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Hoffmann, Abridged and Sublime! Lübeck
Theater
01/05/2026 - & February 7, 19, March 8, 20, April 19, May 16, 23, June 5*, 18, 2026
Jacques Offenbach: Les Contes d’Hoffmann
Konstantinos Klironomos (Hoffmann), Frederike Schulten (La Muse, Nicklausse), Jacob Scharfman (Lindorf, Coppélius, Le docteur Miracle, Dapertutto), Wonjun Kim (Cochenille, Pitichinaccio), Sophie Naubert (Olympia), Andrea Stadel (Antonia), Aditi Smeets (Giulietta), Delia Blacher (La voix de la mère), Tomasz Mysliwiec (Nathanaël, Spalanzani), Viktor Aksentijevic (Hermann, Schlemil), Changjun Lee (Crespel)
Chor und Extrachor des Theater Lübeck, Jan‑Michael Krüger (chorus master), Philharmonisches Orchester Hansestadt Lübeck, Takahiro Nagasaki (conductor)
Philipp Himmelmann (stage director), David Hohmann (sets), Meentje Nielsen (costumes), Falk Hampel (lighting), Michael Sangkuhl (dramaturgy)
K. Klironomos (© Olaf Malzahn)
Often produced as a sentimental and literal telling of three stories of unfulfilled love, Les Contes d’Hoffmann still holds appeal thanks to its abundantly melodious arias. However, a thorough study of Offenbach and of the opera’s inspiration and hero, German poet E.T.A. Hoffmann, reveals the depth of the work, too often dismissed as minor, and sometimes derided as grand operetta.
Both Jacques Offenbach (1819 1880) and Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann (1766‑1822) were ardent admirers of Mozart. Hoffmann, who added Amadeus to his birth name, was a jurist, composer, musician, caricaturist, poet and a major writer in the fantastic (horror) genre, a quintessential element of romanticism. Offenbach’s opera uses three of his works, Der Sandmann (1816), Rath Krespel (Councillor Krespel or the Cremona Violin) (1818) and Das verlorene Spiegelbild (The Lost Reflection) (1814) as the basis for Les Contes d’Hoffmann’s three acts, making E.T.A. Hoffmann the protagonist in all three.
The influence of Hoffmann in literature and on culture in general cannot be underestimated. Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker is based on Hoffmann’s Nussknacker und Mausekönig (1816); Delibes’ ballet Coppélia is based on Der Sandmann; Schumann’s Kreisleriana (1838) is based on three of his tales; and the supernatural elements in Ingmar Bergman’s film Fanny and Alexander (1982) derive from various stories by Hoffmann. The author’s stories of the supernatural could be considered precursors of the horror and science fiction literary styles. His short story Vampirismus (1819) preceded Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897) by almost eighty years.
Few are aware of Hoffmann’s novella, Don Juan (1814), a supernatural take on the legendary character, fascinatingly written in the first person. It is no coincidence that in the Prologue, the diva Stella, the only flesh and blood woman among Hoffmann’s women, is in Nuremberg to sing Donna Anna in Don Giovanni. Moreover, one of Nicklausse’s first utterances is “Notte e giorno faticar”, precisely Leporello’s opening line in Don Giovanni.
Both Don Giovanni, in Mozart’s eponymous opera, and Hoffmann, in Offenbach’s ultimate work, search unsuccessfully for the ideal woman. Both their quests are threefold; the ewig‑weibliche (eternal feminine) is tentatively found in three women, Donna Anna, Donna Elvira and Zerlina for Mozart and Giulietta, Antonia and Olympia for Offenbach. It is not accidental that Offenbach based his three heroines on the three vocal types in Mozart’s Don Giovanni. Donna Anna and Giulietta are ideally sung by a soprano drammatico or spinto; Donna Elvira and Antonia by a soprano Lirico; and Zerlina and Olympia by a soprano leggero (though Zerlina is also sung by a mezzo leggero).
The idea of an abridged version of any work is troubling to most, but I confess I am no purist. Indeed, I welcome cuts in never‑ending baroque operas. In return for the cuts, the public got exactly two hours of uninterrupted music without intermission, a worthwhile compromise! In Germany, where operagoers are well versed in Wagner, two hours is no more than the first act of Götterdämmerung, and bathroom breaks are not as needed. In contrast, some audiences are accustomed to two‑hour Puccini operas with two or three intermissions.
Regarding the cuts, it greatly matters just what is being cut. A friend who had read reviews of the present production informed me of the cuts and was worried one of the acts would be omitted. That is most unlikely, as the three women combined represent the ewig‑weibliche, and one of the three women cannot be altogether amputated. Fortunately, the cuts were astute and mostly welcome, involving secondary characters. In the prologue, the character of Andrès, who sells Lindorf Hoffmann’s letter destined to Stella for forty thalers, is omitted. The letter is simply given to the conniving man by Hoffmann’s friend, Nicklausse. The minor characters of the tavern owner Luther and the drinking students Hermann and Nathanaël are still present, but much of their lines are cut. Interestingly, the students’ taunting of Luther is taken overboard and the poor man is tormented and even beaten up (which was rather gratuitous but perhaps the director felt it necessary to instill an element of terror). The ballad of Kleinzach was slightly shortened, but all the challenging notes were left intact.
