Rameau’s Platée at the State Opera

Jean-Philippe Rameau

Platée
au Junon jalouse

(review of a recorded theatre performance)

Czech Television, in collaboration with Ozango and Arte G.E.I.E.
Recorded at the State Opera, Prague, on 1^st June 2025.
Broadcast by Czech Television (ČT art) on 11^th May 2026.

review by Ivo Šindelář

Rameau’s comédie lyrique Platée, first performed in 1745 at Versailles on the occasion of the wedding celebrations of the French Dauphin Louis and the Spanish Infanta Maria Teresa Rafaela, has enjoyed a comparatively fortunate history from the outset. Even during the composer’s lifetime, it became one of his most successful operas and, after the enforced hiatus that befell the overwhelming majority of Baroque operas throughout the nineteenth century, it was also among the very first of them to return gradually to the stage during the twentieth century (already in Munich in 1901). To this day it remains one of his most frequently performed works. Alongside the intrinsic quality of Rameau’s music, this enduring popularity has undoubtedly been aided in no small measure by the opera’s unusual subject matter and by the unconventional casting of a male singer in the title role of the grotesque water nymph.

The plot derives from the ancient Greek—or more precisely Greco-Roman—traveller, writer and geographer Pausanias, while the libretto was written by Rameau’s contemporary Adrien-Joseph Le Valois d’Orville. In this connection, I find it particularly interesting that Rameau first purchased the rights to an earlier libretto, Platée ou Junon jalouse (Platée, or Jealous Juno) by Jacques Autreau, which d’Orville subsequently adapted for the composer. At a time when virtually nobody anywhere in Europe gave much thought to copyright in libretti, this is a small (yet revealing) detail. It also illustrates rather well the fact that Rameau clearly cared deeply about this particular subject and sensed in it considerable musical and dramatic potential. And indeed, his theatrical instinct proved fundamentally correct—albeit with certain reservations.

I do not know who wrote the accompanying text supplied by Czech Television for the recording under review, but the customary hyperbole in this instance verges more on standard marketing exaggeration: the original performance supposedly “caused a sensation” and provoked “outraged reactions”, while simultaneously “catapulting” the composer among the foremost musicians of his age…

The surviving contemporary sources suggest something rather more restrained: namely that the opera was simply successful and helped consolidate Rameau’s position even among his musical opponents from the camp of Italian comic opera during the celebrated Querelle des Bouffons. Even Rameau’s sworn adversary Jean-Jacques Rousseau described Platée as “divine”. Voltaire alone appears not to have been greatly impressed, dismissing the opera in a private letter as “the height of obscenity, boredom and insolence”. As one sees, even individuals of otherwise immense intellectual breadth are not always immune to strongly subjective judgements—or in this case condemnations.

The generally favourable reception was, quite certainly, supported not only by the undeniable qualities of Rameau’s music but also by the fact that the work was, in essence, an almost pure comic opera—something still rather exceptional in the French context of the period. Even today this very aspect often constitutes one of the principal attractions for stage directors. It allows them ample opportunity for inventive theatrical excess (or for supplying the obligatory “modern interpretation”), while at the same time presenting the work to contemporary audiences in a relatively accessible form, without the need for endless explanations of convoluted plot developments, as is so often the case with Baroque opera.

For precisely that reason, I do not think it necessary to recount the plot in detail here, especially since it can easily be found elsewhere. In brief, it is a morally ambivalent story in which the divine couple Jupiter and Juno successfully resolve their marital problems at the expense of the ugly and marriage-hungry water nymph Platée.

Apart from the quality of the orchestral performance, the opera quite simply stands or falls with the choice of the principal singer. It must be stressed that this is by no means a “standard” tenor role. Platée is exceptional not only dramatically but above all vocally: it is the highest-pitched male role in any of Rameau’s operas and belongs to the now exceedingly rare voice category of the haute-contre.

