kommentierte: »Die Täter im gewaltigsten Drama der Musikgeschichte sind eigentlich ganz nette Leute. Nur eine gemeinsame Leidenschaft wird ihnen zum Verhängnis. In blindem, lieblosem Gewinnstreben vernichten sie sich selbst und ihre Welt.« Wir spielen einen faszinierenden Schnelldurchlauf durch die vier Opern des Opus Magnum, ganz ohne Bühnenbilder, Sänger und Kostüme – 1987 erstellt vom berühmten Dirigenten Lorin Maazel, der meinte: »Die Orchesterpartitur selbst ist der ›Ring‹, verschlüsselt in einen Klang-Code. Entziffert man diesen Code, so entpuppt er sich als eine Geschichte, eine Sage, ein Lied, eine Philosophie – in zahllosen kosmischen Obertönen und menschlichen Untertönen.« Diesen »Klang-Code« wollte er in seiner »symphonischen Synthese« dem Publikum näher bringen. Und das orchestrale Destillat kommt auch gut ohne Worte aus: Dort, wo man eine der prominenten Gesangspartien vermis-sen könnte, übernimmt ein Instrument die Rolle und präsentiert eine der vielen eingängigen Melodien und Leitmotive – welche Wagner als »Gefühlswegweiser« für die Hörer bezeichnete. Die Musik folgt genau der Opern-Chronologie des »Bühnenfestspiels«, vom ersten »Rheingold«-Ton bis zum Schlussakkord der »Götterdämmerung«. Die Aufführung dieser großartigen Musiktheater-Symphonie kann wahrlich mit Spannung erwartet werden – ein knapp 75-minütiges Konzert für alle neugierigen Einsteiger in Wagners Welt und eben- so für eingefleischte Liebhaber, die gerade keine Zeit für einen 15 Stunden langen »Ring«-Marathon haben!

Jakub Hrůša Conductor
Bamberger Symphoniker

SONDERKONZERT »Der Ring ohne Worte«

»The Ring Without Words« – the title alone is enough to trigger one’s curiosity! This programme revolves around Wagner’s timeless parable of power and love, the monumental drama of the »Ring of the Nibelung«. Loriot once commented: »The perpetrators in the most powerful drama in the history of music are actually quite nice people – it is just that a common passion becomes their undoing. In the blind, callous pursuit of profit, they destroy themselves and their world.« We will perform a fascinating fast-forward through the four operas of this opus magnum, entirely without sets, singers or costumes, that was created in 1987 by the famous conductor Lorin Maazel, who said, »The orchestral score itself is the ‘Ring’, encoded in sound. When you decipher this code, it turns out to be a story, a legend, a song, a philosophy – in countless cosmic overtones and human undertones.« Maazel’s »symphonic synthesis« aims to bring this »sound code« closer to the audience. And indeed, the orchestral decoction has no need of words: prominent vocal parts are taken over by the instruments, which present the many catchy melodies and leitmotifs that Wagner called »emotional signposts« for the listeners. The music follows the operatic chronology of the »festival for the stage« exactly, from the first note of »Rheingold« to the final chord of »Götterdämmerung«. The performance of this great symphony of music theatre is truly something to look forward to – a concert of just under 75 minutes, both for curious newcomers to Wagner’s world and for die-hard fans who simply don’t have the time for a 15-hour »Ring« marathon!

