Russophobia: Boris Godunov and the Politics of Opera
Boris Godunov, a Russian opera, opened this year’s program at the Teatro alla Scala in Milan, Italy. Photo courtesy of Wikimedia.
The opening night of a new season at the Teatro alla Scala, Italy’s premier opera house, marks an important date in the social calendar of European elites. High-ranking politicians (including the Italian prime minister), renowned celebrities, and up-standing socialites never fail to attend. The event, which takes place in Milan, is broadcast on national television, and often sees people wait for hours in the winter cold to catch a glimpse of famous attendees. In many ways, opening night at La Scala is Europe’s own Met Gala.
The glamour which surrounds the event and the international attention it invites make choosing what opera to perform a delicate one. Indeed, selection for opening night is widely regarded as an indication of an opera’s canonical status. Such acclaim, of course, is premised upon scrutiny and responsibility. If the opera chosen by La Scala’s directors falls short of traditional standards, mediatic and public response may prove disastrous.
In hindsight, then, the troubled reception with which this year’s choice has been met comes as no surprise. Boris Godunov, the work chosen to headline La Scala’s new season, is an opera completed in the late 19th century by the Russian composer Modest Mussorgsky. It recounts the rise and fall of Tsar Boris Godunov, who ruled Russia from 1598 to 1605. The opera represents a visually striking epitome of Russian culture and history. Sung in Russian, it references political institutions such as the Duma (the lower house of Russia’s Federal Assembly), is imbued with Russian Orthodox allegories, and employs Russia’s monarchical history as its setting. Mussorgsky himself is considered to be one of the foremost exponents of Russian classical music. It is also worth noting how the opera was based on a play of the same name by Alexander Pushkin, an emblem of Russia’s literary tradition.
Given the current context of global geopolitics, the anger with which La Scala’s decision to stage Boris Godunov has been met is thus almost self-explanatory. In the hours before opening night, dozens of individuals gathered outside La Scala in firm protest, as they held signs with words like “Russia is a terrorist state” and “Russian culture only when the war is over.” Many of the protesters were Ukrainian natives who expressed discontent at an apparent endorsement of Russian culture. Set against the backdrop of the Russo-Ukrainian War, they claimed, performing Boris Godunov constitutes an act of Russian propaganda. Valeriya Kalchenko, one of the demonstrators, expressed frustration as to “why Italians tend to think Russian culture does not have anything to do with Russian government or the Russian people.” “It is all intertwined,” she noted, “with the medieval mentality that created Putin.”
Ukrainian officials appear to have been of the same opinion. In a letter to the management of La Scala, the Ukrainian consul for Milan demanded several weeks ago that a different work be chosen to headline the opera house’s opening night. When this effort failed to bring about any change in program, he decided to boycott the event.
Opening night at La Scala is no stranger to political protest of this kind. The event, in lieu of its social fame and aristocratic undertones, has often served as a platform for dissent. This year, for instance, Ukrainian protesters were flanked by Italians decrying the recent election of Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni, a political figure with a history of ultraconservative, neo-fascist beliefs. In 1968, opening night attendees were similarly greeted by a mass of anti-capitalist rioters in the most recent manifestation of a larger anarchist movement that was spreading throughout Italy.
That being said, this year’s protests deserve unusual attention. They deal not with domestic socioeconomic or political grievances, but with the survival of a nation and the immeasurable suffering of its people. When viewed as such, it is difficult to criticize the protests themselves. Indeed, it would be egregious to question their legitimacy. As a response driven by grief and months of devastation, they represent a quasi-cathartic process whose nature we can hardly comment upon as unaffected observers.
It is imperative, however, to distinguish between the emotional right to express dissatisfaction and the validity of a political claim. That is why assessing La Scala’s decision to perform Boris Godunov on its opening night is a complex task. It requires—to the extent that this may at all be possible—setting aside emotion in an attempt to objectively deconstruct the political implications of the decision itself.
When trying to do so, it is by no means difficult to side with the protesters. Boris Godunov is, after all, an ode to Russia. As noted earlier, the opera is filled with Russian cultural and historical tropes. In and of itself, this observation does not imply any condoning of Russian aggression in Ukraine. What is significant is that such tropes took center stage at an event of great importance. As such, they were the subject of public adulation. It is not difficult to see how one may mistake such approval for wider approbation of Russian practice. After all, culture, as a primary influence on the thought process of any individual, informs political decision-making.
This sort of tacit approval was accentuated by the appearance of important officials at La Scala’s opening night. Amongst those who attended the event were Italy’s prime minister, Giorgia Meloni, and president, Sergio Matteralla, as well as Ursula von der Leyen, the president of the European Commission. While by no means a reflection of official policy, the presence of such figures unquestionably falls short of other efforts taken by the EU and Italy to oppose Russian action.
