United Kingdom Janáček, The Excursions of Mr Brouček (‘Výlety páně Broučkovy’, concert performance): Soloists, Tenebrae; London Symphony Orchestra / Sir Simon Rattle (conductor). Barbican Hall, London, 4.5.2025 (CC)
Cast:
Broućek – Peter Hoare
Mazal / Blankytný / Petřík – Aleš Briscein
Málinka / Etherea / Kunka – Lucy Crowe
Sakristán / Svatopluk / Lunobor / Domšīk – Gyula Orendt
Würfl / Čaroskvouci / Ratscherr – Lukáš Zeman
Číšnīček / Wunderkind / Student – Doubravka Novotná
Kedruta – Hanna Hipp
Básník / Oblačný / Vacek – Arttu Kataja
Artist / Dohuslav / Vojta – Stephan Rügamer
Skladatel / Harfoboj / Miroslav – Linard Vrielink
Sir Simon Rattle continues his own excursions into Janáček opera with the surrealist The Excursions of Mr Brouček, inspired by the satirical tales of Svatopluk Ćech’s stories about the titular character. There was a pained journey to the final libretto (five librettists are listed, four for the Moon act and one for the Prague).
The story is certainly fun, and wildly satirical. Mr Brouček appears in two stories (both of which have an Act I and an Act II; there are two Parts). It all starts in Prague, in 1888, on a moonlit night in Hradčany. Matěj Brouček is drunk (Peter Hoare was rarely without a beer bottle on the Barbican Hall stage); he meets Málinka, who is upset about her two-timing lover Mazal (who happens to be Brouček’s tenant). After offering to marry Málinka, he changes his mind and dreams of an easier life on the moon. Scene 2 of Act I is a moonscape, and it turns out Brouček might have made a blunder: the moon is an artist colony and a haven for intellectuals (hated by Brouček). He meets the ‘lunar artist’ Blankytný (Mazal’s lunar twin) who has a passion for Etherea (Málinka). After singing a hymn to healthy living, Etherea falls in love with Brouček, and flies away with him (on Pegasus) to the Temple of the Arts. Act II of Part 1 takes place there, where Brouček is the newest craze in lunar art. He is attacked for eating a sausage and flees. Finally for the first part, a return to Prague, where Mazal and Málinka return home at daybreak. They are told by a waiter that Brouček is in a drunken haze, but the lovers can only see each other,
The trip to the Prague of the fifteenth century begins at the Castle of St Wenceslas. Broućek falls, drunk, into a cellar where he meets various personages from the distant past, including the poet Svatopluk Čech, who regrets what he sees as the moral decline of the Czech nation. And so to The Old Town Square in 1420: the city is under siege from the German armies of the Holy Roman Empire. Brouček is mistaken for a German spy. In the second act, Brouček finds he must defend Prague, and exits. He is accused of treason and sentenced to death in a burning barrel. Off now to 1888, and the Prague of the very opening of the evening. Brouček is found in a barrel.
The piece is of astonishing invention: Janáček’s maverick originality is rarely as clear as here. And neither has the orchestral contribution been so uniformly revealed. The opening is technically complex, with its recurring stopped horn colour destabilising the strings, and those characteristic Janáček, slab-like juxtapositions. High strings were as silk, and preternaturally together. The opera needs someone who fully understands the composer’s way of working, and Rattle fits the bill perfectly. Those juxtapositions can work on the micro-scale, too, between individual gestures, and here, Rattle brought out the LSO’s quicksilver responses. One also felt pre-echoes of Janáček’s Sinfonietta (1926) in some of the brass writing, glowingly performed here. Solo violin contributions by leader Benjamin Marquise Gilmore were finely projected, real highpoints. The orchestra used is large, and the composer finds a symphony of colour; not least in the use of bagpipes (Bert Van Troyen).
Peter Hoare’s assumption of Brouček was a miracle: drunk yet nuanced, and absolutely untiring (the writing is pretty relentless). As Mazal, Aleš Briscein was unrelentingly loud in the first part (which befits a certain type of drunk, of course), his upper register strong and fearless. There are three female parts, all superbly taken: soprano Lucy Crowe who vocally shapeshifted between Málinka, Etherea, and Kunka, while revealing a wonderfully silvery tone; soprano Doubravka Novotná, glistening, full-voiced; and finally soprano Hanna Hipp, who never fails to impress and so Kedruta was no exception.
If I found Dutch tenor Linard Vrielink rather quiet, the experienced Stephan Rügamer was a delight, giving his all in three roles. Baritone Gyula Orendt was a firm Sacristan (both in the Prague of the 1880s and of the 1400s), fellow baritone Lukáš Zeman a firm landlord; anther time-shifting character who kept his profession was sung by Arttu Kataja, both poet and lunar poet, finely etched in both.
The chorus was luxury casting in itself: Tenebrae (Nigel Short was the chorus director), faultless throughout. The male voices are particularly called upon, and shone; in the second part, the chorus becomes a Slavic church choir, a remarkable feint beautifully done here.
Of course, this is not the first Barbican Brouček: Jiří Bělohlávek conducted it there with the BBC Symphony Chorus and Orchestra; the only shared cast member was Aleš Briscein. That performance was released by DG and the Rattle performance will make a valuable addition to the Brouček discography.
Colin Clarke