»Der Ring ohne Worte« – allein der Titel macht schon neugierig auf das, was in diesem Konzert zu erwarten ist. Alles dreht sich um Wagners zeitlose Parabel der Macht und der Liebe – das monumentale Weltendrama vom »Ring des Nibelungen«, das Loriot einmal mit den Worten kommentierte: »Die Täter im gewaltigsten Drama der Musikgeschichte sind eigentlich ganz nette Leute. Nur eine gemeinsame Leidenschaft wird ihnen zum Verhängnis. In blindem, lieblosem Gewinnstreben vernichten sie sich selbst und ihre Welt.« Wir spielen einen faszinierenden Schnelldurchlauf durch die vier Opern des Opus Magnum, ganz ohne Bühnenbilder, Sänger und Kostüme – 1987 erstellt vom berühmten Dirigenten Lorin Maazel, der meinte: »Die Orchesterpartitur selbst ist der ›Ring‹, verschlüsselt in einen Klang-Code. Entziffert man diesen Code, so entpuppt er sich als eine Geschichte, eine Sage, ein Lied, eine Philosophie – in zahllosen kosmischen Obertönen und menschlichen Untertönen.« Diesen »Klang-Code« wollte er in seiner »symphonischen Synthese« dem Publikum näher bringen. Und das orchestrale Destillat kommt auch gut ohne Worte aus: Dort, wo man eine der prominenten Gesangspartien vermis-sen könnte, übernimmt ein Instrument die Rolle und präsentiert eine der vielen eingängigen Melodien und Leitmotive – welche Wagner als »Gefühlswegweiser« für die Hörer bezeichnete. Die Musik folgt genau der Opern-Chronologie des »Bühnenfestspiels«, vom ersten »Rheingold«-Ton bis zum Schlussakkord der »Götterdämmerung«. Die Aufführung dieser großartigen Musiktheater-Symphonie kann wahrlich mit Spannung erwartet werden – ein knapp 75-minütiges Konzert für alle neugierigen Einsteiger in Wagners Welt und eben- so für eingefleischte Liebhaber, die gerade keine Zeit für einen 15 Stunden langen »Ring«-Marathon haben!

Jakub Hrůša Conductor
Barrie Kosky Director
Rufus Didwiszus Sets
Victoria Behr Costumes
Franck Evin Lighting
Christian Arseni Dramaturgy

CAST
Jens Larsen Savjol Prokofjevič Dikoj
David Butt Philip Boris Grigorjevič
Evelyn Herlitzius Marfa Ignatěvna Kabanová (Kabanicha)
Jaroslav Březina Tichon Ivanyč Kabanov
Corinne Winters Katěrina (Káťa)
Benjamin Hulett Váňa Kudrjáš
Jarmila Balážová Varvara
Michael Mofidian Kuligin
Concert Association of the Vienna State Opera Chorus
Huw Rhys James Chorus Master
Vienna Philharmonic

‘I lived free like a bird’: Káťa Kabanová confides wistfully to her sister-in-law Varvara how different her life used to be. She tells her how during mass at church she experienced celestial visions that moved her to tears, and how she had dreams of soaring high into the sky. The luminous, increasingly ecstatic music to which Janáček sets Káťa’s reminiscences reveals not only the figure’s rich interior life but also an irrepressible urge for freedom. But since her marriage to Tichon the fire within Káťa is at risk of being smothered entirely. The situation she lives in is claustrophobic. Home is ruled despotically by her mother-in-law Kabanicha, the widow of a merchant. Conscious of material dependencies and in the name of tradition and morals, she makes sure that the required subservience is shown by woman to husband and young to old. Ground down by his mother’s constant carping, Tichon lacks the independence to be able to give his wife what she needs and seeks refuge in alcohol. When he departs on a journey for a few days, Varvara, who is aware of the mutual attraction between Káťa and the unmarried Boris, arranges a first night-time tryst for them. This uncaps all Káťa’s pent-up emotions: behind the desperate intensity with which she gives herself to Boris erupt needs that go far beyond a yearning for fulfilled love or shared passion. To Káťa, to go on living now seems more impossible than ever.

Leoš Janáček forged the libretto to Káťa Kabanová from a Czech translation of Alexander Ostrovsky’s play The Storm (1859), which is set in a small-town milieu dominated by wealthy merchants in mid-19th century Russia. Janáček dispensed with many of the specific socio-historical details — and thus also a substantial part of the concrete social criticism that characterizes Ostrovsky’s play. The opera concentrates on the protagonist and the individuals who directly determine her fate. Yet beyond the microcosm of the family, the social environment remains a palpable determining factor.

