A conversation with one of today’s most compelling tenors, whose portrayals of Werther and Des Grieux reveal both the fragility and nobility of love. With emotional precision and sincerity, Benjamin Bernheim reflects on Massenet’s music, the evolving nature of his roles, and the deep human power of opera to reach the inner self.
In Werther, your interpretation stands out through a subtle balance between romantic exaltation and neurasthenic introversion (as in Christof Loy’s production). At the Bastille, your Des Grieux is profoundly moving in its feverish sincerity and restrained lyricism. How do you approach, vocally and psychologically, the emotional complexity of these two characters?
The two roles are very different , and so is the music. Werther embodies an unstable, compulsive figure, almost manipulative, incapable of detachment, imprisoned within his obsession. He rehashes, brings everything back to the past, and refuses to forgive – neither others nor himself. By Act II he is already pleading: “Souvenez-vous, rappelez-vous… comme j’ai mis ma tête sur votre épaule, comme nous lisions ces livres ensemble.” He rejects the injustice he believes he is suffering, without recognising the harm he inflicts. Hypersensitive, raw-nerved, he floats outside reality. His very first aria reveals it all: “Ô nature, pleine de grâce” , poetic, yes, but out of step with social codes. Singing him requires me to go “down into the cellar”, to slip into the skin of a man incapable of understanding that he has arrived too late.
Des Grieux, on the other hand, exists in a far more structured reality: a young, educated man destined for a respectable future, who suddenly veers off course, swept away by love. His father lays out the path: a proper marriage, integrity, discipline. But he breaks away: “Et mon nom deviendra le vôtre,” he declares to Manon , too soon, too intensely. Yet unlike Werther, he acts, he chooses, he tries. He builds a life with Manon , between intoxication and collapse, passion and renunciation. Then he turns to God, borne aloft by pain.
He struggles, resists, and ultimately yields – but without falling apart. In surrender, he lets a light shine through. He never relinquishes love. Right to the end, he whispers: “Ma vie est dans ton cœur, ma vie est dans tes yeux.” Not out of weakness, but out of strength. He embraces his contradictions, his cracks, his feminine side. In that, he strikes me as deeply modern. Whereas Werther turns to Charlotte to fill a void, Des Grieux loves Manon for who she is. One projects a need, the other gives himself. Werther sometimes wields his piani like weapons, to pierce Charlotte. Des Grieux, by contrast, lets himself be moved , by love, by pain, by fate , without seeking to manipulate anything. He endures, he suffers, but never extinguishes his inner light.
Werther and Manon are emblematic of Massenet’s musical style: harmonic refinement, hypersensitive expression, and orchestral half-shades. What does “singing Massenet” mean to you , and more broadly, what does it mean to “sing French”? How does this approach differ from that required by the Italian repertoire , Verdi or Puccini, for instance?
It’s quite simply my mother tongue. I grew up listening to Natalie Dessay, Roberto Alagna, but also artists like Georges Thill and Alain Vanzo. Their influence allowed my generation to move away from a rigid tradition – rolled rs, standardised diction – and instead seek a more fluid, more elegant line. That’s the continuity I try to uphold, in French opera as elsewhere: the idea of a vocal gesture that goes beyond technical display.
I often compare it to elite sport. Just watch Federer, Schumacher, or a principal dancer (étoile) at work: at a certain point, technical execution gives way to art. That’s where I want to go , to that moment when the instrument stops showing and begins transmitting.
Singing in French feels, in a way, like coming home. It’s a language that reveals my vocal colours, that lets me explore subtext, nuance, detail. My voice , bright, not baritonal — naturally blossomed in Manon, Werther, Faust, and even in La Bohème – although I sing it in Italian, Parigi, o cara (La Traviata) feels close to Des Grieux’s dream in Act II. These worlds speak to one another.
That said, I refuse to be confined to a single repertoire. I use the same palette of colours in Verdi, Puccini, Donizetti, or the Russian repertoire , which is just as demanding in its subtlety. The third act of La Bohème, with its heavy orchestration, requires the same finesse. What I might lose in flexibility on certain notes, I make up for with a deeper, more expressive range. My voice is evolving , naturally. Forty is approaching, and I don’t yet know what direction it will take, but new roles are on the horizon: Don Carlos, Un ballo in maschera, Tosca, Carmen, and Russian operas too. So many stories to tell , always with the same tools: my colours.
For the first time, Werther was presented in Paris at the Théâtre du Châtelet using period instruments. Did this change affect your vocal approach , in terms of colour, projection, or balance with the orchestra? And did the change in pitch standard, in this case, have an effect on the voice?