When asked to comment on her decision to attend a Russian opera, Meloni replied, “We don't have anything against the Russian people, Russian history, Russian culture. We have something against those who have made the political choice to invade a sovereign country.” Von der Leyen similarly stressed the importance of separating politics and art. “We should not let Putin destroy Russian culture,” she affirmed. While admirable, such views stand at odds with prior policy decisions. In fact, von der Leyen and Meloni’s words appear to identify Vladimir Putin as the sole justifiable target of Western criticism and response.
Yet, this conclusion stands at odds with the effects of European sanctions against Russia. Rather than restrict their negative impact to Putin alone, measures such as indiscriminate aviation bans and total trade restrictions have inconvenienced the Russian people and sharply limited the exportation of Russian culture. Had such policy been followed, Boris Godunov too, as part of such culture, would have had to be replaced by La Scala. The fact that it wasn’t, and that officials decide to attend its showing, may suggest either an expedition to or a departure from what has until now been unequivocal opposition to Russia. Put differently, the linkage which politicians have up until now established between Putin and the rest of Russian society widens the implications of performing Boris Godunov.
This, of course, is the easier argument to make. It is far more difficult, and arguably more controversial, to cast La Scala’s decision to open with a Russian opera in positive light. And, yet, it is precisely such an interpretation that Boris Godunov merits.
Culture and politics are not inseparable. Indeed, while von der Leyen and Meloni’s comments may seem to be at odds with official policy vis-à-vis the Russo-Ukrainian crisis, they may be reframed in more agreeable terms. It is true that, for sanctions to be effective, they must have an effect not merely on Putin but also on wider Russian society. Their central purpose is to render action untenable not for a leader but for his subjects. Putin has shown little concern in response to international scorn and isolation. That is, direct external pressures have so far proven largely ineffective at incentivizing moderation in Russian foreign policy. External action, then, may prove more useful if able to solicit internal pressure. More crudely, popular uprising may be more persuasive than exclusion from banking services like SWIFT.
And yet, to suggest that Boris Godunov, or for that matter any other Russian art work, could elicit such pressures would be a gross misrepresentation of the forces which drive domestic politics. It is difficult to see how, or indeed why, the Russian people would care about Boris Godunov not being performed. In a country with a median income nearly five times less than that of the United States and where nearly half the population lives on less than $1000 dollars a month, economic, not artistic, concerns are likely to drive popular dissatisfaction. A Western rejection of Russian culture would thus serve little political purpose.
If anything, the Russian propaganda machine would likely weaponize a European decision to replace Boris Godunov with a different, non-Russian opera. Over the past few months, Putin has repeatedly tried to depict his aggressive actions as a necessary response to Western encroachment upon Russian values. In a speech to the Russian people on September 30, he described Western nations as “the enemy,” claiming “their hegemony has a pronounced character of totalitarianism, despotism and apartheid.” It is easy to say how the cancelling of Boris Godunov would fit seamlessly into such rhetoric. Russia’s media would have no trouble casting the West as an autocrat intent on stifling Russian identity and culture, and Putin as the latter’s defender.
The reasons for which La Scala was right in opening its season with Boris Godunov, however, extend beyond merely political observations. The ultimate justification for Modest Mussorgsky’s opera lies in its narrative details. Boris Godunov is a story of power and violence, and how the two are inextricably linked. The opera follows, as the title would suggest, Tsar Boris Godunov. As part of his efforts to secure Russia’s throne, Godunov, as acting regent, orchestrates the assassination of Ivan the Terrible’s heir, the young Dmitry Ivanovich. Once in power, however, Godunov is overcome by guilt and paranoia, as he learns a man claiming to be Dmitry–in reality no more than an impostor—is challenging his claim to authority. Fearing exposure and retribution, Godunov is slowly driven to the edge of insanity, and ultimately death, by haunting voices and hallucinations in which he is confronted by a blood-covered Dmitry.
From this narrative emerges a characterization of Russia no different from that which we observe today. Mussorgsky presents Godunov's reign as one defined by fear and internal mistrust, as Godunov, on his way to insanity, employs the threat of execution to silence those capable of exposing him (namely Prince Shuysky). It is difficult, when reflecting upon such details, not to think of the means by which Putin has eliminated any and all dissent within Russia, employing intimidation to surround himself with devout yes-men.
More generally, however, Boris Godunov serves as a commentary on the corrosive and destructive force of absolute authority. Godunov’s downfall is brought about by an insatiable desire for power, which leads him to a form of haunting moral depravity. Here too, parallels with Vladimir Putin come to mind. The terror which the Russian president has unleashed in Ukraine is nothing but a different manifestation of autocracy’s consumptive nature.
To not perform Boris Godunov on La Scala’s opening night, would thus have meant missing out on an important exercise in political reflection. The opera, in its vivid crudity and exploration of authority, reminds us of the danger posed by despots like Godunov and Putin. In doing so, it serves not as a contradiction to, but rather an affirmation of, Western opposition to Russian aggression.
Giulio Maria Bianco is a staff writer at Columbia Political Review. He is a sophomore studying History and Political Science at Columbia College.