Carmen alla Scala, or the dissolution of the past

Damiano Michieletto, Myung-Whun Chung and Vittorio Grigolo at Teatro alla Scala

At the opening of the operatic season, Damiano Michieletto signed for Teatro alla Scala a new production of Carmen, one of the most eagerly awaited premieres of the season. The staging proposes a profoundly psychological reading of Bizet’s masterpiece, in which the idea of destiny and the inner mechanisms of the characters occupy a central place, surpassing the conventions of exoticism so often associated with this opera.

The performance of 16 June brought together the premiere cast, with Vittorio Grigolo (Don José), Clémentine Margaine (Carmen), Natalia Tanasii (Micaëla) and Giorgi Manoshvili (Escamillo) in the principal roles, under the musical direction of Myung-Whun Chung. Other roles were taken by Xhieldo Hyseni (Zuniga), Pierre Doyen (Le Dancaïre), Loïc Félix (Le Remendado), Sarah Dufresne (Frasquita), Marine Chagnon (Mercédès) and Simone Del Savio (Morales). The Orchestra and Chorus of Teatro alla Scala, prepared by Alberto Malazzi, as well as the Children’s Chorus of Teatro alla Scala, coordinated by Brunella Aclerici, participated in the performance. The production is a co-production with The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, London, and Teatro Real in Madrid.

The dominant impression of the evening organizes itself around a unity of conception of genuine coherence. Beyond the individual merit of each performer, the artistic whole takes shape as a homogeneous construction, in which orchestra and cast evolve in full consonance with the director’s vision, one that has proven markedly polarizing in public discourse. The tragedy thus acquires a progressive contour, governed by a lucid internal logic, in which the symbolic dimension intertwines with a profoundly human expressivity, perceptible in every scenic and sonic detail.

In Damiano Michieletto’s reading, the center of gravity shifts toward an inner tension. The trajectories of the characters are defined by a deep fidelity to their own impulse, experienced as an intimate necessity, sustained with constant force. From the very beginning, the tragic ending emerges as a diffuse presence, a shadow accompanying every encounter and every gesture. This subtle anticipation grants the action a particular density, transforming the dramatic course into a slow process of accumulation, where each moment participates in a form of progressive revelation. At the core of this construction stands the enigmatic figure of the woman in black, Don José’s mother or, perhaps, an originating figure common to all characters, an archetypal embodiment of grief, memory, and fatality. Through her presence, the scenic discourse acquires an additional dimension, in which the past seems to radiate continuously into the present.

Image credit: © Teatro alla Scala, official Facebook page

Within this framework, Carmen detaches itself from the register of immediate seduction and becomes a space of confrontation with the idea of freedom. Her relationship with Don José gains a reflective dimension, where attraction transforms into an interior process, charged with tension and as obsessive as that of her lover. The pursuit of this idea defines the evolution of the characters and lends substance to the dramatic trajectory, which unfolds under the sign of an ever more lucid awareness of their own condition.

In the secondary plane, the male ensemble, Xhieldo Hyseni, Pierre Doyen and Loïc Félix, constructs a precise sonic framework, supported by attentive articulation and finely calibrated collective energy. Their interventions contribute to the scenic dynamic and consolidate the dramatic flow through a rigorous and efficiently integrated presence. In counterpoint, the female triangle Frasquita–Mercédès, embodied by Sarah Dufresne and Marine Chagnon alongside Carmen, introduces a distinct nuance. Their voices, luminous and flexible, evoke the mobility of an active friendship and breathe authentic scenic vitality. At the same time, these presences suggest the fragility of a marginal world, placed within a recognizable setting, in which existence oscillates between play, survival, and exposure.

This dimension is amplified through Michieletto’s scenography and direction, which situate the action in a space marked by wear and direct functionality. The set configures an environment in which collectivity assumes a central role, becoming both a space of solidarity and an expression of a tense social condition. The whole integrates organically into the musical flow, and the scenic image evolves in accord with the orchestra, within a continuity that lends the performance remarkable density and expressive clarity: four distinct rooms unfold on the revolving stage, both from exterior and interior perspectives—the police station, Lilas Pastia’s tavern, a smugglers’ cabin, and Escamillo’s dressing room.

If Michieletto’s direction transforms Carmen into a meditation on destiny, the profound bond of the entire construction resides in Myung-Whun Chung’s musical reading, which grants the symbol an essential human dimension and situates it within a shared, living experience. Yet one element remains perceptible within this structure: the score appears in a condensed form, through the removal of part of the spoken dialogue and the absence of certain interventions that naturally contribute to dramaturgical fluidity and color. Seemingly secondary moments sustain the realism of Bizet’s theatre through details of scenic breathing and incidental musical insertions; their disappearance may, at times, generate a slight rarefaction of dramatic continuity. This option appears as the sole point at which a sense of loss emerges within an otherwise remarkably coherent musical reading.

