Does the opera reflect the major issues of the world ? Ukraine, Black Lives Matter, Taiwan, China, Israël, Rosa Parks, Nelson Mandela and many others… From Massada to Monségur, from Giordano Bruno to Spinoza, people always try to resist to violence and oppression. We must sing of their struggle and their hopes.
Although the story is clearly inspired by the massacre of the Monks of Tibhirine in 1996, the subject is treated without any precise reference (time, place, religion). The discourse focuses on the eternal oppositions: forced submission/consented submission, love/hate, death and resurrection.
In an isolated monastery, monks watch and pray. Scenes 2-5 show three of the major characters responding to each other without actually meeting. The maid reports disturbing events that seem to be approaching, announcing a tragic outcome. The novice comments on this unexplained rise in violence, moving from despondency to disbelief, then from supplication to revolt. The prior wonders what decision to make.
At the invitation of the prior, 3 monks recount the events that led them to choose monastic life (scenes 6, 8 and 9). Example and admiration for the first, metamorphosis of earthly love into mystical love for the second, redemption for the third. Scenes 7 and 10 amplify tension between an increasingly threatening exterior and an interior seeking a way out. The first act ends with painful confessions. Hesitation for the prior, resignation for the novice.
Three women (Parcae? Norns? Angels?) comment on the situation, repeating almost word for word the proclamations of scene 1. Their intervention suspends the evolution of time. The feverishness of the first act gives way to a stretching of durations, carried by the musical treatment. The monks decide to face their destiny without fear, faithful to their vows. This fidelity leads them from servitude to freedom, following in the footsteps of a thousand-year-old Fraternity.
The novice pronounces his vows, he is transfigured by the example of his brothers' courage. Their sacrifice will not be in vain, one of them will bear the seed of a new world.
The profound message is that proclaimed by all those who refuse to submit to arbitrariness. Many cases can be mentioned: the struggle of minorities for the respect of their rights, the struggle of peoples for their freedom, the struggle of citizens for democracy, etc.
In the end, Love, in the sense of the Agapé of the Ancient Greeks, will triumph over negative forces.
The last words are those of the last verse of Dante’s Divine Comedy "l'Amor che move il sol e l'altre stelle ». (Love that moves the sun and the other stars)
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Le Soleil et les autres étoiles (Demo)
They're talking about...
Sylvie Nicephor, Soprano, Pianist, Musicologist
This opera is to be listened to... and listened to again. The chosen subject touches so many of our contemporaries directly. We were touched by the fate of the monks of Tibhirine...
The libretto is perfect in terms of the beauty and meaning of the texts, the layout and the right length. The succession of scenes plunges us into the unfolding drama and the questions raised, without losing interest or attention.
I must congratulate you on your musical writing, with colourful harmonies that underline the moods. The orchestration is successful, effective and transparent, with no attempt at superfluous effect (a common failing).
As a soprano, I can tell you that your vocal writing is very well mastered, letting the listener hear the texts whose rhythm and prosody you marry very well, respecting the voices and enhancing them through attractive melodies.
While the opera gives pride of place to the soloists (in keeping with the libretto), the very fine choruses are a real eye-catcher, especially the one in Scene 13.
While the opera gives pride of place to the soloists (in keeping with the libretto), the very fine choruses hold our attention, especially the one in Scene 13.
Given its size and duration, this opera, which is well conceived for the current context (it does not require exceptional resources), has a good chance of being programmed, but of course, everything depends on the tastes and orientations of theatre directors...
It remains very ‘French’ in its language, of course, but also in its transparency, balance and refined writing, which immerse us in a monastic atmosphere (simplicity, meditation, interiority) that remains permanent despite the cruel fate that awaits these monks (a state of grace?).
I remain convinced of the role and impact that sacred music and music with themes linked to the sacred can have in contemporary life.
Natalia Di Bartolo, Musicologist, critic
I'm really delighted. It's a magnificent work. Very French, but absolutely original: it has very solid roots. First of all, I'm very impressed by the coherence of the opera, which has no rough edges, but is conceived as a single poetic and musical product. As author of the libretto, Eric Breton handles the music brilliantly, because it perfectly expresses what he wants to say in the words.
So French singing has a special charm for me. I was fascinated by the beauty of the melodic line, accompanied by astonishing and highly refined harmonisation, the beautiful voices and the transcendent inspiration that transpires from every note and every word.
I have to say that it doesn't just seem to take place in an a-temporal atmosphere, it also seems a-dimensional: it doesn't seem to take place in one place, but in another dimension.
Eric Breton has managed to transcend the dimension of reality, by creating a parallel dimension, itself parallel to the spiritual dimension. This makes this work unique, absolutely out of the ordinary and very close to sacred music, perhaps closer to sacred music than to theatre.
I think that, if one of those bureaucrats who run the theatres manages to understand what I'm saying, the staging will have to be extremely refined, entrusted to a brilliant director, with lighting effects rather than scenes. And, on stage, characters that, when I listen to them, I don't identify as ‘monks’ or ‘maids’ or ‘villagers’, but as figures who are themselves ethereal, not of this world. What's more, the mother, the young girl, the three women and the choir all belong to a third dimension: the Divine is very close to them.
