Controversial though some of his ventures may be, Carsen’s fresh and stimulating approach has found a popular niche. He is one of the world’s busiest directors. In 2007–08, there were upwards of forty Robert Carsen productions in the repertoires of opera companies in North America, Europe, and Asia. Immediately prior to the Zurich Tosca, he was working at Milan’s La Scala, restaging Handel’s Alcina — for the fifth time. Before that, Janá?ek’s Katya Kabanova in Madrid, and before that to Paris for Lully’s Armide. Next it’s back to Milan for Benjamin Britten’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, then on to Amsterdam for his first Carmen. From first cast meeting to opening night, an opera will typically rehearse five to six weeks. Carsen, who keeps places in both London and Paris, admits, “I couldn’t let myself think about how many days per year I am actually at home — it would be too depressing.”

Given the sheer volume of his creative output, it is remarkable how different each Carsen production is from the next. In contrast to many of opera’s elite stage directors, who have established strong aesthetic signatures, it is difficult to define a “Carsen style.” His theatrical identity is nebulous, like his nationality. He subscribes to no particular school, movement, ideology, or theatrical orthodoxy, but artistically draws upon many. He works with a variety of set and costume designers. His aesthetic ranges from spartan abstraction to edgy contemporary updates to traditional period wigs and ball gowns. “Opera is such a mixture of head and heart,” he muses. “You are constantly working with the fact that the music is abstract and the words are concrete. [Opera] is not just an emotional experience, nor is it an excuse to lecture an audience about your views of the world. I try to make both aspects work, but the balance is always different, because each piece is different. In the end, I am just interested in making good theatre. Good theatre is like sex, alcohol, drugs — it gives a feeling of the suspension of time. And in opera we have both wonderful music and, hopefully, exciting theatre, which makes the experience all the more powerful.”

The idea of the essential theatricality of opera comes closest to defining Carsen’s creative ethos. His productions are occasionally attacked for being too cold or for lacking critical bite, but his work is punctuated by a sense that, ultimately, “the play’s the thing.” The visual appeal, subtle humour, and self-conscious theatricality of his productions has made him the import of choice for major opera houses seeking to show an imaginative, progressive tendency without alienating their established audiences. Beyond the efficacy of his creative philosophy, he is also simply very good at his job.

Later that afternoon, Carsen and his two leads are back in their cramped rehearsal studio, putting the finishing touches on act 2. The maestro was tough on the soprano during the morning’s rehearsal, and she is exhausted. The baritone, I’m told, is an internationally reputed difficult case. Carsen’s pace adjusts to the vibe of the room. His eclectic morning dynamism is mellowed into a gentle focus. He takes care not to stress the atmosphere, letting the clock tick well past five before softly ambling over to his cast. Both singers tower over him. In a calm voice, he explains his hopes for the next two hours. Props are set; a large desk is positioned in the centre of the space. The soloists take their places, Carsen pulls up a chair, and the music begins. He does not follow along with the score; he knows the text and melody by heart. The baritone interrupts himself: “I’m lost here . . . what did we do last time?” Carsen gets to his feet and demonstrates a move from the desk to a giant painting hanging on the left wall. His gestures reveal a subtle self-consciousness, but the timing is impeccable. It takes several attempts for the baritone to emulate his example.

Does he miss acting? “Not at all. I have too many wonderful projects,” says the man who, in addition to his opera work, has directed plays in Italy, France, the UK, and the US, and musicals for London’s West End; created a spectacle for Disneyland Paris; and designed an exhibition at Paris’s Grand Palais based on the life of Marie Antoinette. “It’s all theatre, whether it’s a play, an opera, a musical, an installation, whatever,” he says, adding with a tinge of new iconoclasm, “and it’s not about being popular or elite; either it’s good theatre or it isn’t.” But how does Carson reconcile himself to working with notoriously difficult opera singers? “Obviously,” he begins with tact, “with singers, there are a few additional factors to take into account, just in terms of the kind of physical engagement they need in order to produce those sounds. You need to reassure them you like what they are doing; once they trust you, they will try anything. To some extent, singers are much more free [than actors], because they come to the first rehearsal already knowing their parts. Actors learn their roles through the rehearsal process; with singers, you can plunge into the details from day one.”

Yes, the details. After two hours coaxing his soloists through a love scene and a murder, Carsen is gracious, but focused as ever: “What are we doing about your dress?” he asks the weary soprano. To her agitated baritone colleague, “Do you want the blood pack under your left arm or taped to your midriff?” A question for the maestro about the tempo at bar 472. The stage manager is sent scurrying for a bevy of alternative letter openers. “Can the servants enter from the right five seconds earlier?” He turns to his assistant: “And for Monday, I want to start with . . . ” As the clipboard scribbling grows frantic, the director interrupts himself with a familiar reflex. “It’s such beautiful music, isn’t it?” he says aloud, glowing in wonder. “We’re all very lucky.”