Chung’s merit lies precisely in re-inscribing the work within the space of grand lyrical architecture. Under his baton, the score detaches itself from the temptation of fragmentation into autonomous numbers and organizes itself into a vast trajectory in which each sequence integrates organically into a unified design. Rhythm, local color, and dance energy persist, yet they are absorbed into an overarching vision in which every detail participates in the construction of a living whole.

From the very first measures, the refinement of the Orchestra of Teatro alla Scala is evident: the woodwinds trace lines of elegance evoking the French tradition, the strings unfold with supple breath, and the brass intervene with controlled authority, integrated within a carefully balanced equilibrium. The sonority is defined by transparency and stratification, each layer preserving its contour without compromising the cohesion of the ensemble.

In the Entr’actes, this vision acquires a distinct dimension. These interludes become spaces of reflection, where time seems dilated, preparing psychologically for what follows. The prelude to Act III, in particular, acquires an almost metaphysical density, in which melodic beauty already carries within it the premonition of an inevitable outcome. The relationship between light and shadow traverses the entire evening, shaping an orchestral universe built upon subtle contrasts and tension-filled accumulations, developed with rigorous internal logic. Dynamics, tempi, and timbral inflections evolve as direct responses to the dramatic discourse, each sonic transformation integrated into a continuous movement oriented toward a point of convergence. A revealing moment emerges in the Act III scene, where chorus and soloists are brought close to the edge of the stage. The visual effect gains intensity, while the music grants it exceptional structural clarity: the sonic layers become perfectly perceptible, and the relationships between chorus, voices, and orchestra acquire precise definition. Thus arises the impression of an open, almost three-dimensional perspective, in which every detail may be followed in full coherence.

Significantly, the only authentic form of vitality within this already condemned world appears to be represented by the Children’s Chorus. Michieletto employs it with intelligence, and Chung preserves its entire rhythmic and expressive freshness. In a universe dominated by the foreboding of death, the children remain the sole bearers of spontaneous and unaltered energy. Equally striking is the manner in which atmospheric music accompanies the repeated appearances of the maternal figure. The woman in mourning traverses the performance like a persistent memory, while the orchestra constructs around her a sonic space of funereal melancholy. The tragedy seems to unfold continuously against the background of a music that does not illustrate the action, but precedes and comments upon it. Thus, Don José’s mother ceases to be a simple character and becomes the universal expression of grief overshadowing all.

At the center of this world stands Clémentine Margaine’s Carmen. The voice is defined by the density of its expressivity and by a refined attention to the word. From the seemingly nonchalant provocation of the Habanera to the incisive energy of the Séguidille, the artist constructs a portrait that transcends the conventional archetype of the seductress, orienting the discourse toward an interiority of considerable force. The point of maximum intensity is concentrated in the card scene, where musical gesture acquires gravity and clarity of meaning. Under the baton of Myung-Whun Chung, the vocal phrase expands its hypnotic dimension, becoming the space of a direct encounter with the inevitable. Carmen assumes her trajectory with serene lucidity, while Clémentine Margaine’s voice—settled and deepened from one performance to the next—embraces its own timbral darkness, iridescent in shades of coal and steel, like a sonorous substance in which implacability acquires both balance and depth. In En vain pour éviter, the melodic line arcs naturally toward its acute accents, such as that high A, integrated not as effect, but as a point of expressive concentration, where the discourse seems to attain full clarity. The moment closes into a dense, almost palpable silence, followed by applause that translates a collective participation in a shared experience.

In these moments, the profound nature of the performance comes into focus: a journey of awareness, in which each character approaches their own inner truth. Don José’s path thus unfolds as an evolution toward understanding, while Carmen becomes the reflective surface through which this revelation acquires form and meaning. Myung-Whun Chung’s music, marked by penetrating elegance and calm nobility, follows this transformation with finely attuned dramatic intuition, accompanying each stage with lucid sensitivity and a profound adherence to the spirit of Bizet’s theatre.

Vittorio Grigolo – Don José, or the anatomy of a fall

In a Teatro alla Scala production, where each interpretation inevitably confronts a tradition of excellence, Vittorio Grigolo shapes a Don José of remarkable dramatic consistency. His approach privileges the exploration of the character’s inner mechanisms, highlighting the manner in which each segment of the score participates in the transformation of a man of discipline into a consciousness overtaken by passion.