In Act I, the initial interaction between Hoffmann and Spalanzani was removed, as were some of the servant Cochenille’s lines. In Act II, the servant Franz’s ballad, “Jour et nuit, je me mets en quatre”, as well as this entire comic character were eliminated. For sure, it’s a cherished character tenor aria that provides comic relief, but at the expense of a deaf man, a reprehensible concept in our politically correct world. Also, unless it is sung by a native speaker or a tenor aware of the French style and with exceptional diction, it’s of little value.
In Act III, Schlémil and Pitichinaccio’s lines that follow the Barcarolle are cut, as are some of Dapertutto and Giulietta’s lines that follow Dappertutto’s aria, “Scintille, diamant”. The latter makes the gravity of the pair’s plot hard to understand for someone unfamiliar with the opera. However, one serious cut is the glorious septet, “Hélas ! mon cœur s’égare encore ! Mes sens se laissent embraser. Maudit l’amour qui me dévore !”. This is a great loss both musically and dramatically. It is the most passionate passage in Hoffmann’s music and it distills the essence of his Romantic nature. This is the only cut in the opera that I found truly lamentable.
Of course, the huge advantage gained by having no intermission is rendering the action more compact and the drama more intense. In Philipp Himmelmann’s staging, this was almost necessary, for he correctly views Les Contes d’Hoffmann as a drama about the poet E.T.A. Hoffmann and more importantly about an artist’s tribulations.
The three stories are no longer what we are used to but rather episodes of creative fiction in the mind of Hoffmann. Lindorf/Coppélius/Docteur Miracle/Dapertutto are not the characters we are used to but merely a sinister presence. In Act II, no actual Dr Miracle comes knocking, hence the redundancy of Franz. The evil doctor is merely a malignant presence that poisons the mind of Antonia. The fact that we had the same sets despite the revolving stage that could afford different ones confirms the entire opera is in Hoffmann’s mind.
Himmelmann uses a brilliant device to let us know his vision: each of the three women sings her main aria by reading pages handed out by Hoffmann, hinting that what we see on stage may merely be in the poet’s mind. At the end of the opera, we have an assembly of all the characters on a revolving stage showing the three women and their entourage as images in Hoffmann’s imagination. This is yet another hint that all three stories are just rambling in the poet’s mind. This elevates Offenbach’s opera from a triptych of Hoffmann’s stories to an examination of the poet’s creative mind. As a creator himself, I believe this is how Offenbach perceived his opera.
In this production, the use of two devices helped produce a splendid production, despite limited means: the aforementioned rotating stage and the imaginative use of lighting. The rotating stage allows the constant moving between scenes. By using body doubles for Hoffmann and Olympia, we go through a whirlpool of images alternating between the two singers and their body doubles, producing an allusion of dizzying hallucinations by Hoffmann.
Offenbach’s masterpiece, though premiered several decades after the prototype horror operas, Weber’s Der Freischütz (1821), Marschner’s Der Vampyr (1828) and Wagner’s Der fliegende Holländer (1843), is very much an integral part of the genre. It is refreshing that Himmelmann viewed Les Contes d’Hoffmann through this prism. Perhaps Lübeck’s opera company’s means are limited, but with ingeniosity, much can be done with reduced means. Falk Hampel’s lighting accomplished what costly sets could not: a sense of dread.
Influences of Murnau’s Nosferatu (1922) and Dreyer’s Vampyr (1932) can be sensed throughout the expert use of lighting to create terrifying elongated shadows. One misses the opulence of Giulietta’s Venetian act and the usual recreation of the interior of an opera house in Antonia’s act, but a sumptuous red velvet dress is used to recreate the effect of Antonia’s mother’s glorious operatic career. Moreover, the mother does not come out of a painting as is almost always the case; here she simply slithers from behind the bar, almost as a hallucination by an inebriated Hoffmann. By having mezzo Delia Blacher, a slender, tall black‑haired singer portray her, an image of Morticia Addams from the familiar 1960s Addams Family television series is brilliantly evoked.
The demanding role of Hoffmann requires a beautiful lyric tenor voice that is heavier than usual. Being a French work, it requires someone who has excellent diction in the language of Molière. Most of all, it requires a subtle and rare quality: ardour. Hoffmann is one of the most desperately passionate characters in opera. Greek tenor Konstantinos Klironomos has all these qualities and more. He is a good actor and is able to convey the poet’s credulity as well as his passion. How else would Hoffmann fall for a mechanical doll, a sickly singer and an obviously debauched Venetian courtesan? Child‑like, Hoffmann is inspired by these diverse women in his naïve quest for the ideal woman.
What is truly remarkable about Klironomos is his total ease in the upper register. Endowed with a beautiful middle voice, one had fears he could not sustain these brilliant high notes by the end of the performance, given how intensely he was singing from the start. Yet, at the opera’s conclusion, his easy emission was as outstanding as it was in his Kleinzach ballad at the beginning. That ballad had the right tone, with the poet wandering from storytelling to his own personal predicament. It’s noteworthy to mention that the famous Kleinzach ballad is based on yet another E.T.A. Hoffmann satirical fairy tale, Klein Zaches genannt Zinnober (1819).
