What more royal and heartbreaking solitude than that of Philippe II in Verdi’s opera! In a dreamlike mise en abime of the grand monologue in Act IV, the novelist Stéphane Héaume creates a portrait of a wounded man and a variation on the themes of desertion and disillusion.

I am an old man now, who has been through many things, many. There is one thing, however, that I have never known; the time has come to experience it now. And all is ready. It’s for tonight.

It is not as hot as yesterday but the damp persists in this night not quite fallen on the equatorial forest. From the patio of the villa – a palace with columns reminiscent of a temple – I can make out the mauve streak of the sea below, far away over there, far beyond the last buttresses of the mountains, well beyond the frangipani trees hugging the coast. It is somewhere between Orabazza Point and Capo Rosso that it will happen, the illuminated line of the ship (we called it an ocean-going liner when I was young) will slide over the waves, slow and heavy, and it will last but an instant, a second of eternity, my eternity, the joy of an old man, my final project.

Yes, all is ready. Between the sea and myself the amphitheatre rises up – an enchanted coliseum - , its ruins offered up to the heavens, its crumbling cavea forming a semi-circle from before the world. I cross the patio to the balustrade and in the twilight I see the torches planted here and there; we shall light them later, with my boy, before the crowd enters the place. It seems to me that I can already see all those faces, all those bodies. There they are, taking their places on the white cushions that have been placed on the stone. Five thousand spectators brought here by the coach-load, delivered up to the awaiting jungle, drowning in the creepers that weave a cocoon in the guise of a roof, the imaginary dome covering an al fresco theatre. Here, palm trees, there, kapok trees, their trunks aligned like the boards of a theatre set. Nothing like it has ever been seen in Monte Iguana. I have had to imagine it all. I am an old man now. In truth, they must surely be asking: “Is he really going to sing? At his age?” I shall be an attraction, a curiosity. They won’t come so much for the production – although I’ve assembled a cast of the most worthy – as to glean the final notes of a worn-out phenomenon.

The orchestral musicians won’t be much longer. The stage awaits them, a half-moon of wooden planks surrounded by blocks of stone. So long as there’s no wind. There they are at my feet, the vaults of the Escurial, the setting for my great scene. I have rehearsed, oh, I have long prepared for this miracle. But have I not been preparing for the last forty years, ever since my hour of glory? My nights are filled with the applause of bygone days. The curtains of all theatres sweep past, one by one, before my eyes. They overlay the gauzy vegetation, the sea, down there – and I can clearly make out, quite distinctly even, the lights of the coast guards. At this altitude, lanterns provide the only light. The only house to have electricity here is mine, Villa Iguana, a palace pervaded by heat and humid breezes, palace of my dreams. Doleful retreat far from the spotlight. Far from her.

Images return – stronger this evening. She is there. Her presence is palpable. And yet, she does not love me. No, she never loved me. I gave it all up because of her. The pain destroyed a well-established career. I went away, far from the world, far from Europe, far from Venice especially. Venice. That is where she stabbed me. No, she never loved me.

Mount Iguana was my ultimate refuge. I have lost track of the passing of time, all those days contemplating the sea, the sky, the night, my night soon to be fallen with the burning out of the torches. But tonight, the hour will come, the hour of the ship, the hour of the renewing of my joy. Oh, I’m well aware that I’m confused. I’m an old man now.

Having abandoned me, she haunted me. I had to rebuild myself, I, the mad young hound, I who had elaborated a magnificent lie in order to believe in my redemption.

Did I invent a career as a tenor for myself when I was just a vagabond? I really was going to become a singer. Did drink do for me when reason would have saved me? I was on the point of giving it up. Was it Venice that sucked me into the mesh of its witchcraft? It was in South America that I would find other sensations, other escarpments to provide me with a veritable challenge – the challenge of my moral recovery. It would be my Fitzcarraldo.

How long a road it was! And she, she, always there, mesmerising me; I still see her, silently observing my blond hair, the day I joined her in her dance. Time made no difference. The outside world heightened my suffering.

These last years could be summed up by two newspaper articles. Two items of news that devastated me. The first, that of her death – a magnificent photo of her above an inaccurate obituary -, seven years after my arrival here. The tight-lipped expression of my boy surges up in my memory; his shocked demeanour, newspaper in hand. For he knew: I had told him everything (whom else could I confide in?): Venice, La Fenice, the Excelsior, our nights together, our age difference, her youthful silhouette, despite her seventy years of age, and her legs, my god, her legs! The Countess di Posa Alba. That was the caption printed beneath that cruel photo. Cruel photo, cruel hour, cruel memories.