From his very first appearance, José is defined by rigor and inner balance. His relationship with Micaëla offers the key to this perspective. In Parle-moi de ma mère, the phrase acquires an almost chamber-like elegance. The legato unfolds in broad arcs, breath supports each unit of meaning, and the middle register reveals a finely wrought harmonic density. The sound evolves in a nuanced continuity, while phrasing is shaped through subtle adjustments of color and a constant attentiveness to the text. The musical line thus attains organic unity and a penetrating quality that persists even in the most delicate pianissimi.

The staging amplifies this psychological dimension. Micaëla becomes the embodiment of a world of responsibility and memory, while the maternal figure, present within the economy of the production, imprints upon the conflict an inner tension from the very first act. José moves between two systems of values: one connected to the past and to duty, the other oriented toward the promise of freedom associated with Carmen.

Grigolo translates this tension exclusively through musical means. The return to the sphere of maternal evocation brings an added warmth to the timbre and a contemplative placement of the phrase. Carmen’s presence imprints a different energy upon the discourse. The accent becomes more incisive, the breath acquires a faster pulse, and the phrasing progressively accumulates inner tension, oriented toward a point of maximum intensity. The scene of Carmen’s arrest becomes an essential landmark. José emerges here as a consciousness on the threshold of decisive metamorphosis. Attraction coexists with disorientation, and this duality shapes the inner motor of the action. The fragilization of the initial order translates vocally into more tense articulation, increased mobility of color, and a phrasing animated by contrasting impulses, reflecting the process of a transformation in full unfolding.

The central point of the construction, however, remains the aria La fleur que tu m’avais jetée. In this staging, the moment acquires an introspective character. The almost fixed scenic posture concentrates the entire dramatic process within the musical discourse. The initial pianissimo conveys stability and intention. Each reprise of the principal motif adds a new layer of intensity, while the dynamic growths develop organically from the preceding material. The control of the diminuendi impresses through its dramatic function: the withdrawal of sound retains the entirety of the accumulated emotional energy. The culminating passage integrates the high note into the expressive continuity of the phrase, preserving the timbral homogeneity of the middle register.

The aria thus becomes the beginning of the end. The beauty of the discourse marks the moment when Don José begins to understand that the freedom he admires in Carmen escapes all forms of control. Emotion arises from the emergence of a vulnerability that gradually penetrates the structure of the character. The option for a more direct expression intensifies the confessional dimension. The «Je t’aime» acquires the character of an intimate utterance, almost suspended within its own revelation. In «Oh ma Carmen, je t’aime», the vocal line opens multiple technical possibilities: either a broad legato, sustained by breath and directed toward culmination, or a concentrated emission, dominated by inner tension, never predictable in this tenor. The point of tension arches toward the high G, treated as a moment of total exposure, where emotion materializes sonorously. The declaration thus gains the value of a progressive surrender, a decisive threshold of vulnerability that will shape the character’s subsequent trajectory.

From this point onward, each appearance reveals new layers of identity. The initial figure of the disciplined soldier gradually transforms into a man dominated by intense impulses. The transformation is built through successive accumulations, like a fissure deepening until it restructures the entire inner edifice.

At this stage, the other characters become reference points within his inner geography. Micaëla embodies the world of loss. From this perspective, she acquires a dramatic importance far greater than that assigned by the traditional reading of the opera. Far from being the simple luminous figure opposed to Carmen’s sensuality, she represents the world to which Don José belongs and which he never truly succeeds in abandoning. The soprano’s interpretation highlights this dimension. Her voice brings warmth and clarity to the musical discourse, yet the true strength of the character lies in the determination that the artist consistently constructs throughout the performance.

Micaëla is neither a fragile presence nor a passive victim of the conflict between José and Carmen. She possesses an inner firmness that contrasts with the emotional instability of the male protagonist. This becomes evident from the duet Parle-moi de ma mère, where Micaëla appears as the bearer of memory, duty, and a moral order that José instinctively recognizes as his own. The two are not opposites, but profoundly akin. Both belong to the same world, share the same values, and the same need for certainty.

The defining moment of the soprano remains the aria Je dis que rien ne m’épouvante. Natalia Tanasii constructs a presence marked by sensitivity and nobility, in which memory, duty, and continuity find sonorous expression. The luminosity of the timbre and the clarity of emission confer upon the character a particular vitality, transforming her into a nucleus of authenticity within the general tension. Tanasii reveals the profound courage of the character. Micaëla enters alone into a space dominated by violence, smugglers, and the constant threat of death. Fear is present in the music, yet it does not immobilize her. On the contrary, each phrase becomes the expression of a will that refuses to yield. Thus, the aria no longer appears as a simple prayer, but as a declaration of courage.