We are in a village or small town where a traditional value system, as upheld by Kabanicha, has degenerated into repressive convention. An atmosphere of coldness and torpor prevails, colliding with any desire for individual realization or true enjoyment of life. At the same time, the conflict in which Káťa finds herself through her relationship with Boris is an internal one, as she has made the moral yardsticks of her environment so much her own that a crisis of conscience is inevitable. Káťa articulates little of what motivates or oppresses her, or what she yearns for, and is perhaps largely unaware of it — something that makes the figure so true-to-life — but hypocrisy is foreign to her. Unlike Varvara and her lover Kudrjáš, she is unable to blithely disregard internalized moral norms. Even in Act I, the memory of her dreams of flying suddenly turns into panicstricken fear of the ‘sin’ into which desire for another man threatens to plunge her. In Act III, as a storm rages (outdoors as well as inside Káťa), her feelings of guilt impel her to confess to the undiscovered betrayal of her marriage. Káťa is imprisoned in a society in which she cannot exist; she will ultimately choose death over this mental and spiritual violation.

Janáček brings to his portrayal of Káťa the sympathy and subtle sensitivity that he devotes — eschewing all stereotypes — to all his major female figures. First performed in Brno in 1921, Káťa Kabanová marks the beginning of the composer’s final, extraordinarily productive decade. Janáček had now found his unmistakable language as a musical dramatist — a language that conveys the characters and situations, psychology and atmosphere in highly concentrated form, and in its naked immediacy and power gets directly under the listener’s skin.

Christian Arseni
Translation: Sophie Kidd

Jakub Hrůša Conductor
Barrie Kosky Director
Rufus Didwiszus Sets
Victoria Behr Costumes
Franck Evin Lighting
Christian Arseni Dramaturgy

CAST
Jens Larsen Savjol Prokofjevič Dikoj
David Butt Philip Boris Grigorjevič
Evelyn Herlitzius Marfa Ignatěvna Kabanová (Kabanicha)
Jaroslav Březina Tichon Ivanyč Kabanov
Corinne Winters Katěrina (Káťa)
Benjamin Hulett Váňa Kudrjáš
Jarmila Balážová Varvara
Michael Mofidian Kuligin
Concert Association of the Vienna State Opera Chorus
Huw Rhys James Chorus Master
Vienna Philharmonic

‘I lived free like a bird’: Káťa Kabanová confides wistfully to her sister-in-law Varvara how different her life used to be. She tells her how during mass at church she experienced celestial visions that moved her to tears, and how she had dreams of soaring high into the sky. The luminous, increasingly ecstatic music to which Janáček sets Káťa’s reminiscences reveals not only the figure’s rich interior life but also an irrepressible urge for freedom. But since her marriage to Tichon the fire within Káťa is at risk of being smothered entirely. The situation she lives in is claustrophobic. Home is ruled despotically by her mother-in-law Kabanicha, the widow of a merchant. Conscious of material dependencies and in the name of tradition and morals, she makes sure that the required subservience is shown by woman to husband and young to old. Ground down by his mother’s constant carping, Tichon lacks the independence to be able to give his wife what she needs and seeks refuge in alcohol. When he departs on a journey for a few days, Varvara, who is aware of the mutual attraction between Káťa and the unmarried Boris, arranges a first night-time tryst for them. This uncaps all Káťa’s pent-up emotions: behind the desperate intensity with which she gives herself to Boris erupt needs that go far beyond a yearning for fulfilled love or shared passion. To Káťa, to go on living now seems more impossible than ever.

Leoš Janáček forged the libretto to Káťa Kabanová from a Czech translation of Alexander Ostrovsky’s play The Storm (1859), which is set in a small-town milieu dominated by wealthy merchants in mid-19th century Russia. Janáček dispensed with many of the specific socio-historical details — and thus also a substantial part of the concrete social criticism that characterizes Ostrovsky’s play. The opera concentrates on the protagonist and the individuals who directly determine her fate. Yet beyond the microcosm of the family, the social environment remains a palpable determining factor.

We are in a village or small town where a traditional value system, as upheld by Kabanicha, has degenerated into repressive convention. An atmosphere of coldness and torpor prevails, colliding with any desire for individual realization or true enjoyment of life. At the same time, the conflict in which Káťa finds herself through her relationship with Boris is an internal one, as she has made the moral yardsticks of her environment so much her own that a crisis of conscience is inevitable. Káťa articulates little of what motivates or oppresses her, or what she yearns for, and is perhaps largely unaware of it — something that makes the figure so true-to-life — but hypocrisy is foreign to her. Unlike Varvara and her lover Kudrjáš, she is unable to blithely disregard internalized moral norms. Even in Act I, the memory of her dreams of flying suddenly turns into panicstricken fear of the ‘sin’ into which desire for another man threatens to plunge her. In Act III, as a storm rages (outdoors as well as inside Káťa), her feelings of guilt impel her to confess to the undiscovered betrayal of her marriage. Káťa is imprisoned in a society in which she cannot exist; she will ultimately choose death over this mental and spiritual violation.

