The first time I heard the title of this opera, I was reminded of Franz Kafka’s grotesque short story In the Penal Colony (1914-19), in which a prisoner is sentenced to have his punishment – a warning – engraved on his skin, after which he must feel for himself what is written. In Written on Skin, which premiered in 2012 and quickly became something of a modern classic in opera houses around the world, the writing on the skin takes the form of caresses from a young illustrator who, in fact (!), is an angel. The story is set in the 13th century and appeared in Boccaccio’s Decameron from the following century, but it might just as well take place in a dystopian future.

In a land ravaged by war, violence, and horror, the illustrator is hired to create a book for a tyrannical and ultra-violent landowner, who, among other things, regards his wife’s body as his private property. The illustrator/angel, however, embarks on a passionate affair with this wife, and all hell breaks loose. Naturally, they both die, leaving the landowner alone with his bitter, useless victory, while the angel is resurrected and thereby becomes the true victor – and perhaps even a queer figure, as suggested by the voice type (countertenor).

The Royal Danish Opera’s production is highly convincing. Benjamin’s music roars and crashes, yet at the same time is curiously hushed in its distinctly economical use of means. It is hard as steel forks that, by some magic, are bent again and again, while its at times extremely powerful volume inscribes itself on the eardrums’ skin in silky writing.

English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek

Første gang, jeg hørte titlen på denne opera, måtte jeg tænke på Franz Kafkas groteske novelle I Straffekolonien (1914-19), hvor en fange bliver dømt til at skulle få sin straf – en formaning – indgraveret på huden, hvorefter han så skal mærke efter, hvad der står. I Written on Skin, der fik sin premiere i 2012 og hurtigt er blevet en slags moderne klassiker i operahuse verden over, er skriften på huden derimod kærtegn fra en ung illustrator, som i virkeligheden (!) er en engel. Historien er fra 1200-tallet og indgik i Boccaccios kollektivfortælling Dekameron fra det efterfølgende århundrede, men kunne lige så godt foregå i en dystopisk fremtid. 

I et land, hvor krig, vold og rædsel hærger, bliver illustratoren ansat til at lave en bog af en tyrannisk og ultravoldelig herremand, der bl.a. betragter sin hustrus krop som sin helt private ejendom. Illustratoren/englen indleder dog et passioneret forhold til denne hustru, og så er fanden løs. Naturligvis dør de begge, og herremanden står alene tilbage med sin bitre, ubrugelige sejr, mens englen genopstår og derved bliver den egentlig triumferende – og er måske en queerfigur, hvad stemmetypen (kontratenor) kunne indikere.

Det Kgl. Teaters opsætning er særdeles overbevisende. Benjamins musik larmer og brager, men er samtidig besynderlig tyst med sin udpræget økonomiske anvendelse af virkemidler. Den er hård som stålgafler, der på magisk vis bliver bøjet igen og igen, samtidig med at den undertiden meget kraftige lydstyrke skriver sig ind på trommehindernes hud med silkeblød skrift. 

»Your eyes are in reality luminous tunnels to another reality.« So goes one of the key lines in the opening song of Bent Sørensen’s song cycle Popsange, inspired by texts by Michael Strunge. It sets the tone and points toward the recurring lyrical themes: all-consuming love, the shared journey toward another place – and the eyes, always the eyes, appearing in almost every single song.

Mathias Monrad Møller sings with great sensitivity, bringing the text to life, and his interplay with Linda Dahl Laursen is strong. Yet Popsange has much more in common with lieder than with actual songs – not least because of the text’s at times highly poetic language. The tender, almost naïve voice of the lyrics receives its most convincing counterpoint from the piano, as in »Illusion«, where it first follows and supports the words, only to break out into rapid, dissonant chords that interrupt and almost mock the singer.

Still, traces of pop music can be found here and there. »Tid og rum« builds on repetitions with small variations, much like the verses of a pop song. And in »Hjertestrøm«, Møller colors his voice with a timbre that could easily fit on a pop album – not least because the piano here is delicate and playful, giving the voice more freedom.

All in all, Popsange is a pleasant listening experience, but I miss the presence of David Bowie and Lou Reed on the musical front. The work is at its most innovative where it dares to embrace pop. Imagine if the texts had been carried by actual verses, hooks, and choruses – elements that might have turned them into true earworms.

English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek

»Dine øjne er i virkeligheden lysende tunneller til en anden virkelighed.« Sådan lyder en af nøglelinjerne i åbningssangen til Bent Sørensens sangcyklus Popsange inspireret af tekster af Michael Strunge. Den slår tonen an og peger mod de gennemgående lyriske temaer: den altopslugende kærlighed, rejsen sammen mod et andet sted – og øjnene, altid øjnene, der dukker op i næsten hver eneste sang.

Mathias Monrad Møller synger med indlevelse og giver teksten liv, og samspillet med Linda Dahl Laursen er stærkt. Alligevel har Popsange langt mere karakter af lieder end af egentlige sange – ikke mindst på grund af tekstens til tider stærkt poetiske sprog. Den inderlige, næsten naive stemme i lyrikken får sit mest overbevisende modspil fra klaveret, som i »Illusion«, hvor det først følger og understøtter ordene, men snart bryder ud i hurtige, dissonerende anslag, der afbryder og næsten håner sangeren.

Men popmusikken anes hist og her. »Tid og rum« bygger på gentagelser med små variationer, som var det versene i en popsang. Og i »Hjertestrøm« farver Møller sin stemme med en klang, der uden problemer kunne passe ind på et popalbum – ikke mindst fordi klaveret her er spinkelt og legende og dermed giver stemmen friere plads.

Alt i alt er Popsange en behagelig lytteoplevelse, men jeg savner, at David Bowie og Lou Reed også mærkes på den musikalske front. Værket er nemlig klarest fornyende dér, hvor det tør tage poppen på sig. Tænk, hvis teksterne var blevet båret af faktiske vers, hooks og omkvæd – elementer, der kunne have gjort dem til reelle ørehængere.

An injured swan lies buried in seaweed in a corner of the hall, while four lifeless bodies are scattered across the floor. More seaweed hangs from the ceiling, and the smell hits us already as we step through a bluish, latex-like curtain. The foyer was filled with heaps of seaweed and leftover plastic, and now we are inside an unfamiliar underwater landscape. The bluish light flickers on the wall, the soundscape murmurs faintly like a distant current of noise. We are underwater.

Slowly, bodies come back to life. They stretch in movements of suffering, stagger, struggle – but they rise. Subtle beats and Mads Emil Nielsen’s restless drones push the scene forward. The question of what has happened is rhetorical: everything points to climate catastrophe. Roskilde Fjord has overflowed its banks. Humans continue – despite a state of emergency, despite the flood – while the swan has succumbed.

The dystopia comes alive as the dancers, with impressively exploratory movements, search for ways to adapt to a new world. Here scenography, light and dance interact powerfully, and the senses are overwhelmed. That is precisely why it is a pity that the sound quality feels flat, when the sonic dimension plays such a role in the storytelling.

Still, Vi fortsætter... (We Continue…) succeeds in creating a universe that is at once absurd and all too recognizable. It recalls a gentler version of Ruben Östlund’s Force Majeure: the comic and tragic traits of human nature set against the inexorable forces of nature.
In the end, the dancers leave the stage and we are left in silence – with the afterthought of why we continue like this, and with the sensation of treading water long after leaving the fjord’s flooded universe.

English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek