How can it be that there is no trace of the text of a play that premiered in Madrid and Buenos Aires? And of which, coincidentally, only the reviews remain? Probably the main reason is that it was written by a feminist author at the beginning of the 20th century, poorly received for a thesis as simple in today's eyes as wanting to undo the myth of Don Juan.
That was the spark that composer Helena Cánovas (Tona, 1994) found to begin articulating an opera about Don Juan no existe by the Countess of San Luis, Carmen Díaz de Mendoza Aguado (1864-1929), someone about whom only a few lines in a Wikipedia entry have survived. "I couldn't let it escape," Cánovas remarks, who has spent three years devising how to recover an almost ghost play. When the content is not there, the good thing is that everything is possible and nothing is right or wrong, as long as the pretext is valid, as Cánovas's is to vindicate so many authors who have been silenced over the years. As if they had never existed.
One hundred years after the first and disastrous premiere of Don Juan no existe, Cánovas has proposed a new groundbreaking proposal, brave for a present that is not as modern as it is believed. As the Countess must have done at the time, a well-to-do lady who was one of the founders of the Lyceum Club Femenino along with other intellectuals of the time such as María de Maeztu and Clara Campoamor, but also a parliamentarian, albeit for a short time, of the National Consultative Assembly created by the dictator Miguel Primo de Rivera.
Cánovas's creation was presented this Thursday at the Perelada Festival, becoming the youngest opera director to star in an absolute premiere on the Alt Empordà stage. "Opera is alive and we are committed to new creation," summarizes its artistic director, Oriol Aguilà. In fact, Cánovas was the winner of the second edition of the Carmen Mateu Award, an award created in honor of the alma mater of the musical event to promote the career of young opera composers and dance dancers. Although her candidacy prevailed among forty others, when they called her to announce that she had won, the Catalan composer asked them if they were sure. For her, based in Germany for years, this has been her first commission in Spain.
The professional from Tona has succeeded in bringing to life a genre that often seems to be within reach of only a few. "I like to make music for everyone, not just for those who like it," she defends. This is evident in the hour and a bit that her Don Juan no existe lasts, where the impressive voices of a soprano, a baritone, and a tenor mix with expressions as unusual in an opera as "toxic" or "machista," adapting to a new style discussions so common in other spaces, such as social media or other artistic genres. Even one of the singers wears Vans.
Insecurity, doubts, fear, failure, that is, imposter syndrome, but also gaslighting, pursue the protagonist, or protagonists, of this Don Juan no existe. "The Don Juans of this world want us silent," "do what you're good at, you're not good at writing, you were born this way: woman," society tells her, even throwing in a "why are we so afraid of women's screams?" that sounds like Rigoberta Bandini. As could not be otherwise, the ofendiditos (easily offended) also appear on stage when their reign begins to crack, wounded and on alert, feeling disarmed before expressions like "micromachismos" (microaggressions) and "empathy", complaining that now "you can't have a contrary opinion" or "they make them feel guilty for being born a man."
A strong Natalia Labourdette is in charge of representing the countess, an excuse to talk about all the women who have ever wanted to be something different from what was expected of them. Of course, without forgetting to clarify something: "I'm from Vallecas, I'm not much of a countess." All of this, accompanied by a successful musical ensemble directed by Jhoanna Sierralta, visible to everyone to better appreciate them. She, a Venezuelan living in Alcalá de Henares, received the call to participate in the project while eating at a Vips and, like Cánovas, she couldn't believe it either. In addition, the strings (Cosmos Quartet), percussion (Miquel Vich), and saxophone (Helena Otero) are complemented by a bit of electronics, commanded by Cánovas herself, a tool that manages to amplify what drowns her characters, further distorting what is true or not in this fiction.
Insecurity, doubts, fear, failure, that is, the impostor syndrome, but also gaslighting, pursue the protagonist: "Silent they want us, the Don Juans of this world"A music and a libretto, sometimes complicated to follow, that coexist with the few elements on stage.Stage director Bárbara Lluch manages to be forceful with only black and white, like the text of the countess that was lost"What still doesn't exist are three women in relevant positions in an opera," Lluch points out. It seems that the ink drowns the countess, until her memory, and that of many others, begins to cleanse the oblivion.
Special mention to the tribute to all the other intellectuals and artists mistreated by time with which Cánovas' opera closes. Even if it's only on stage for a few minutes, something must be done because, as the libretto says, "there is no blank page but erased ink." Co-produced by the Perelada Festival, the Liceu and the Teatro de la Maestranza, Don Juan no existe will be seen next year at the Teatro Real and the Teatros del Canal in Madrid.