Katie Mitchell’s Metamorphosis of Myth: The Woman without Fairy tale

Katie Mitchell places Richard Strauss' grandiose DIE FRAU OHNE SCHATTEN, an opera brimming with symbolism and supernatural mysticism, in a cold world of (gun) violence. With her, “Die Frau"  is not a fairy tale but a bleak thriller full of moral tension and ostentatious displays of power.

© Ruth Walz / DNO

She may not have a shadow, but she certainly has great music. Massive, lush, and luxurious (Gurre-Lieder, eat your heart out!). Die Frau ohne Schatten is not Strauss’s best opera—its storyline is too unbalanced for that—but it is arguably the opera into which he poured some of his finest music. At the Dutch National Opera, the first three rows of seats had to be removed to make space for the 130-piece orchestra. Their sacrifice was not in vain.

© Ruth Walz / DNO

Katie Mitchell’s new production of Richard Strauss’s Die Frau ohne Schatten is a bold, gripping, and unapologetically modern reinterpretation of a notoriously complex opera. Instead of the traditional fairy-tale setting, Mitchell opts, in her own words, for a “feminist sci-fi thriller.” She presents a version stripped of ornamentation, with clear narrative focus and heightened emotional intensity—without entirely sacrificing the dreamlike character that defines the work.

Mitchell is a theatre-maker with a distinctly activist edge. A self-declared feminist—more relevant than ever in an era of mounting threats to women’s rights—she lives and works according to her principles. For instance, she refuses to fly for ecological reasons and is known for her radical reworkings of classic texts. While she is praised for the urgency and vision that define her work, she has also faced criticism for “butchering” classical works rather than interpreting them.

© Ruth Walz / DNO

At the heart of Die Frau ohne Schatten lies a multilayered, metaphysical narrative, inspired by Goethe's Faust, Mozart’s Zauberflöte, and mythical archetypes—an opera full of spirits, royalty, moral trials, and a symbolic search for humanity and for what makes a woman a woman (namely, her fertility). It is not a story that demands rational clarity; rather, it unfolds through a kind of dream-logic where symbolism and emotional intuition outweigh cause and effect. But Mitchell deliberately chooses rationality and structure. She constructs a tight, psychologically coherent framework around the story and introduces a “realism” that some may find too reductive or alienating-certainly those attached to the mystical, open structure of the original. But for me, it worked. Her clarity brought structure and emotional focus to a story that often remains nebulous and diffuse.

Her greatest achievement may be how she transforms the opera’s mystical vagueness into something psychologically tangible. By staging a "realistic", sometimes clinical world—complete with movements in slow-motion (a technique she also employed in her production of George Benjamin’s Lessons in Love and Violence)—she draws out the cinematic quality of Strauss’s orchestral interludes. It often felt like watching a series or movie.

© Ruth Walz / DNO

One of Mitchell’s strongest choices was to stage the otherwise invisible Keikobad (the king of the spirit-world) as a silent character. With his gazelle head, long black coat, and slow, controlled movements, he became a disturbing presence—a silent, looming force that haunted the action. The use of animal masks frequently evoked David Lynch’s Inland Empire. A film, with its potent scenes embedded in an overall sense of disorientation, that had in common with this production that the things that remained diffuse and unclear (and there were still quite a few of them, despite Mitchell's dissection of the libretto) did not get in the way of an immersive viewing and listening experience.

Inland Empire / David Lynch (2006)

Not all her choices convinced. Keikobad’s henchmen pointing guns at everyone at nearly every moment was a heavy-handed reminder that all action occurred under coercion. It became gratuitous. Likewise, the scenes where these henchmen shot characters who had outlived their narrative usefulness felt forced and overly literal. In those moments, Mitchell’s tight direction tipped into overstatement.

© Ruth Walz / DNO

In her dark reinterpretation of the opera’s ending, Mitchell again deviates from Hofmannsthal’s libretto (good—the ending is arguably its weakest point). Where the original veers toward a forced, hollow reconciliation, Mitchell opts for a somber, oppressive close. The dream doesn’t end in triumph, but in exhaustion. It’s a daring but effective choice. The audience left the theatre under a moon of melancholy, with grateful minds.

© Ruth Walz / DNO

Setting aside the staging and direction, Die Frau ohne Schatten is, above all, a triumph of music. Conductor Marc Albrecht and the Netherlands Philharmonic Orchestra made a passionate and magnificent case for this being perhaps Strauss’s most ambitious score. In this music, the erotic tension of Salome, the visceral impact of Elektra (Keikobad’s leitmotif clearly references Agamemnon’s), and the illustrative brilliance of Der Rosenkavalier all meet. Amid the sumptuous orchestration lie intimate, chamber-like moments of stunning beauty. One of those was delivered by guest cellist Floris Mijnders, brought in especially from the Munich Philharmonic. With mournful lyricism, he cut through the orchestral density to remarkable effect.
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In that orchestral storm—which rarely erupts into full tutti but instead pulses with constant undercurrents—the singers had to hold their ground, and by and large, they did. The voices of Aušrinė Stundytė (Die Färberin) and Michaela Schuster (Die Amme) may have lost some lyrical sheen over the years, but both singers brought depth and conviction to their roles. Their characters came to life with an emotional intensity well-matched to Mitchell’s psychological approach.

© Ruth Walz / DNO

In the cast, Josef Wagner stood out. His portrayal of Barak, the husband of Die Färberin, was warm, strong, and lyrical—a role he gave emotional depth and gravitas. AJ Glueckert was a solid Emperor, the husband of the woman searching for her shadow. Daniela Köhler, a seasoned Strauss and Wagner soprano, took on the Empress—the titular woman without a shadow—with dramatic command. Whatever she lacked in vocal expressiveness, she made up for in a portrayal that convincingly conveyed her character’s inner struggle. A subtle but striking element was the children’s choir, who sang the voices of the unborn children. Hidden from view, their voices echoed like whispers from another world—worthy of a horror film.
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For me, Katie Mitchell’s direction of Frau ohne Schatten achieved what good Regietheater should: it opened up a classic opera to a new audience—not by simplifying it, but by illuminating it from a contemporary, and perhaps unexpected, angle. With powerful imagery, psychological depth, and orchestral brilliance that outshone everything, this production was an ideal entry point into one of the most enigmatic masterpieces of the twentieth century. It made me curious about the DNO production from 2008—a colorful, fairy-tale version staged by Andreas Homoki.

Die Frau ohne Schatten, Richard Strauss / Dutch National Opera, Amsterdam, 6 May 2025 

Conductor Marc Albrecht
Nederlands Philharmonic
Choir of Dutch National Opera
Regie Katie Mitchell

Der Kaiser  AJ Glueckert
Die Kaiserin  Daniela Köhler
Die Amme  Michaela Schuster
Der Geisterbote  Sam Carl
Barak der Färber  Josef Wagner
Sein Weib (Die Färberin)  Aušrinė Stundytė

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- Wouter de Moor