It was a fascinating experience for all of us, I think, to sing with Les Siècles. The sound of the period instruments offered a very different world – perhaps less crystalline, less powerful – but one that opened the door to other colours, to a more unexpected, more intimate palette. That woodier, earthier texture , almost “grounded” , created a very organic relationship with the voice.
I felt an acute attentiveness from the orchestra, a real responsiveness, especially in moments like “Pourquoi me réveiller” or the Clair de lune. When I offered certain colours, there was an immediate reply. It felt as though the lighter orchestral mass allowed for a more direct dialogue between voice and instruments.
I’m not saying that this connection doesn’t exist with other orchestras, but here, it came about differently , less through force, more through nuance, through closeness. And that, I think, is what made this experience so special: a more intimate, more fluid balance between voice and orchestra. A shared breath , an extraordinary experience.
Christof Loy’s staging places Werther in a kind of silent exclusion, at the edge of the world. How did you approach this directorial choice, with its almost choreographic economy of gesture? Did this minimalism affect your performance or concentration?
I’ve been fortunate to work with Christof Loy several times, notably on Werther. He knows the character down to his silences. What’s fascinating is that nothing is ever fixed: my Werther evolves with each revival, depending on my partners. With Victoria Karkacheva or Marina Viotti – two very different Charlottes, one more aloof, the other more grounded – my performance, my reactions shift. Everything is built in the chemistry.
Loy’s staging is deliberately stripped-back, almost Protestant in its austerity. No physical or emotional excess. He favours interrupted impulses, suspended gestures. The tension emerges from what remains unspoken: the spark flashes, you sense the jerrycan of petrol… and yet nothing ignites. Everything is held in check. Even the rare moments when violence might erupt – a chair grabbed, a hand raised – are suddenly curtailed, halted mid-action. It’s a study in absolute control.
The set reflects that same economy. A wall, a few elements upstage: a fir tree, a festive table, a wedding dinner… barely sketched. The audience is invited to imagine what lies beyond. There is no set to hide behind. You are face to face with the role, and with yourself. It’s demanding, but also deeply powerful. One sees the outward appearance, not the inner life. The man , but not all that he conceals.
Loy is drawn to this idea of a Werther who is trying to make an impression, to seduce, almost as though he were watching himself perform. He enters the stage poorly dressed, slightly unkempt, seeking effect. He wants to please, to exist in the gaze of the other, but never truly lets go : another form of manipulation, again contained.
It was an almost cinematic process: few movements, no expansive gestures. Everything came through micro-movements , a glance, a hand suspended, a breath. That subtlety worked beautifully at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, whose scale is so human. What you wouldn’t catch at the Bastille, La Scala or Salzburg became perceptible here. You could read the details , which is rare.
Werther is one of your signature roles, along with Des Grieux. With each revival, do you feel these characters evolving within you? Do they reveal new facets of your voice, your dramatic instinct — or even of yourself?
Yes , all roles evolve over time, and I feel that very clearly. When I returned to Des Grieux at the Paris Opera in May and June 2025, two years had passed since the Hamburg production. The role had matured within me. As I’d been involved in the creation of Vincent Huguet’s staging, many of the stage details already stemmed from my own work. But vocally, the strategy had changed. I had new things to offer , a different way of telling the story.
It’s the same with Werther. At the première in Bordeaux in 2022, I approached it with that underlying apprehension one always feels when tackling a new role , even with experience. Sometimes you burn through your energy in the wrong places, for lack of perspective. Then I returned to it in Zurich, at La Scala, and at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées. And with each new production, the character deepened, became more nuanced. Each revival helped me grow.
Much also depends on the production. Some demand greater physical engagement than others. Robert Carsen’s Contes d’Hoffmann at the Paris Opera required far less exertion than the Salzburg staging, where I was literally running from start to finish. Those kinds of constraints affect your entire vocal and dramatic approach.
This coming December, I’ll be returning to Rodolfo in La Bohème , a role I haven’t sung in quite some time. That too brings a mixture of excitement and nerves. Revisiting a role is like meeting up with an old friend: some conversations you dread, others you look forward to.
But Werther, more than most, pushes me to evolve. Each time I return to it, I talk with conductors, directors; I discover a new detail, a fresh interpretation, an unexpected insight into Massenet or Goethe. There’s always something more to learn. One’s curiosity must remain intact. And I’m delighted to be returning to Des Grieux in several productions next year : so many opportunities to continue exploring and refining a character I love deeply.