Janáček brings to his portrayal of Káťa the sympathy and subtle sensitivity that he devotes — eschewing all stereotypes — to all his major female figures. First performed in Brno in 1921, Káťa Kabanová marks the beginning of the composer’s final, extraordinarily productive decade. Janáček had now found his unmistakable language as a musical dramatist — a language that conveys the characters and situations, psychology and atmosphere in highly concentrated form, and in its naked immediacy and power gets directly under the listener’s skin.

Christian Arseni
Translation: Sophie Kidd

Jakub Hrůša Conductor
Barrie Kosky Director
Rufus Didwiszus Sets
Victoria Behr Costumes
Franck Evin Lighting
Christian Arseni Dramaturgy

CAST
Jens Larsen Savjol Prokofjevič Dikoj
David Butt Philip Boris Grigorjevič
Evelyn Herlitzius Marfa Ignatěvna Kabanová (Kabanicha)
Jaroslav Březina Tichon Ivanyč Kabanov
Corinne Winters Katěrina (Káťa)
Benjamin Hulett Váňa Kudrjáš
Jarmila Balážová Varvara
Michael Mofidian Kuligin
Concert Association of the Vienna State Opera Chorus
Huw Rhys James Chorus Master
Vienna Philharmonic

‘I lived free like a bird’: Káťa Kabanová confides wistfully to her sister-in-law Varvara how different her life used to be. She tells her how during mass at church she experienced celestial visions that moved her to tears, and how she had dreams of soaring high into the sky. The luminous, increasingly ecstatic music to which Janáček sets Káťa’s reminiscences reveals not only the figure’s rich interior life but also an irrepressible urge for freedom. But since her marriage to Tichon the fire within Káťa is at risk of being smothered entirely. The situation she lives in is claustrophobic. Home is ruled despotically by her mother-in-law Kabanicha, the widow of a merchant. Conscious of material dependencies and in the name of tradition and morals, she makes sure that the required subservience is shown by woman to husband and young to old. Ground down by his mother’s constant carping, Tichon lacks the independence to be able to give his wife what she needs and seeks refuge in alcohol. When he departs on a journey for a few days, Varvara, who is aware of the mutual attraction between Káťa and the unmarried Boris, arranges a first night-time tryst for them. This uncaps all Káťa’s pent-up emotions: behind the desperate intensity with which she gives herself to Boris erupt needs that go far beyond a yearning for fulfilled love or shared passion. To Káťa, to go on living now seems more impossible than ever.

Leoš Janáček forged the libretto to Káťa Kabanová from a Czech translation of Alexander Ostrovsky’s play The Storm (1859), which is set in a small-town milieu dominated by wealthy merchants in mid-19th century Russia. Janáček dispensed with many of the specific socio-historical details — and thus also a substantial part of the concrete social criticism that characterizes Ostrovsky’s play. The opera concentrates on the protagonist and the individuals who directly determine her fate. Yet beyond the microcosm of the family, the social environment remains a palpable determining factor.

We are in a village or small town where a traditional value system, as upheld by Kabanicha, has degenerated into repressive convention. An atmosphere of coldness and torpor prevails, colliding with any desire for individual realization or true enjoyment of life. At the same time, the conflict in which Káťa finds herself through her relationship with Boris is an internal one, as she has made the moral yardsticks of her environment so much her own that a crisis of conscience is inevitable. Káťa articulates little of what motivates or oppresses her, or what she yearns for, and is perhaps largely unaware of it — something that makes the figure so true-to-life — but hypocrisy is foreign to her. Unlike Varvara and her lover Kudrjáš, she is unable to blithely disregard internalized moral norms. Even in Act I, the memory of her dreams of flying suddenly turns into panicstricken fear of the ‘sin’ into which desire for another man threatens to plunge her. In Act III, as a storm rages (outdoors as well as inside Káťa), her feelings of guilt impel her to confess to the undiscovered betrayal of her marriage. Káťa is imprisoned in a society in which she cannot exist; she will ultimately choose death over this mental and spiritual violation.