The wind has risen. It’s more of a breeze and will drop. At present, the villa is plunged into almost total darkness. We will have to light the lanterns. In three hours, the invisible curtain will rise, it will be time, time for my great aria. Philippe’s aria. Philippe II, king of Spain! I shall sing it for myself, for them, of course, but above all, for her! She whose youthful double will sail along the coast, this evening, somewhere between Orabazza Point and Capo Rosso. There again, it was through the newspapers, two months ago, that I found out. Elisabeth di Posa Alba, the granddaughter of the countess, is embarking on her world tour. South America will be her first destination. She will perform notably during a cruise from Montevideo to Valparaiso. The photo of Elisabeth struck me like a gentle explosion. It wasn’t the young opera singer who appeared before me but the countess herself. Sublime reflection. Oh, how the news tortured me, that face risen from the dead. Bitter repetition of history, and the irony of her talent: her granddaughter a singer, was it really possible? My heart shrivelled up, a crisis, a crisis, I was in a state of collapse. O fatal gift! I am an old man now; I am awaiting the last dawn.

I searched out the dates. I calculated the hour of the ship’s passage. I called the shipping company to make sure she was on board. Only yesterday, I checked that the boat had left its previous port of call. And then, I had this mysterious message delivered to her:

Rendez-vous on deck at seventeen minutes past ten, on the landward side.

I got confirmation that she had received it. Seventeen minutes past ten. I perform my great aria.

“She does not love me! No! Her heart is closed to me. She has never loved me!”

It is on deck that she will hear the truth, the ancient truth of Venice, she will hear the truth about her grandmother, and I shall write to her afterwards, I will tell her what happened; but tonight, I shall sing for the one and for the other. I shall sing for them both.

What the audience does not know is that I have had loudspeakers installed all over the mountain, from the amphitheatre to the beach. Membranes turned towards the sea, towards the night of the slow, heavy liner that will slip between Orabazza Point and Capo Rosso, in a few hours, at seventeen minutes past ten. Elisabeth will hear Monte Iguana sing. She will hear the song of my unmitigated sorrow, my unchanging love.

Where am I? In the distance, the watchmen’s lamp flickers. The wind has risen. I am anxious. In the forest, the torches are burning and cast pools of reddish light against the stone. The spectators will soon arrive. They will soon invade the forest, soon listen, admire, applaud, listen to me, admire me, yes, applaud me in the heat and humidity of the jungle. All is ready. At this hour, the ship must be passing the glimmering villages of the Costa Verde; soon she will be here, she will hear me from the deck. Her granddaughter. Elisabeth!

I am going to dress. My costume is hanging in the wardrobe in that vast bedroom where I have spent so many nights, where I have long awaited the ultimate hour. Yes, now I must conceal myself in my royal mantle. They are coming and I must honour them.

On the wall there is a large mirror that reflects my face. I am well made up and yet I am to offer my voice without artifice.

Is it already time? So soon?

…What is happening? What is that noise? The shrieks of startled birds? Animals hidden in the obscurest depths of the jungle? Something piercing, smashing somewhere, something liquid. It’s raining! … Is it possible? The great white drapes billow and entangle themselves. It’s raining! The wind! It’s the wind! For pity’s sake! Ah! The horizon is obscured, the palm trees are twisting, it’s a storm, yes, a storm is coming. Catastrophe… The sea has withdrawn, buried beneath the deluge, the tropical chaos – the watchmen have disappeared: no more light, no more flames, no more torches. Everything swirls up and flies away in the night, white cushions and all. The stones are drowned in water, Elisabeth, Elisabeth – and the ship? Venice drag yourself to me through the crumpled forest. Venice and her last kiss. No, she does not love me, she never loved me!

The festivities are ruined. The fatal hour has rung. Here am I. I advance alone on the patio in my ravaged night.

Stéphane Héaume

Malgorzata Szczęśniak has been Krzysztof Warlikowski’s scenographer for three decades and her aesthetic universe is indissociable from the director’s theatrical vision. Graduating from the Art School in Kraków in 1972, she spent the next four years studying philosophy and clinical psychology at the University of Jagielloński. She was awarded a diploma in scenography from the Art School in Kraków in 1984. Here she talks about her work, particularly Don Carlos, the fifth Paris Opera production featuring the Warlikowski- Szczęśniak tandem.