Vocally, Des Grieux confronts you with a highly contrasted writing — between the youthful ardour of the “Rêve” and the heart-wrenching surrender of “Je suis seul… Ah! Fuyez, douce image.” How does your voice navigate between these two poles?
Des Grieux strikes me as almost more complete than Werther. He offers an immense palette – almost every shade of the rainbow. He doesn’t manipulate, he never erupts with violence: he moves forward, guided by love, with a nobility that makes him profoundly moving. His gentleness, his sensuality, his sincere passion sit alongside a burning despair.
In Act I, there’s an almost childlike lightness to him: “Nous vivrons à Paris tous les deux” rings out like a naïve promise, almost like a dance. He’s educated, cultured , but in love, and therefore vulnerable.
What moves me most is that rare moment in opera when a character opens up completely , not alone, but in front of another. In the Rêve, he exposes his deepest anxieties to Manon: “Et si, dans cette humble retraite, tu n’étais pas là ?” The moment feels like a therapy session , he reveals his fear of loss, he hides nothing. Then comes the turning point at Saint-Sulpice, with an almost sacred fury.
“Ah! Fuyez, douce image” bursts forth like a struck-down prayer , a violent rejection, a struggle against obsession. The voice leaps, stretches, explodes , it’s written so you feel that extreme tension in your own body. And even at the end, in agony, he continues to love and to judge: “Manon, sphinx étonnant, véritable sirène, cœur trois fois féminin.” He still places her on a pedestal, but no longer idealises her. It’s no longer a dream , it’s a painful truth, a love without illusions. A role of rare richness , vocally and humanly.
Between Werther and Des Grieux , two figures of absolute love, two portraits of raw passion , is there one role that touches you more deeply?
They touch me in different ways. Werther is swept up by his inner demons. He sinks into tragedy almost against his will , and it’s precisely that downward spiral that moves us. You want to help him, to shake him and say “wake up!” But he retreats into himself, burns out without realising how much he wounds others. A victim of himself, of his own obsessions. And yet, that fragility , that right to despair, to raw emotion , opened up a vast breach. Let’s not forget that The Sorrows of Young Werther triggered a wave of suicides across Europe (« the Werther effect »).
For the first time, a man was weeping, putting his pain into words, confessing his sorrow. A crack in the patriarchal order : a man who stops keeping silent. That gives the role enormous symbolic power but it exhausts me. You have to play the manipulation, the violence, the blindness. None of that nourishes me internally , it drags me down, and coming back out of it isn’t always easy.
Des Grieux, on the other hand, offers me light. Like Romeo, he moves me through his nobility, his generosity, his modernity. He gives himself over, he kneels so that Manon may shine. He remains naïve, allows himself to be deceived, but never calculates. He acts, he gives, he loves. That selflessness overwhelms me. In Massenet’s version, the character softens. Less fiery, less virile than in the Abbé Prévost or Puccini. More tender, more nuanced. He reveals a man of many facets , a character of extraordinary richness to sing.
So no, I don’t choose between the two. Each has its own strength and necessity. But at the end of a performance, one leaves me with a sense of nobility, of humanity, of beauty , while the other leaves me staring into the vertigo of an abyss. That abyss, at times, can be hard to sustain on stage.
As the audience leaves the theatre, what would you like them to carry with them from these two Massenetian figures? The image of men consumed by love, the memory of a voice in pursuit of the absolute or something more elusive, more intimate?
It’s hard to formulate a specific wish, because the audience interprets just as much as I do. I embody a role on stage, but each person receives what I offer in their own way, through their own lens. What I hope, deep down, is that the audience has travelled somewhere.
Opera remains a complete art form , profoundly human, without filters. No microphone, no artifice: just a voice, an orchestra, a space. Nothing to obscure the essential. It’s a suspended moment, a precious face-to-face, an opportunity to disconnect, to dream, to escape.
It doesn’t matter whether you’re a lawyer, a plumber, a chef, a restaurateur or a singer ,I simply hope that by coming to the opera, each person might, for a few moments, step out of the everyday. Be carried away by a melody, an image, or even a thought. Some dream, others recenter themselves, others still find a resolution to something that’s been troubling them.
If I had one wish, it would be this: that everyone leaves with something intimate. A moment of beauty, of reflection , or even of inner silence. That Werther, Des Grieux, Rodolfo or Romeo might open up a space, a crack, through which the audience finds what they need.
Interview by Cécile Beaubié
Pour la version française cliquer ici
