An Uglified 'Rusalka' in the World's Most Beautiful Town

SALZBURG, Austria — The Cleveland Orchestra is not very often found in an opera pit: They are a symphonic band, occupying the famed Severance Hall. But there they were in the pit of the House for Mozart, here at the Salzburg Festival. They were not playing Mozart: They were playing Dvořák's "Rusalka," the opera about a water nymph who longs to be human, gets her way, and pays a heavy price.

Apparently, some members of the Vienna Philharmonic grumbled about the Clevelanders' moment in the sun: or rather in the pit. It is normally they who do the playing around here. And the line was, "We have more Czech grandmothers in our orchestra than they do in theirs."

What that meant was, there are more grandsons of Czechs in the Vienna Philharmonic than in the Cleveland Orchestra — and Dvořák, of course, was a Czech composer. The Clevelanders responded, "Don't be so sure about that." And they were quite right.

Franz Welser-Möst, the Cleveland's music director, is leading the performances of "Rusalka," as he is, of course, the Cleveland concerts here. (There are three of those.) During his time at the Zurich Opera — which ended earlier this summer — Mr. Welser-Möst conducted more than 500 performances of about 55 works. He has learned his craft.

When I caught "Rusalka" last week, Mr. Welser-Möst conducted with assurance, sense, and a fair amount of panache. The orchestra played the same way. Dvořák's score was full of color, vibrancy, and character. The Czech grandmothers, whatever their number (or relevance), would have been proud.

Occasionally, the orchestra was too loud, covering the singers — but that was of little consequence.

In the title role was a Finnish soprano named Camilla Nylund. She is basically unknown in America, but a star here in Europe — and deserves to be. She is a woman who enjoys singing, and communicates that enjoyment to an audience. As Rusalka, she displayed glorious vocal freedom, particularly in high notes. And her "Song to the Moon" — that is the hit aria of this opera — was poignant.

Unfortunately, Ms. Nylund, a beautiful woman, looked like hell, because that's the way the stage directors dressed her. "Rusalka" is a fairy tale. But operas tend to be uglified in Salzburg, the world's most beautiful town (practically).

The tenor, singing the Prince, was Piotr Beczala, from Poland. I have commented in recent days on the abundance of excellent lyric tenors here at the festival: Michael Schade, Matthew Polenzani, Stephen Costello. Mr. Beczala is another one. This may not be a golden age for Verdi or Wagner tenors (or even a bronze age). But for lyric tenors, it is a shining one.

American bass-baritone Alan Held sang the Water Goblin, with rich, glowing, focused tones. Whenever he opened his mouth, he was arresting. Ježibaba, the witch, was German contralto Birgit Remmert, who was scalding and amusing, without being hammy. All other singers were satisfying, too, or at least adequate. The problem with this "Rusalka" was not the singing, or the playing, or the conducting. The problem was the staging.

Jossi Wieler and Sergio Morabito, the directors, have included many clever touches. They obviously have imagination and skill. But they have undermined the essential nature of "Rusalka." (In other words, they are contemporary opera directors.)

Much of the action takes place in what looks like a New Orleans bordello. The Wood Sprites are more or less naked. Video is used, so that, when Rusalka sings the "Song to the Moon," a jellyfish floats by. There is no moon — that'd be "too much like right," as an old Southern friend of mine used to say.

The Salzburg Easter Festival has a production of Wagner's "Ring." And at the end of "Das Rheingold" (first opera in the tetralogy), there is no rainbow bridge — instead, the characters file up against a blank white wall. A rainbow bridge in "Das Rheingold" and a moon in "Rusalka" are what "progressive" directors call "clichés." You are lucky to get a ship in "The Flying Dutchman."

Ježibaba is in a wheelchair, handicapped somehow. As a member of the Cleveland Orchestra quipped, "If she's a witch, why can't she fix herself?" She looks like a bag lady, or, alternatively, a Berkeley professor of anthropology. She is assisted by a huge black cat — like a team mascot — who jumps violently around, appearing to hump Rusalka at one point.

The cross is a sinister symbol, if not a symbol of outright evil — you might call this a cliché of contemporary European opera productions. A Bible, with a big cross on it, is used in a mysterious, dark way. And there is an ugly cross in the Prince's palace: bare, stark, and neon. In front of it, as she faces it, Rusalka is surrounded and assaulted by a male mob. Is she the victim of a gang rape? It would seem so.

This production is not just wrong, but revolting. It is not only ugly to look at — it is ugly in mind, spirit, and soul.

Last week, Lorin Maazel, the music director of the New York Philharmonic, gave an interview to the Corriere della Sera. In it, he blasted Salzburg and its opera productions: "weirdly provocative stagings by arrogant directors who think that innovation means boring the audience using public funds." He added that "often these directors are simply uneducated."

As I've reported, Salzburg has some reasonable and even first-rate opera productions. It's those other ones that leave a bad taste in your mouth, and a sickness in your stomach.