Put very simply, these were tenors capable of singing for extended periods in an exceptionally high tessitura without sacrificing a resonant middle and lower “bari-tenor” register. They therefore required not merely impressive upper notes but also a substantial vocal range. It is highly probable that their highest notes were achieved through a combination of natural voice and falsetto. Moreover, the voice needed sufficient carrying power, since such singers were frequently entrusted with heroic leading roles in serious operas on mythological or pseudo-historical subjects—which in the French operatic environment inevitably meant being able to project over orchestras numbering fifty or even sixty players.

They did not sing as high as modern countertenors, but paradoxically they had far more in common with Italian Baroque castrati than contemporary countertenors do. Their voices functioned throughout the lower and middle register with full chest resonance, only combining with falsetto or head voice (depending upon the interpretation and terminology used) at the very top, whereas in modern countertenors the balance is usually entirely reversed and, in practice, the overwhelming majority manage quite comfortably without any real chest register at all.

A genuine haute-contre therefore possesses a wholly distinctive hybrid timbre—part tenor, part alto—combined with sufficient vocal penetration. It most certainly should not be a small pseudo-buffo voice or an indistinct pseudo-“Baroque” tenor, still regrettably favoured by certain “Baroque specialists”.

The true driving force of the performance was unquestionably the Dutch tenor Marcel Beekman in the title role, which appears almost tailor-made for him. To avoid misunderstanding: rather than a young, albeit grotesque and ridiculous but still desirous nymph, what we saw before us was more of an ageing, slightly “worn” and faintly deranged aunt figure, visually recalling above all a travesty act from the 1990s or perhaps today’s American drag queens. Even so, I was grateful that the production avoided the all-too-common and heavy-handed “frog-like” visual stylisation. Naturally, there were hints of it here and there, but Rameau himself had already imbued the character musically with amphibian traits (for example her famous “Qui ! Qui !”, whose French pronunciation immediately evokes “Couac ! Couac !”, the croaking of a frog), so there is no real need to duplicate the effect with an overtly “frog-like” costume—particularly as we know that such an approach was not customary even in the eighteenth century. Subtle suggestion is often far more effective than cumbersome literalism.

Nor, outwardly speaking, was the acting excessively busy. For most of the performance Platée maintained a comically naïve demeanour, occasionally interrupted by flashes of mildly aggressive flirtation, until finally erupting in fully justified fury at the conclusion. All the more intense, therefore, was Beekman’s work with the voice itself. It was through the subtlest nuances of his singular instrument that he built the inner characterisation of the role—ultimately a far more effective and profound approach than endless frenetic stage antics and acrobatics, so fashionable in contemporary productions.

His performance encompassed not only the necessary comedy and playfulness (for instance, his continual teasing with both French pronunciation and “frog-like” articulation), but also moments of genuine warmth and the final outburst of anger. Yet, beyond expressive characterisation, the vocal achievement rested above all on solid technical foundations. Besides his handling of the unusual vocal colour, secure upper register and accomplished coloratura, he also possessed a full middle range and resonant lower notes, together with sufficient volume whenever required to dominate the entire theatre. In short, Václav Luks (or the management of the State Opera, or rather National Theatre) succeeded admirably in securing an outstanding interpreter for the title role.

Among the remainder of the cast, I should particularly like to single out the Israeli soprano Shira Patchornik as Folly. The role itself is not extensive, but musically and symbolically it occupies a highly prominent place within the opera.
It is interesting that the probably most famous aria in the work, “Aux langueurs d’Apollon”, delivered by Folly in the second act, is often described—owing to its extravagant virtuosity, extreme coloratura, bizarre cadenzas and absurdly pompous expression—as Rameau’s “parody” of the conventions of Italian opera seria. Yet at least one or two similarly virtuosic arias, closely approximating the contemporary Italian da capo aria in structure and musical language, may be found in virtually every Rameau opera, regardless of whether the work is tragic or comic.

The important point is that Shira Patchornik successfully combined reliable coloratura technique with genuine theatrical temperament. My sole reservation concerns the occasional—and, in my opinion, entirely unnecessary—shouting. I do not mean forceful singing, but actual spoken shrieks inserted into the aria, clearly a directorial idea. Such “vocal-dramatic” devices usually strike me as vulgar or simply superfluous in Baroque opera. As every good Tosca knows, one can “cry out” on the operatic stage with complete emotional conviction while still maintaining proper vocal technique (cf. Tosca's famous “Mario! Mario!” from the opera's finale).

