Katibu di Shon, opera, seen on the Opening Night, July 1st 2013 at the Stadsschouwburg Amsterdam
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| Foto © Marco Borggreve, De Nationale Reisopera |
When I go
watch a performance, I like to use the degree to which it manages to trigger my
emotional involvement as an indicator of how I should position my professional
analysis of the piece. I call it my Chicken Skin Meter. ‘Chicken skin’ being
the Dutch equivalent of goose bumps. Another famous Dutch saying is: ‘the
monkey comes out of the sleeve’, which is an expression used when an inevitable
truth finds a way to come out, even when the odds are against it. That is
exactly what Tania Kross, Carel de Haseth and Randal Corsen did when they
created Katibu di Shon, the first opera ever written in Papiamentu, the native
language of Curaçao. This opera is in many ways ‘the monkey that came out of
the sleeve’. It is a testimony of the power of a language spoken by less than
half a million people worldwide, in conveying emotions in an art form that is
considered by many to be the greatest of all the performing arts, due to the
almost impossible combination of talent, diligence and craftsmanship it
requires to fully master it: the opera.
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| Foto © Marco Borggreve, De Nationale Reisopera |
Katibu di
Shon tells the story of a friendship between slave owner Wilmu and his slave
Luis and their shared love for a slave by the name of Anita. The two men were
born on the same day and they grew up as though they were brothers. Anita loves
both men, but chooses for Luis. Their love triangle ultimately leads to a
confrontation between the two men and they both deflect their anger and
frustration on Anita, who becomes the catalyst in this conflict. This story of
impossible love is set against the backdrop of the Great Slave Revolt of
Curaçao on August 17th, 1795.
Being a ‘Yu
di Kòrsou’, a child of Curaçao, from the moment the ensemble of the National
Opera and Concert Choir came onto the stage and sang the first notes of the
composition by Randal Corsen, my ‘chicken skin meter’ went off the charts.
Hearing twenty professional classical voices sing words in a language native to
me but foreign to them, in a style that is alien to the common cultural frame
of reference associated with this language, has something magical to it that is
difficult to explain. Opera is known for being a powerful and emotional form of
theatre that will usually touch you, even if you don’t understand all the
words. With Katibu di Shon, for the first time, I did not only feel the power
of the music, but I actually understood every single word. I believe I got a
brief feel of what an Italian must be experiencing when he witnesses Verdi’s La
Traviata performed in his native language. In my view, Papiamentu lends itself
perfectly to be sung in opera, due to its melodic nature and the decisive use
of vowels in short and clearly enunciated syllables. While some would think
that Papiamentu could never be a language for the opera, one can’t help but
recognize that it does an outstanding job at it. In no way inferior to Italian
or French, Papiamentu seems to feel very much at home as the newcomer among the
great Roman languages of the opera.
The fact
that the entire ensemble is made up of white singers enacting black slaves
makes that paradox even more noticeable. This unintended dramatic symbolism is
so strong that it could hardly be created if you would try to do it
intentionally. The neutral colored costumes they are wearing and the black
& white visual imagery, both designed by Jolanta Pawlak, create a calm and
solemn atmosphere, drawing all the attention to the colorful composition by
Randal Corsen. Adding further to the dramatic contrast of the opera, the
composition is surprisingly light and uplifting for the painful theme of the
piece. This is to a great extent thanks to the use of traditional local rhythms
and melodic styles, which Corsen brilliantly intertwines in a strong classical
composition to allow the actors ample room to perform their craft, but also
enough grasp of the local musical elements to convey emotions that probably
come close to what our ancestors must have felt. The local styles, such as the
waltz, dansa and even a hint of tambú, make this opera one of the most engaging
I have seen. Every time I drifted off in thought, suddenly there would be ‘a
little musical present’ that drew me right back into the show. Who would have
thought that the tambú, slave music that was expressly forbidden in the
sophisticated salons of the Dutch elite in the eighteenth century, would ever
find its way into an opera, performed amidst the gold-plated ornaments and
chandeliers of the prestigious Stadsschouwburg of Amsterdam.
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| Jeroen de Vaal en Tania Kross. Foto © Marco Borggreve |
The
libretto by Carel de Haseth, based on his own novel by the same name, is simple
yet effective. The story starts off rather flat, with the dialogues being
seemingly over illustrative, yet as the opera progresses, that element does
become somewhat Shakespearean in nature, with added poetic verses, mainly in
the monologues of the lead characters. Just before the top of the tension arch
of the show, the choir of slaves gives a vivacious reflection on their fate, in
a beautiful metaphorical comparison that de Haseth makes to the relentless
waves of the ocean crashing against the rocky shore of the island. I’m not sure
if it is entirely true to the spirit of that time and I have a hard time
believing this much reflective ability and poetic eloquence of the slaves in
the midst of a bloody revolt, but then again, I secretly think that is just my
own shortcoming, influenced by my rather conservative western education.
Of the
three lead actors, Tania Kross clearly feels most at home in the language,
adding perfect nuances, not only to the longer lines she delivers, but even to
individual words and the intonation of syllables, giving a unique personal
touch to her interpretation of the strong and loyal Anita. Considering the
amount of time the cast had to master the language, Peter Brathwaite’s
performance of slave Luis was outstanding. If not for some slight nuance
discrepancies in the language, I would have believed he was a Curaçao native.
Jeroen de Vaal is the least convincing of the three. In the role of slave owner
‘shon’ Wilmu he lacks the typical composure of superiority when he rapes Anita
who is waiting for Luis in the dark, but also the power of command and
persuasion when he tries to beat down the revolt of his slaves. I believe this
is owed in part to the clear fragile timbre of his tenor voice, which oddly
enough is also the element that actually carries the opera to its climax in the
most touching scene of all. When the revolt is beaten down and Luis is arrested
and sentenced to death, Wilmu visits him in prison, as he awaits his execution.
The two men stand head to head in an impossible confrontation, when they
literally collapse next to each other, leaning up against the rugged rock face
of the island, reminiscing their childhood. Slave and master, side by side like
two little boys, partners in crime and with a brotherly love that should
overcome all odds. And perhaps in a way, in the dramatic denouement at the end,
it actually does.
[from jairosays.wordpress.com]
