Review: Kerjäläisooppera
A CAN ALSO ACCEPT A BANK CARD
The beggar’s opera also bites as a critique of globalization
The audience was able to experience the harsh fate of the early 20th century proletariat in the criminal world of London and in the Finnish wilderness at the same time, when Brecht and Weill’s The Beggar’s Opera was performed at the Helsinki City Theatre and Sallinen’s The Red Line at the Finnish National Opera.
Of course, the works do not have much in common, after all, the critique of capitalism in The Beggar’s Opera works primarily by means of satire and alienation, while the power of The Red Line lies in its directly identifiable human destinies. Still, the social puncture of abscesses has the same purposes, and Sallinen has listened to his Weill.
The new interpretations also had something in common: in both cases, the temptation to bring the work up to date was not succumbed to, but the classics were kept in the epoch, but the skilfully stylised stage work emphasises their universality. There is also prickly humour and carnivalestics: preaching is not fashionable in Finland in the 21st century.
The era of the global market economy has certainly not overtaken Brecht’s social critique. The beggar’s opera transfers the laws of business to the world of crime and shows how greed, insensitivity and exploitation are rampant.
The performance at the Helsinki City Theatre has some funny tips for modern times. accept a bank card as a means of payment, and Song of the Instability of Human Conditions is performed in the shadow of shopping carts, palm trees and the wheel that turns the world – the text and stage images give an apt picture of the different aspects of globalisation.
Kari Heiskanen’s direction is so skilfully constructed, funny and even entertaining that at times I wondered if the ethos had given up.
Caricatures have been made of the characters, including blatant masks. They are not real people, but representatives of social status or aspirations.
The image of humanity conveyed by Heiskanen is chilling and brutal: everyone deceives everyone else and calculates only with their own interests in mind. No one seems to be talking to each other, but everyone is trying to communicate their message directly to the audience in accordance with today’s marketing mentality.
In the end, however, the theatrically joyful interpretation works, as there is never anything behind the laughter. There may be shivers of horror.
The Poor Man’s Theatre is mainly referred to by Katariina Kirjavainen’s set design, which leaves the large stage so bleak and empty that an alienating effect is guaranteed. Mika Ijäs’s lighting can mark, for example, the prison room, and the light ramps are also clearly visible.
The orchestra plays from the stage, which is sometimes pulled from behind the scenes onto the stage. Only at the end do we go to the side of kitsch, when the dreary back wall falls, the sky of freedom shines, and the police chief dressed in red arrives on a bicycle to save Puukko-Mackie from the noose. This is how the crooks get away with it – also in the Finnish economy!
The actors made the most of their characters and even managed the songs with flying colors. Oskari Katajisto was the charismatic and laconic Puukko-Mackie, and Vuokko Hovatta brought out the desires behind her Polly’s innocence.<BR
Riitta Havukainen was the epitome of double standards as the coquette Cecilia, and Kari Mattila was the police chief with a rude poker face. Laura Pyrrö made a brilliant opera diva parody as Lucuy – here is a modern opera singer who can also act! As a rough and whiskey-haired narrator, Leena Rapola kept a connection with the viewers and everyday life.
The orchestra played hard, and conductor Nick Davies even got a speaking role.