The soprano Pavla Radostová, singing both Cupid and Platée’s companion Clarine, was given the opportunity to shine especially in her aria “Soleil, fuis de ces lieux” from the first act. Though brief, it is among the most beautiful and emotionally profound passages in the entire opera. It is an affecting musical lament, accompanied softly by concertante wind parts—particularly the oboe—and pizzicato strings. This small musical jewel would sit perfectly comfortably in any of Rameau’s serious operas.

The British tenor Ruairi Bowen appeared in the double role of Thespis and Mercury, thus taking on the second haute-contre part. If he was chosen precisely because his voice provided a marked contrast to Marcel Beekman’s tenor, then the decision was undoubtedly successful. Personally, however, I believe this is exactly the sort of voice unsuited by nature to the haute-contre repertoire: namely the narrow pseudo-“Baroque” tenor already mentioned above—however sympathetic and theatrically convincing the singer himself may have been. Admirers of very light lyric voices, however, were no doubt entirely satisfied.

The Slovak baritone Pavol Kubáň proved vocally dignified and theatrically appropriately comic as Jupiter, while his compatriot, the bass-baritone Tomáš Šelc, was both vocally and dramatically dependable as Satyr and Cithéron—another of the opera’s original double roles. The mezzo-soprano Michaela Zajmi likewise delivered a very solid performance as the jealous Juno.

An equal partner to all the soloists was naturally the experienced Collegium Vocale 1704 and, no less importantly, the dancers of the Ballet of the National Theatre Opera. As is well known, ballet occupied an entirely privileged position in French opera, and here too it formed an inseparable and active component of the drama. Thanks to Jan Kodet’s inventive choreography, the dancers clearly had ample opportunity to perform with exuberant energy, while still displaying admirable technical discipline.

I should certainly praise Václav Luks for daring to combine his resident period-instrument ensemble Collegium 1704 with selected members of the State Opera Orchestra. This blurring of artificially constructed boundaries seems to me extremely valuable and enriching for both sides: period players are forced to acknowledge that they do not possess an exclusive monopoly on Baroque music, while “modern” instrumentalists learn something about historical performance practice in return. The difficulty, however, often lies in the fact that the latter are subsequently disciplined by the conductor to such a degree—not merely regarding vibrato and phrasing, but also sheer sonic projection—that the result unnecessarily loses some of its drama, temperament and flair. I fear that this occurred here to a certain extent as well.

To avoid misunderstanding: the performance of the conductor and his “mixed” orchestra was of very high quality indeed—indeed excellent. The playing was refined, precise and rhythmically secure, while the ensemble between such disparate musicians was almost exemplary, something particularly worthy of praise. From my entirely subjective perspective, however, this impressive standard still lacked just a little more drive and final thrust that might have elevated the excellent orchestral craftsmanship into something truly exceptional.

Interpretatively, Václav Luks generally inclines more towards the “Apollonian” than the “Dionysian” principle. Under his direction performances tend to remain classically balanced and, even in moments of heightened drama, full of clarity, order and harmony. Were it not such an oversimplification, one might call it an “English school”, especially in contrast to the “French school” represented by conductors such as Marc Minkowski or Jean-Christophe Spinosi, whose approach is markedly more tempestuous and uninhibited. There is nothing inherently wrong with this; both principles are entirely legitimate and can in fact be successfully combined. Yet “Apollonian” restraint should never extend, in French operas of the mid-eighteenth century especially, to the size and impact of the orchestral sound itself.

I unfortunately experienced Luks’s interpretation only via recording, but even so, compared with renowned Rameau conductors such as William Christie or Christophe Rousset, his orchestral accompaniment appeared highly sophisticated yet at times unnecessarily delicate. And I do not mean occasional loud percussive effects or Baroque “thunder”, but rather the orchestral playing itself, which sometimes seemed to lack a fuller “Rameau-like” richness and density of colour.

