Review: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, a Symphonic Opera Based on Michael Chabon's Great American Novel

When I imagine adaptations of Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, opera is hardly the first medium that comes to mind. A multi-season prestige TV series on HBO, which so brilliantly gave us Watchmen in 2019, is a perfect fit. A CGI-heavy feature film would work too, easily slotting into cinemas alongside Iron Man and Superman. But to squeeze 639 pages of globe-hopping, decade-spanning prose into a mere three hours on stage? I couldn’t begin to imagine it. Fortunately, composer Mason Bates and librettist Gene Scheer didn’t call me for advice.

No, opera may not be the first thing that comes to mind with The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, but the Met’s season opener had me convinced—and hooked—from the very first orchestral swell. It soars in the superhero realm, devastates in the human one, and, most importantly, offers an accessibility that won’t send newcomers to the opera running for the exit.

Set in three distinct worlds, Kavalier & Clay begins in Nazi-occupied Prague, where artist/amateur magician Josef Kavalier (Andrzej Filończyk) narrowly escapes the Gestapo and heads for the Big Apple, vowing to arrange transport for his family, namely sister Sarah (Lauren Snouffer), before it’s too late. In a Brooklyn tenement, the newly christened Joe and his Polio-survivor cousin, Sam Clay (Miles Mykkanen), hatch their money-making scheme: a fascist-fighting superhero called the Escapist, whose power is escapology.

The Escapist rockets to overnight success as both a comic and radio series, with dashing leading man Tracy Bacon (Edward Nelson) quickly uncovering Sam’s kryptonite: repressed homosexuality. As they covertly flirt, Joe meets and begins a relationship with Rosa Saks (Sun-Ly Pierce), who helps secure passage for Sarah on a transport ship called the Ark of Miriam. Tragedy strikes when the ship is attacked, sending Joe into a madness that leads him all the way to the western front, a much harder world from which to escape.

Chabon’s expansive novel could easily power a whole new Ring Cycle, so it’s no surprise that Scheer trims the sprawl. Some liberties are relatively minor. Joe’s sibling, a brother in the book, becomes a sister—no doubt so Bates could add a secondary female voice to a largely male-dominated story. Joe’s Arctic detour, where he survives carbon monoxide poisoning that kills his military unit, is wisely excised (especially the aspect where the hides of the company’s dead dogs are used to patch the wings of an airplane).

The loss of the Golem of Prague—the symbol of Jewish protection and resilience that Joe smuggles out of wartime Czechoslovakia that initially inspires the Escapist—is far more consequential. Removing that element of mysticism not only secularizes the story, but inadvertently transforms it from a tale of survival against all odds to one of victimhood. Of course, there’s only so much you can cover in what amounts to two-and-a-half hours of playing time, and generally speaking, it’s a solid distillation of the story.

Bates, primarily a symphonic and EDM composer, provides three distinct aural worlds: ominous foreboding melodies for the Eastern Europe of Joe’s parents, bustling brass for a 1940s New York City where Salvador Dalí almost asphyxiates in a diving bell during a charity event, and epic, heroic strings reminiscent of Hans Zimmer and John Williams for the Escapist. The textures are superbly colored in by maestro Yannick Nézet-Séguin, who delivers a soaring, epic performance from the Met orchestra.

Despite its length, Chabon’s prose leaps off the page with the derring-do of the Escapist, and director Bartlett Sher matches that momentum on stage. His cinematic production, with pastiche choreography by Mandy Moore, propels the story faster than a speeding bullet, each world conveyed by Jennifer Moeller’s costumes and the scenic projections and lighting of 59 Studio. Prague is nearly black-and-white, down to the clothes; New York has the muted tones of an Edward Hopper painting; and the comics spring to life in glorious Technicolor, with vibrant blues and yellows.

Only in the tenderest moments do things finally slow down, with Bates providing lush arias for Filończyk and Pierce, and Mykkanen and Nelson, that are so rapturous and romantic they make time stand still. All four leads deliver strong vocal performances. As the romantic partners, Pierce imbues Rosa with longing and hope, while Nelson expertly conveys the swashbuckling nature of a hero. Filończyk is utterly heartbreaking as Joe, filling every line with heaviness and grief, while Mykkanen uses a wrenching perma-grin to communicate a loneliness that he doesn’t let anyone see.

Most importantly, the show leads the Met into a brave new world. General manager Peter Gelb hasn’t been shy about programming new works by contemporary composers, but Kavalier & Clay feels unlike anything I’ve ever seen at this storied old palace. Cinematic in scope, fast paced in its delivery, and propelled by a digestibility that you don’t often get in the world of opera, it’s a perfect introduction for new audiences who are looking to test the waters of opera or want an interesting date night. If the post-Covid world of live performance is all about cultivating the next generation of spectators, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay might just be the key to the future.