There exists a certain decorative tradition at the opera. Very often, the spatial work consists in making scenic illustrations, creating tableaux that exalt the beauty of the music. My scenographies, on the contrary, are anti-decorative. By decorative, I mean anything added to create a “beautiful” space: flowers, carpets, sculptures…
I am constantly in search of pure space.

For the staging of my ideas, I always think in terms of architecture. That’s why my scenography in Iphigénie en Tauride¹- our first production at the Paris opera – was so detested! Instead of Ancient Greece with its Doric columns, the audience found itself face to face with its own reflection in a mirror occupying an entire wall! The purity of the space comes from the materials used: wood, metal, glass, ceramic, concrete… They all structure the space in an organic way, clarifying and purifying it by their radicality. This approach might seem simple, almost naïve. But each substance has intrinsic qualities of great aesthetic beauty.

The choice of materials is always justified by the drama. In Bluebeard’s Castle², the gloomy, damp walls of the castle were represented by a structure composed of glass panels. Something cold emanated from that substance: thick and completely opaque, it was almost cruel.

I use wood a lot, I like its noble quality. In Don Carlos, it is the prime element of the scenography. For this, I drew inspiration from the panelled interiors of the Escurial Palace in Spain. The dramatic significance of wood, however, differs according to the production and the performing space. In The Makropoulos Case³, the wooden space of the cinema auditorium was inspired by Berlin cinemas of the thirties. In Pelléas et Mélisande⁴, the wood is a reference to the Villa Hügel owned by the Krupp family - a powerful family of industrialists. Although I was inspired by that luxurious villa, the performance area at the Rurhtriennale – the Jahrhunderthalle in Bochum was originally an industrial exhibition hall – a far cry from Opéra Bastille. In that instance, wood seemed to offer a contrasting material, less brutal and warmer than steel.  

The heavy, severe atmosphere of this 15^th century Spanish palace is striking. Walls, parquet floors and ceilings, everything is very sombre, in a wide range of browns, burnished gold and dark wood.
The obscure interior of El Escorial is all the more fascinating in that it contrasts violently with the dazzling brightness of the Mediterranean sun and its white light. Of course, the oriental sensuality of Moorish Andalusian palaces with their mashrabiyas – the Nasrides Palace of the Alhambra in Granada – played with these effects of light, but the Reconquista, a century later, imposed strict Catholicism even on the architecture of its interiors.
The austerity of this palace also resonates with the vision of a monarchy marked by the asceticism of the Counter-Reformation. One has only to observe the shadowy tints of the paintings of Zurbarán or the controlled severity of Velazquez's court portraits to appreciate this.

The religious-historical context and the multiple power stakes make Don Carlos a very complicated opera. However, there are only five main characters in this grand opera! Don Carlo, Philip II, Elisabeth of Valois, Princess Eboli and the Marquis of Posa!

Space in Don Carlos is characterised by a distinct opposition between the official life of the court and the secret inner life of the characters. The idea for the scenography came to me at El Escorial – a real labyrinth! And at the Santa Cruz Museum in Toledo. There, I discovered a huge nave, almost bizarre in its dimensions, and a multitude of doors leading to little rooms that, in my imagination, were filled with secrets…
I created an open space, a vast reception hall, with high walls covered with wooden panels and a parquet floor. To this I added “boxes” which arrive on the stage in accordance with the dramatic situation – fencing halls, a private cinema, a prison cell. These closed, almost claustrophobic spaces are a reflection of the inner psyche of the characters.

Secrets abound in Don Carlos. Don Carlos suppresses his anger towards his father who has married the woman he himself loves; Elisabeth hides her love for Don Carlos; Princess Eboli is the king’s mistress but is secretly in love with Don Carlos. All those tortuous loves, those suffocating ties, imprison these unhappy beings in the name of royal dignity.
Masks play an essential role in our production. In the first act, in a space filled with greenery at the entrance to the Convent of Saint Just, Princess Eboli sings the Song of the Veil. To accommodate this aria of oriental inspiration, with the burning question of the veiling of women, I created a closed, interior space – a fencing hall – in which women disguised with masks wield foils with artistry and brio.
The characters also hide behind the mashrabiya. The Monk, a solitary figure prowling around the tomb of Charles Quint in the crypt, is always masked: his enigmatic presence is visible only through the oriental latticework.
In our eyes, the Inquisitor, the most powerful man in the opera, is not blind. Concealing his looks and his emotions behind dark glasses and wearing an undistinguished costume, he advances with masked countenance, almost invisible, spying on every one.