Janáček brings to his portrayal of Káťa the sympathy and subtle sensitivity that he devotes — eschewing all stereotypes — to all his major female figures. First performed in Brno in 1921, Káťa Kabanová marks the beginning of the composer’s final, extraordinarily productive decade. Janáček had now found his unmistakable language as a musical dramatist — a language that conveys the characters and situations, psychology and atmosphere in highly concentrated form, and in its naked immediacy and power gets directly under the listener’s skin.

Christian Arseni
Translation: Sophie Kidd

Jakub Hrůša Conductor
Barrie Kosky Director
Rufus Didwiszus Sets
Victoria Behr Costumes
Franck Evin Lighting
Christian Arseni Dramaturgy

CAST
Jens Larsen Savjol Prokofjevič Dikoj
David Butt Philip Boris Grigorjevič
Evelyn Herlitzius Marfa Ignatěvna Kabanová (Kabanicha)
Jaroslav Březina Tichon Ivanyč Kabanov
Corinne Winters Katěrina (Káťa)
Benjamin Hulett Váňa Kudrjáš
Jarmila Balážová Varvara
Michael Mofidian Kuligin
Concert Association of the Vienna State Opera Chorus
Huw Rhys James Chorus Master
Vienna Philharmonic

‘I lived free like a bird’: Káťa Kabanová confides wistfully to her sister-in-law Varvara how different her life used to be. She tells her how during mass at church she experienced celestial visions that moved her to tears, and how she had dreams of soaring high into the sky. The luminous, increasingly ecstatic music to which Janáček sets Káťa’s reminiscences reveals not only the figure’s rich interior life but also an irrepressible urge for freedom. But since her marriage to Tichon the fire within Káťa is at risk of being smothered entirely. The situation she lives in is claustrophobic. Home is ruled despotically by her mother-in-law Kabanicha, the widow of a merchant. Conscious of material dependencies and in the name of tradition and morals, she makes sure that the required subservience is shown by woman to husband and young to old. Ground down by his mother’s constant carping, Tichon lacks the independence to be able to give his wife what she needs and seeks refuge in alcohol. When he departs on a journey for a few days, Varvara, who is aware of the mutual attraction between Káťa and the unmarried Boris, arranges a first night-time tryst for them. This uncaps all Káťa’s pent-up emotions: behind the desperate intensity with which she gives herself to Boris erupt needs that go far beyond a yearning for fulfilled love or shared passion. To Káťa, to go on living now seems more impossible than ever.

Leoš Janáček forged the libretto to Káťa Kabanová from a Czech translation of Alexander Ostrovsky’s play The Storm (1859), which is set in a small-town milieu dominated by wealthy merchants in mid-19th century Russia. Janáček dispensed with many of the specific socio-historical details — and thus also a substantial part of the concrete social criticism that characterizes Ostrovsky’s play. The opera concentrates on the protagonist and the individuals who directly determine her fate. Yet beyond the microcosm of the family, the social environment remains a palpable determining factor.

We are in a village or small town where a traditional value system, as upheld by Kabanicha, has degenerated into repressive convention. An atmosphere of coldness and torpor prevails, colliding with any desire for individual realization or true enjoyment of life. At the same time, the conflict in which Káťa finds herself through her relationship with Boris is an internal one, as she has made the moral yardsticks of her environment so much her own that a crisis of conscience is inevitable. Káťa articulates little of what motivates or oppresses her, or what she yearns for, and is perhaps largely unaware of it — something that makes the figure so true-to-life — but hypocrisy is foreign to her. Unlike Varvara and her lover Kudrjáš, she is unable to blithely disregard internalized moral norms. Even in Act I, the memory of her dreams of flying suddenly turns into panicstricken fear of the ‘sin’ into which desire for another man threatens to plunge her. In Act III, as a storm rages (outdoors as well as inside Káťa), her feelings of guilt impel her to confess to the undiscovered betrayal of her marriage. Káťa is imprisoned in a society in which she cannot exist; she will ultimately choose death over this mental and spiritual violation.

