Janáček: The Makropulos Case
Prague National Theatre Chorus and Orchestra
Bohumil Gregor, director
Main Cast: Libuše Prylová (Emilia Marty), Ivo Žídek (Albert Gregor), Rudolf Vonásek (Vitek), Helena Tattermuschová (Kristina), Premsyl Kocí (Jaroslav Prus), Viktor Kocí (Janek), Karel Berman (Dr. Kolenatý)
Recorded December 1965 – January 1966, Domovina Studio, Prague
Label: Supraphon 10 8351-2 (2 CDs)
Reissue available on Decca
Encountering this 1960s Supraphon recording of Janáček’s The Makropulos Case—under the stewardship of Bohumil Gregor—is like stepping into a time capsule, yet one that refuses to feel dusty or antiquated. The Prague National Theatre ensemble here is steeped in the idiomatic Czech sound world, which is no small matter: Janáček’s operatic language is notoriously steeped in the rhythms and — well — intonations of Czech speech, a quality so often lost or diluted in foreign productions.
The naturalistic declamation of the singers—especially the Czech cast—rings true to the composer’s vision, a feature that Gregor embraces with evident understanding. Libuše Prylová’s Emilia Marty is a study in vocal iciness; her soprano does not luxuriate in lyric beauty but rather cuts with a metallic edge, the kind of steely timbre that initially unsettles yet gradually convinces as the embodiment of a 300-year-old woman burdened with weary immortality. She occasionally “warbles” just above the stave, a slight vocal looseness that might raise eyebrows elsewhere, but here it feels like a deliberate expressive choice, a theatrical rasp that underscores the character’s fragility masked by arrogance.
One can almost smell the cigarette smoke curling around her during that anguished outburst in Act III—“God give me patience!”—where the voice, though not conventionally radiant, carries that unmistakable weight of lived experience and disillusionment. Contrast this with the more celebrated Mackerras Decca version, where Elizabeth Söderström’s warm, lyrical soprano lends Emilia a seductive humanity more palatable to international tastes. Here on Supraphon, the vocal acting—Prylová’s forte—is compelling enough to make you reconsider what “beauty” in Janáček’s heroine truly means.
This is not a character to swoon over; she is a modernist mosaic of cynicism, ennui, and sharp intellect — and Prylová nails that ambivalence. The orchestra, too, is a revelation. Gregor’s tempos are brisk, the pacing taut—no room wasted.
His handling of the prelude’s angular melodies and abrupt fanfares captures the hustle and bustle of urban 1920s life with a jagged energy that’s utterly infectious. Those off-kilter rhythms, the restless syncopations, and — well — the brass’s acerbic bite come through with a physicality that is as much felt in the gut as heard in the ear. The overall sound is far cleaner and better balanced than one might expect from a 1960s Eastern bloc production; the recording engineers deserve credit for a clarity that allows the details—the rustling of paper in the office scenes, the whispered conspiracies, the band’s subtle color shifts—to emerge without clutter.
The supporting cast, all native Czech speakers, handles Janáček’s mercurial vocal lines with a naturalness often lacking in other interpretations. Ivo Žídek as Albert Gregor offers a commanding baritone, clear and incisive, capturing the character’s legalistic obstinacy without caricature. Helena Tattermuschová and Rudolf Vonásek provide nuanced dramatic shading in their respective roles, rounding out an ensemble that sounds less like performers and more like collaborators in a living theatrical event.
The Prague National Theatre Chorus is neither overused nor underpowered; their integration into the texture — particularly in tense courtroom moments, is exemplary. That said, this set suffers slightly by comparison with the Mackerras Decca edition, which boasts superior booklet notes authored by the scholar John Tyrrell, whose insight is invaluable for any Janáček enthusiast. Supraphon’s accompanying booklet, sprinkled with timing errors and typographical slips, feels amateurish in contrast.
That particular brightness of period instruments catches the ear.
Still, at budget or mid-price points, this release offers a compelling alternative: an authentic, Czech-inflected Makropulos that exudes a certain raw immediacy. In the end, it’s a matter of taste. If you seek polished lyricism and a more international vocal sheen, Mackerras and Söderström remain the yardstick.
But if you crave idiomatic nuance, vocal characterisation steeped in lived theatrical experience, and — well — an orchestra that breathes the very essence of Janáček’s modernist idiom, Gregor’s 1960s Prague realization stands firm. It’s no mere historical curiosity; it’s a vibrant, crackling interpretation that reminds us how Janáček’s work is best understood from within his homeland’s language and culture. This Makropulos is, despite its imperfections, a recording that deserves to be heard, appreciated, and reconsidered—not least for the — way it confronts the opera’s themes of aging, identity, and the enigmatic persistence of life with an uncompromising gaze.
For all those intrigued by Janáček’s late style and the Czech operatic tradition—this is a listening experience that lingers long after the final note.