In our interpretation, Don Carlos is a Shakespearean character, a sort of melancholy Hamlet, and the world is perceived from his point of view. For this subjective view, I created an intimate space at the front of the stage. In my scenography for Król Roger⁵, the forestage area was the theatre of the king’s past visions, flashbacks being the modus operandi for the whole opera. We didn’t go as far in Don Carlos, that relationship with the past was not our objective.
With a narrow strip bordering the orchestral pit, a clear cold line and a grey concrete-like floor, I imagined Don Carlos’s space in terms of the walled-up dungeon of his consciousness. Don Carlos is a prisoner of destiny at every level: through his love for Elisabeth, his submission to his father and his loyalty to the Marquis.
The tableau in the Forest of Fontainebleau at the beginning of the opera is a scene that is not included in the Italian version of Don Carlo. The Infante arrives in France incognito to meet his promised bride. Charmed by her beauty, he reveals his true identity. But their love will be short-lived: his father has changed his mind: it is he who will marry Elisabeth. This cut scene that we find in the French version needed to be restored to the act that follows for dramatic reasons: why does Don Carlos suddenly become a tragic figure? We needed to complexify his character.
This first tableau becomes, then, Don Carlos’ most intimate scene. Situated forestage, he ponders his impossible love for Elisabeth. In desperation, he slashes his wrists. Unconscious, he relives their first meeting in a flashback.
From the very beginning of the opera, Don Carlos is a lost man. We do not know what will become of him at the end of the drama. We encounter the work with questions but we have no answers. We do not know the destinies of the characters.

In spite of the religious splendours of the Counter-Reformation, there is an almost ‘protestant’ rigour in Spanish art. This contradiction can be seen in our choice of costumes and movements.
We avoided spectacular dimensions in the crowd processions in Act II. The chorus, composed of the people, monks and envoys, is installed in a monumental wooden amphitheatre and acts as an observer as it does in protestant theatre. In this fixed framework, emotions are more exalted.
The idea of a large space in the guise of a reception hall is interesting because it permits us to play with the solitude of the characters: in such a vast, bare space, the presence of a solitary being kneeling and praying becomes very powerful!
Throughout the opera, there are six extras, servants dressed in period costumes, who take charge of the entire organisation of the rituals and ceremonies. The Asian origin of these figures is a sidelong reference to immigrant workers from the Middle East.

In addition to the minimalism of the actors’ movements, there is the sobriety of the costumes. With the exception of some embroidery on the royal train, I drew inspiration from the fashions of the fifties, particularly the rigorous aesthetic of Christian Dior. As a result, my costumes are very structured and not, I suspect, very comfortable!
Post-war fashion reminds me of the costumes in Spanish art, notably the rigid dresses in the court portraits of Velasquez. There is also a painting by Goya which inspired me, a portrait of the Duchess of Alba in a black dress. Indeed, that dress also inspired the designer Balenciaga! In my own way, I transposed that aspect of Iberian dress into a more contemporary aesthetic.

Don Carlos in French, in its full-length version, is a red-letter event at the Opéra Bastille. With Philippe Jordan conducting, Krzysztof Warlikowski directing and a superb cast including Jonas Kauffmann as Don Carlos, a new Verdi is decidedly emerging.