Equally impressive was the tenor’s excellent French diction, rare among non‑native speakers. His every word was perfectly clear and understandable. Indeed, almost all the singers had good‑to‑excellent diction, which is truly admirable in a small opera company in Germany mostly attended by locals. Clearly, Klironomos understood the distinct French style of singing, for at no time did he allow his passion to make him adopt the Italian style, antithetical in this role. With such a brilliant singer, so capable of expressing the poet’s ardour, the omission of the Venetian act’s septet, “Hélas ! mon cœur s’égare encore !”, is my greatest reproach.
Last season, Montréal opened its season with Don Giovanni, and the revelation was young Canadian soprano Sophie Naubert as Zerlina, a role I usually dislike. Yet, she was the most remarkable singer in that performance. Endowed with a luminous stage presence, a beautiful timbre and clear diction, I immediately knew this young singer would go far. Indeed, she was the reason I included Lübeck on my travel itinerary, for she is (as of this season) part of this local opera company’s ensemble. Indeed, a wise choice for young North American singers. Through an ensemble, she will get the chance to enact several roles in her Fach, a truly golden opportunity.
Himmelmann opted for a different type of mechanical doll from the usual porcelain-faced rigid automaton. Naubert portrayed Olympia as a mysterious creature dressed in red lace, which also covered her face. Possibly the omission of Olympia’s face is a reflection of a sexualized view of the least sexual of the opera’s three heroines. As previously mentioned, her “Les oiseaux dans la charmille” (the Doll Song) was executed as if it were a spontaneous exercise of sightreading verses written by the poet. The choreography was brilliantly executed to reflect Olympia’s reading of Hoffmann’s poetry, often staccato due to her brusque movements. This enabled the introduction of a distinct sense of humour, far more subtle than the usual antics associated with this aria. Naubert impressed with both her movements as a mechanical doll and her coloratura. Her popular aria was elegantly executed, with brilliant high notes. As a native French speaker, her diction was exemplary and her words easily understood. Given the aria’s popularity and Naubert’s excellence, it was the piece that elicited the most applause.
German lyric soprano Andrea Stadel portrayed an unusual Antonia. Instead of simply being the daughter of a recently deceased opera diva, she is not only afflicted with a weak heart that can lead to premature death if she follows her mother’s footsteps; she seems to be seriously infirm both physically and psychologically. This is a macabre portrayal that Stadel channeled masterfully. This choice by the director was unusual and remained a mystery. It certainly amplified the pathos of the character. Her main aria, “Elle a fui, la tourterelle”, was appropriately melancholy and even heartbreaking. Her trio with Dr Miracle and her mother’s voice was perfectly directed, in part thanks to this bizarre choice.
Dutch soprano Aditi Smeets was a majestic Giulietta, elegant yet rather reprehensible. She magnificently portrayed a courtesan, a historic euphemism for a present day poule de luxe (a high class prostitute). She is under the spell of evil Dapertutto (a name signifying Everywhere in Italian, like an omnipresent evil spirit). The role demands a particular colouring of the voice to convey Giulietta, who is seductive, manipulative and cold. Smeets perfectly channeled this tragic figure, yet she eschewed vulgarity, both vocally and dramatically. As with some in her condition, she has an addiction, not to drugs but to diamonds. Unlike other interpretations, Himmelmann chose to make her ice cold, and she was up for the challenge. Her rich soprano blended perfectly with Nicklausse’s mezzo in the opera’s most popular tune, “Belle nuit d’amour” (The Barcarolle).
American baritone Jacob Scharfman was evil incarnate in all four roles he played, Lindorf, Coppélius, le Docteur Miracle and Dapertutto. Usually, these roles are sung by a bass‑baritone to emphasize the character’s menacing nature. Thanks to his immense charisma, that shortcoming was almost immediately forgotten. A brilliant actor, Scharfman did not hesitate to use his physicality to portray the lugubrious characters. Tall, slim and clearly athletic, he contorted like an acrobat, channeling actor Philippe Clay’s resident French cabaret singer in the legendary film Bell, Book and Candle (1958). A certain sexual ambiguity made him even more threatening than if he had been a basso profondo. His excellent diction was so convincing that I thought he was a native speaker. His “Je me nomme Coppélius” was deliciously performed.
In all four roles, Scharfman seemed to revel in being evil, which accentuated the opera’s comic‑tragic essence. Had Klironomos not been such a brilliant Hoffmann, Scharfman would have stolen the show hands down. The American baritone served another function. Through his brilliant portrayal, he provided a certain comic relief. In his condensing of the opera to fit into two uninterrupted hours, director Himmelmann omitted or greatly reduced the smaller roles, such as Franz and Cochenille, which served this function. Like Don Giovanni, described as a dramma giocoso, that served as a model for Offenbach’s choice of the three women that reflect those in Mozart’s masterpiece, Les Contes d’Hoffmann requires the chiaroscuro of alternating between tragedy and comedy.
Ossama el Naggar
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