Janáček brings to his portrayal of Káťa the sympathy and subtle sensitivity that he devotes — eschewing all stereotypes — to all his major female figures. First performed in Brno in 1921, Káťa Kabanová marks the beginning of the composer’s final, extraordinarily productive decade. Janáček had now found his unmistakable language as a musical dramatist — a language that conveys the characters and situations, psychology and atmosphere in highly concentrated form, and in its naked immediacy and power gets directly under the listener’s skin.

Christian Arseni
Translation: Sophie Kidd

Jakub Hrůša Conductor
Barrie Kosky Director
Rufus Didwiszus Sets
Victoria Behr Costumes
Franck Evin Lighting
Christian Arseni Dramaturgy

CAST
Jens Larsen Savjol Prokofjevič Dikoj
David Butt Philip Boris Grigorjevič
Evelyn Herlitzius Marfa Ignatěvna Kabanová (Kabanicha)
Jaroslav Březina Tichon Ivanyč Kabanov
Corinne Winters Katěrina (Káťa)
Benjamin Hulett Váňa Kudrjáš
Jarmila Balážová Varvara
Michael Mofidian Kuligin
Concert Association of the Vienna State Opera Chorus
Huw Rhys James Chorus Master
Vienna Philharmonic

‘I lived free like a bird’: Káťa Kabanová confides wistfully to her sister-in-law Varvara how different her life used to be. She tells her how during mass at church she experienced celestial visions that moved her to tears, and how she had dreams of soaring high into the sky. The luminous, increasingly ecstatic music to which Janáček sets Káťa’s reminiscences reveals not only the figure’s rich interior life but also an irrepressible urge for freedom. But since her marriage to Tichon the fire within Káťa is at risk of being smothered entirely. The situation she lives in is claustrophobic. Home is ruled despotically by her mother-in-law Kabanicha, the widow of a merchant. Conscious of material dependencies and in the name of tradition and morals, she makes sure that the required subservience is shown by woman to husband and young to old. Ground down by his mother’s constant carping, Tichon lacks the independence to be able to give his wife what she needs and seeks refuge in alcohol. When he departs on a journey for a few days, Varvara, who is aware of the mutual attraction between Káťa and the unmarried Boris, arranges a first night-time tryst for them. This uncaps all Káťa’s pent-up emotions: behind the desperate intensity with which she gives herself to Boris erupt needs that go far beyond a yearning for fulfilled love or shared passion. To Káťa, to go on living now seems more impossible than ever.

Leoš Janáček forged the libretto to Káťa Kabanová from a Czech translation of Alexander Ostrovsky’s play The Storm (1859), which is set in a small-town milieu dominated by wealthy merchants in mid-19th century Russia. Janáček dispensed with many of the specific socio-historical details — and thus also a substantial part of the concrete social criticism that characterizes Ostrovsky’s play. The opera concentrates on the protagonist and the individuals who directly determine her fate. Yet beyond the microcosm of the family, the social environment remains a palpable determining factor.

We are in a village or small town where a traditional value system, as upheld by Kabanicha, has degenerated into repressive convention. An atmosphere of coldness and torpor prevails, colliding with any desire for individual realization or true enjoyment of life. At the same time, the conflict in which Káťa finds herself through her relationship with Boris is an internal one, as she has made the moral yardsticks of her environment so much her own that a crisis of conscience is inevitable. Káťa articulates little of what motivates or oppresses her, or what she yearns for, and is perhaps largely unaware of it — something that makes the figure so true-to-life — but hypocrisy is foreign to her. Unlike Varvara and her lover Kudrjáš, she is unable to blithely disregard internalized moral norms. Even in Act I, the memory of her dreams of flying suddenly turns into panicstricken fear of the ‘sin’ into which desire for another man threatens to plunge her. In Act III, as a storm rages (outdoors as well as inside Káťa), her feelings of guilt impel her to confess to the undiscovered betrayal of her marriage. Káťa is imprisoned in a society in which she cannot exist; she will ultimately choose death over this mental and spiritual violation.

Janáček brings to his portrayal of Káťa the sympathy and subtle sensitivity that he devotes — eschewing all stereotypes — to all his major female figures. First performed in Brno in 1921, Káťa Kabanová marks the beginning of the composer’s final, extraordinarily productive decade. Janáček had now found his unmistakable language as a musical dramatist — a language that conveys the characters and situations, psychology and atmosphere in highly concentrated form, and in its naked immediacy and power gets directly under the listener’s skin.