Don Carlos: an Italian opera? Things will never be as simple as that again... On the stage of the Bastille, you will and you won't see Don Carlos. What is being performed there, against a shifting backdrop of dark red and browns, has not been seen since the 19^th century: a Don Carlos in French, in five acts, lasting over four hours. A Don Carlos that is less courtly than existential; an opera that opens with the love of two young people, Carlos and Elisabeth, which is then methodically, sadistically crushed by the millstone of tragedy. Verdi produced this version for the Paris Opera in 1866. The celebrated composer of La Traviata was then living in France, but closely following the unification of Italy, with all its chaos, lust for power, revolutionary force and fresh, young, heroic and ultimately sacrificial figures. Like Rossini and Wagner, he aspired to create a giant of a work that broke new musical ground, at the dawn of a dramatic new era, and composed this vision of a man trapped in the torment of myths – of a myth trapped in the torment of humanity. Why Don Carlos? Because he admired Schiller's play and its political significance? Don Carlos is brilliantly refined and skilfully constructed. A perfect drama, played out around a central tragedy: a father and a son who love the same woman, one of whom will have to die. To this Oedipal issue, Schiller added the historical curse of the Habsburgs: Philip and Carlos are the son and grandson of Charles V – is it possible for them to follow on after the master of Europe? They are the artisans of the decline of the Christian empire, while the older monarch was the architect of its all-embracing power. Crucial figures in its fall, they are fated to be devoured, so that a new world can arise. In a production full of glass screens and rooms gliding over the stage, Warlikowski brings this devouring process to life. The man who last year, in Les Français, reinterpreted Proust through the prism of cruelty and historical terror, constructs face-to-face scenes encircled by shadows, with choirs erupting onto the stage, and a ghost: that of Charles V, reminiscent of Hamlet's father on the ramparts of Elsinore. Don Carlos is Hamlet and Othello rolled into a single play: a drama of father and son, vengeance and jealousy. As with Shakespeare, a monster holds sway in the midst of the tragedy – here, the melancholic King Philip: the unhappy ogre. And on the screens, human beings are endlessly swallowed up by a giant's mouth… Images designed to set off Verdi's sweeping music, whose every nuance is given full weight by Philippe Jordan. On the day I went to see a rehearsal, the conductor had only one word for the chorus and singers on stage: "whisper". And we discovered just how magnificent Verdi can be when whispered. Because this Don Carlos was also a very sensitive matter for Verdi, involving a father exposed to the hatred of his son: a painful and obsessive subject for the Italian composer. "Can I, as a Christian, sacrifice my son to the world?" asks Philip. "God sacrificed his own, to save us all," is the Grand Inquisitor's reply.

On 21 March 1867, the opera was performed at the Paris Opera for the first time – already shorn of several scenes to give Paris audiences time to get home at "a decent hour". Verdi was expecting a triumph; he was booed. Nobody found in it the music and charm of Rigoletto's creator. Even the composer Berlioz did not realise the importance of what was taking place before his eyes. Verdi, deeply wounded, sent an insulting letter to the Opera and abandoned his work, recasting it later in another shorter version in Italian: the now-famous Don Carlo. So was that the end of the story? Yes and no. Nothing happened for a century and a half, but in 1979, Verdi's dream rose from the ashes under Luc Bondy, but not in its complete version. So we can believe that under Jordan's baton, the cast – not only the eagerly awaited Jonas Kauffmann, but also the impressive Ildar Abdrazakov (Philip), Pavel Černoch (Don Carlos, alternating with Kauffmann), Ludovic Tézier (Rodrigo, the Marquis of Posa) and Sonya Yoncheva (Elisabeth) – are getting to work on something completely new. This accounts for the intense way Krzysztof Warlikowski talks about his work this October afternoon, sitting in the terrace of a café a week before the first night: "In fact, we don't know what Don Carlos is really like. We are all discovering it – including myself, despite having staged it in Italian 17 years ago, and all the singers who have come to rehearse it today. They are realising that the music and scope of the characters are not the same. In the shorter Italian version, Carlos is another man. He is more like Hamlet, weaker and closer to the historical figure of Don Carlos, who was an epileptic. I don't want to portray him as a chivalrous knight, sword in hand. He doesn't have the drive of a political animal; he doesn't have the strength Posa tries to give him. I want people to understand the human disaster he represents. Philip, the terrible father, is far more complex in this version as well. He says, "I am a man," not only a king. He turns to Posa seeking a friend, because, as he says, "he is too alone."

Warlikowski is determined to highlight the complexity of these characters, as well as the opera in its entirety: "It's a work that needs to be stripped bare. I'm trying to move past the world of masks and show the characters in all their humanity, not in their royal capacity, which no longer means anything to us." If the director sees himself as uncompromisingly loyal to the work, and if, unlike the way he approached Parsifal ten years ago (also at the Bastille), he brooks no digression in terms of staging, it is because he feels a hitherto-unsuspected Verdian truth in this neglected work: "There are finished, well-put together pieces – and then there are others that go beyond perfection, and are really looking for something. This opera is one of those."

Warlikowski recently staged an opera by Schreker in Munich: a major occasion, because the half-Jewish Schreker had been banned by the Nazis during the 1930s, and had been completely forgotten for fifty years. This was the first time one of his works had graced the stage in Munich since 1921. "In a way, Don Carlos suffered the same fate; it didn't exist until today." Warlikowski has rarely shown himself in such a dark and political register. "What this opera recounts is a nightmare. Philip goes down into hell, and takes everybody with him," as he puts it. Hell is certainly full of grandeur this autumn.