In this connection, I should like to emphasise one rather fundamental fact. By the middle of the eighteenth century—that is, roughly speaking, the transitional period between Baroque and Classicism—virtually all major European opera centres already employed orchestras of fifty or more players! This applied not only to Paris but equally to Naples and Dresden, the principal centres not merely of French opera but of Italian and German opera as well. Even smaller important theatres commonly maintained around forty orchestral musicians, while provincial theatres generally employed at least thirty. Ensembles of twenty players belonged chiefly to the private court chapels of lesser aristocrats by that time, not to standard opera orchestras! Václav Luks is evidently well aware of all this, yet even with an enlarged ensemble he occasionally remained, despite undeniable refinement, unnecessarily restrained in purely sonic terms.

The production itself (SKUTR = Martin Kukučka and Lukáš Trpišovský), together with the stage design and visual conception (sets and video design by Jakub Kopecký, costumes by Simona Rybáková), was of a very solid European standard. Anyone familiar with earlier and contemporary Rameau productions—particularly French ones—was unlikely to encounter many surprises, yet the staging unquestionably functioned very effectively as a whole and, with perhaps one or two exceptions, avoided the gratuitous vulgarities still so beloved by some of our German neighbours. The mixture of fairy-tale retro aesthetics with modern elements fortunately never felt forced, and above all the majority of the ideas employed were genuinely functional rather than cheaply self-indulgent.

In conclusion:

Platée is unquestionably a remarkable, original and highly individual work, and the level of Rameau’s invention remains consistently high throughout, including many smaller innovations. Personally, I would not place it at the absolute summit of Rameau’s operatic achievement, though this is naturally a matter of subjective judgement. In my opinion, the fundamental problem already lies within the libretto itself: I almost entirely miss even the faintest attempt at deeper psychological insight. This may sound paradoxical in relation to a comic work, but operatic history offers many examples proving that comedy and psychological depth are by no means mutually exclusive.

One need only compare Mozart’s two great comic operas, Le nozze di Figaro and Così fan tutte. Despite all its exuberant comic frenzy, the former is psychologically immeasurably richer and more complex, capable—even without any modern reinterpretation—of conveying universally human experience and genuine catharsis. The latter, by contrast, endlessly invites attempts at “deep” interpretation, yet for all its undeniable musical brilliance its psychological substance remains essentially banal and cynical.

To a considerable extent, I believe this is equally true of Rameau’s Platée.

For although the libretto appears to mock everyone and everything—not merely the unfortunate, ugly and marriage-hungry nymph herself, but also unfaithful husbands, jealous wives and indeed the institution of marriage as a whole (surely not by accident is Folly one of the principal characters)—its original message is in reality rather one-sided and deeply cynical.

Platée is not driven primarily by overreaching ambition. She is not someone striving at all costs to climb an imaginary social ladder towards a station that does not properly belong to her, which might at least partially justify her subsequent humiliation. She is not the proverbial “bourgeois” aspiring absurdly to “gentilhomme” (or, mutatis mutandis, “gente dame”). Her ridiculousness lies not in excessive ambition but in her very “frog-like” nature—which, in the middle of a marsh, is not ridiculous at all, since there a frog belongs entirely naturally. In essence, all the poor, ugly nymph genuinely longs for is love—and by extension marriage.

Reality functions here in precisely the opposite way. In the course of settling the marital and extramarital scores of the powerful, Platée is first lured under false pretences out of her “swamp” (= her relatively content though imperfect existence), then thoroughly used as a mere prop, and once her purpose has been fulfilled she is discarded without the slightest remorse and publicly humiliated, while the powerful, reconciled thanks to her sacrifice, continue serenely with their privileged lives. Such, sadly, is often the way of the world.

Fortunately, this morally rather troubling story is presented through Rameau’s masterly music in a profoundly compelling manner—a fact convincingly demonstrated by this accomplished and highly successful production.

Platée – trailer.

The Czech original of the text was published on polyharmonie.cz.

Rameau’s Platée at the State Opera

Jean-Philippe Rameau

Platée au Junon jalouse

In conclusion:

Links

Platée
au Junon jalouse