Christian Arseni
Translation: Sophie Kidd

Jakub Hrůša Conductor
Barrie Kosky Director
Rufus Didwiszus Sets
Victoria Behr Costumes
Franck Evin Lighting
Christian Arseni Dramaturgy

CAST
Jens Larsen Savjol Prokofjevič Dikoj
David Butt Philip Boris Grigorjevič
Evelyn Herlitzius Marfa Ignatěvna Kabanová (Kabanicha)
Jaroslav Březina Tichon Ivanyč Kabanov
Corinne Winters Katěrina (Káťa)
Benjamin Hulett Váňa Kudrjáš
Jarmila Balážová Varvara
Michael Mofidian Kuligin
Concert Association of the Vienna State Opera Chorus
Huw Rhys James Chorus Master
Vienna Philharmonic

‘I lived free like a bird’: Káťa Kabanová confides wistfully to her sister-in-law Varvara how different her life used to be. She tells her how during mass at church she experienced celestial visions that moved her to tears, and how she had dreams of soaring high into the sky. The luminous, increasingly ecstatic music to which Janáček sets Káťa’s reminiscences reveals not only the figure’s rich interior life but also an irrepressible urge for freedom. But since her marriage to Tichon the fire within Káťa is at risk of being smothered entirely. The situation she lives in is claustrophobic. Home is ruled despotically by her mother-in-law Kabanicha, the widow of a merchant. Conscious of material dependencies and in the name of tradition and morals, she makes sure that the required subservience is shown by woman to husband and young to old. Ground down by his mother’s constant carping, Tichon lacks the independence to be able to give his wife what she needs and seeks refuge in alcohol. When he departs on a journey for a few days, Varvara, who is aware of the mutual attraction between Káťa and the unmarried Boris, arranges a first night-time tryst for them. This uncaps all Káťa’s pent-up emotions: behind the desperate intensity with which she gives herself to Boris erupt needs that go far beyond a yearning for fulfilled love or shared passion. To Káťa, to go on living now seems more impossible than ever.

Leoš Janáček forged the libretto to Káťa Kabanová from a Czech translation of Alexander Ostrovsky’s play The Storm (1859), which is set in a small-town milieu dominated by wealthy merchants in mid-19th century Russia. Janáček dispensed with many of the specific socio-historical details — and thus also a substantial part of the concrete social criticism that characterizes Ostrovsky’s play. The opera concentrates on the protagonist and the individuals who directly determine her fate. Yet beyond the microcosm of the family, the social environment remains a palpable determining factor.

We are in a village or small town where a traditional value system, as upheld by Kabanicha, has degenerated into repressive convention. An atmosphere of coldness and torpor prevails, colliding with any desire for individual realization or true enjoyment of life. At the same time, the conflict in which Káťa finds herself through her relationship with Boris is an internal one, as she has made the moral yardsticks of her environment so much her own that a crisis of conscience is inevitable. Káťa articulates little of what motivates or oppresses her, or what she yearns for, and is perhaps largely unaware of it — something that makes the figure so true-to-life — but hypocrisy is foreign to her. Unlike Varvara and her lover Kudrjáš, she is unable to blithely disregard internalized moral norms. Even in Act I, the memory of her dreams of flying suddenly turns into panicstricken fear of the ‘sin’ into which desire for another man threatens to plunge her. In Act III, as a storm rages (outdoors as well as inside Káťa), her feelings of guilt impel her to confess to the undiscovered betrayal of her marriage. Káťa is imprisoned in a society in which she cannot exist; she will ultimately choose death over this mental and spiritual violation.

Janáček brings to his portrayal of Káťa the sympathy and subtle sensitivity that he devotes — eschewing all stereotypes — to all his major female figures. First performed in Brno in 1921, Káťa Kabanová marks the beginning of the composer’s final, extraordinarily productive decade. Janáček had now found his unmistakable language as a musical dramatist — a language that conveys the characters and situations, psychology and atmosphere in highly concentrated form, and in its naked immediacy and power gets directly under the listener’s skin.

Christian Arseni
Translation: Sophie Kidd