The contrast between Carmen and Micaëla proves less evident than it might initially appear. Both women possess a form of independence that Don José cannot control. The difference lies in the fact that Carmen’s freedom fascinates him, while Micaëla’s lucidity and firmness constantly remind him of who he truly is. Consequently, the relationship between José and Micaëla cannot be reduced to the story of an unfulfilled love, but rather to José’s refusal to confront his own identity. In this sense, Micaëla is not defeated by Carmen. On the contrary, she is the only character who remains faithful to herself until the end, while José gradually loses himself in his own obsession.

Escamillo takes shape as the figure of an inaccessible world, the man José can never become. The choice of a bass for the role subtly alters the relationships between the characters. Instead of an exuberant and demonstrative presence, there emerges a more reserved, more distant and less accessible figure. In Votre toast, the assurance and naturalness of expression define an autonomous inner freedom, embodied by the bass Giorgi Manoshvili through a disconcerting calm and an almost elliptical distance from the world that surrounds him.

His scenic presence acquires a particular aura, akin to an episodic apparition, suspended within a dimension that transcends the immediate. The conflict between the two surpasses the plane of rivalry and acquires the value of a confrontation between two distinct ways of being. Within the economy of this production, Escamillo’s part asserts its consistency through the depth of the lower register, while the timbral contrast contributes decisively to the shaping of the opposition between these two existential poles.

In direct confrontation, Don José’s vocal discourse acquires a controlled harshness, oriented toward the intensification of dramatic tension. The accent fixes itself with firmness, the phrase alters its internal trajectory, and the expressive energy reflects the domination of impulse. The evolution unfolds within an organic continuity, faithful to a psychological logic in constant deepening.

Grigolo’s voice contributes decisively to the shaping of this overall impression. What lingers in memory is the timbral richness of the instrument, a sonorous substance that reveals itself progressively, allowing harmonics, colors, and resonances to emerge with an almost tangible generosity. The theatre space amplifies this experience, enabling the perception of nuances that inevitably exceed the limitations of recordings.

This “bouquet” of sound, by analogy akin to the refinement of a Bacchic liquor, establishes itself as one of the great qualities of his art. The metaphor acquires a fluid consistency: the sound opens, rounds itself, reveals its layers with a naturalness that invites attentive, almost contemplative listening. In a delicate distractio benevolentiae, the pen is tempted to recognize, within this lyrical quality, a possible encounter with the figure of Nadir from Les pêcheurs de perles, another work by Bizet. The affinity remains more suggestion than assertion—a stylistic resonance that discreetly traverses the memory of the repertoire.

From this imagined filiation arises also the impression of a profound continuity: Grigolo follows the line of the character with a consistency that binds together all the stages of his becoming, accompanying each nuance, from the first accents of duty to the final expressions of despair. Sound thus becomes a guiding thread, an element of cohesion that sustains the entire dramatic construction and grants it unity of breath.

Throughout the performance, a discreet accumulation of fatigue may at times be perceived. It appears sporadically in certain attacks and in the homogeneity of some sounds in the upper register. Interestingly, these small imperfections integrate naturally into the dramatic economy of the role. José himself undergoes a process of disintegration, and the occasional vocal vulnerability contributes, almost involuntarily, to the credibility of the character.

One of the recurring themes in the reception of Grigolo concerns his theatricality. In this production, such an observation requires a far more nuanced analysis in relation to the directorial conception. The character is constantly driven toward zones of extreme intensity. Violence, physical tension, and disproportionate reactions belong to the language of the performance, and the interpreter integrates them within a coherent construction.

This option becomes particularly evident in the final duet. The staging insistently develops the idea of the inevitability of tragedy. Symbols accumulate, and the sense of an implacable destiny dominates the entire scene. The confrontation between Carmen and Don José takes on less the character of a desperate negotiation and more that of a collapse already foretold. José appears here as a man exhausted by his own passion. Each intervention seems to consume the last resources of the character. The relationship between voice and gesture becomes extremely close. Phrases contract, emotional impulses intensify, and the musical discourse acquires an impressive dramatic density. The ending is constructed not as an explosion, but as a process. José approaches the breaking point gradually.

Perhaps here lies Vittorio Grigolo’s greatest achievement. Don José is not presented as a succession of celebrated moments, but as a destiny. At the end, he appears not as Carmen’s victim, but as the victim of his own inability to accept the freedom of the other. Micaëla represents the world he loses, Escamillo the world he cannot reach, and Carmen the truth he cannot endure. Between these three forces, his tragedy unfolds. Grigolo follows each stage with remarkable musical and dramatic coherence, transforming the character into one of the most compelling and memorable presences of the evening.