What more is there to say? Compliments would be rhetorical. This is a jewel: it must be entrusted to safe hands. With the imbeciles and ignoramuses who run the theatres and the directors who circulate these days, it must not be misrepresented or weighed down: this opera would run the risk of not being understood.
I hope it finds someone who, for once, decides not to bend to the tastes of an audience that understands almost nothing because it has been trained to do so by those at the top of the opera houses, in order to fill the theatre. I hope he finds someone with the courage to stage or perform as an oratorio an opera like this, which is absolutely niche for connoisseurs.
Philippe Laroudie, Le Soleil et les autres étoiles by Éric Breton: an invisible liturgy of brotherhood (may 2025)
From the very first bars of Le Soleil et les autres étoiles, it's clear that this is no mere dramatic opera, but a spiritual space, a place of sonic meditation where music not only accompanies the text, but becomes its essential organ. Éric Breton's chiselled musical writing, deliberate simplicity and high ethical standards create a work of rare intensity, both profoundly human and resolutely universal.
The choice of simplicity - both textual and musical - is not an effect of style, but a coherent, almost philosophical aesthetic gesture. Right from the opening, the ostinato of the cello and the five muffled beats of the timpani create an archaic, telluric tension. This is not the tension of the spectacular, but that of the threshold, of waiting, of inner vigil.
This inaugural beat becomes a structuring motif, an invisible heart beating to the rhythm of a community at prayer, on the frontier between the visible and the invisible. The orchestral palette then unfolds with skilful economy: discreet harp, distant flute, harmonic violins, strummed strings, whispered percussion. The music never overflows, never comments. It embraces, extends and breathes with the text. It illuminates without weighing it down.
This choice gives each silence its own dramatic density. Silence is never empty: it becomes a space of resonance, of contemplation, of shared tension. In many ways, it is a character in its own right.
One of the great merits of this opera lies in its treatment of the voices. Éric Breton pays rare attention to French prosody, which is respected in its own musicality, but magnified by harmony and orchestration. Each voice embodies a distinct spiritual path: the Prior, torn between responsibility and doubt, evolves from a hesitant tone to a luminous, soothed speech; the Novice moves from uncertainty to ecstasy; the Handmaid, the only realistic figure outside the monastic community, conveys the violence of the world in a more chanted, almost spoken style.
The female characters - with their strong symbolic power - suspend time. They embody memory, intuition and the horizon of mystery. The choir, omnipresent but often in the background, acts as a cosmic background, a collective breath, an invisible memory that watches over, questions and connects.
The choral writing is part of a spiritual tradition that stretches from Poulenc to Arvo Pärt. It does not seek effect, but the horizontality of breath: a collective, meditative voice, where the verticality of the sacred is expressed without emphasis.
One of the work's most powerful gestures is its refusal of sacrificial pathos. By subtly hijacking the evangelical verse “Si le grain ne meurt...”, Éric Breton avoids the pitfall of glorious martyrdom to propose an ethical rereading of the drama: “Le grain ne meurt pas, il repose en terre, fidèle.” This simple semantic inflection brings about a fundamental shift.
It is no longer a question of making the monks' death an offering or a heroic act, but of recalling their profoundly human choice: to remain, despite fear, not out of a desire for sacrifice, but out of silent fidelity to a land, a people, a fraternity. This refusal to mythologize suffering lends the work an unprecedented force: it confronts us with our own responsibility, our own capacity to stand the test, quietly and without glory.
The opera is composed of sixteen tableaux, like so many inner stations, organized according to a rigorous dramatic architecture. Recurring motifs - rhythmic, harmonic, textual - weave a continuous fabric of memory and echoes. The ostinato, the choral motif, the distant flute, the muted percussion: far from being decorative, all these elements embody the characters' slow inner metamorphosis.
Each scene reveals a change of perspective. We move from the collective to the intimate, from silence to song, from speech to prayer. The instrumental transitions - never anecdotal - open up a space for listening and breathing. The work progresses like a long spiritual decrescendo, leading towards the essential, towards that final silence which, far from being an end, acts as a revelation.
Le Soleil et les autres étoiles follows in the footsteps of the great lyrical works of spiritual import. One thinks, of course, of Poulenc's Dialogues des Carmélites for the tension between interiority and external threat, Saariaho's La Passion de Simone for the meditation on faith and resistance, or John Adams' Gospel According to the Other Mary for the way it brings history and the timeless into dialogue.
But Éric Breton's opera differs from these in its more radical orientation towards simplicity, slowness and listening to almost nothing - in the spirit of Jankélévitch. He proposes an experience in which aesthetics becomes ethics: every note carries a responsibility, every silence has a weight. He speaks not so much to our taste as to our conscience.
The very title of the work - Le Soleil et les autres étoiles - refers to the last line of Dante's Divine Comedy: “l'Amor che move il sol e l'altre stelle”. This reference, far from being ornamental, illuminates the entire project in retrospect. Love here is not sentimentality, but a structuring force of the universe, an energy of resistance, of light, of brotherhood.
The finale is not a dramatic apotheosis, but a suspended light. An expectation. A dawn. A note held like a tightrope between life and death, between trial and hope. Therein lies its greatness.
With Le Soleil et les autres étoiles, Éric Breton signs much more than an opera: he composes an act of faith in humanity. Through the precision of his writing, the depth of his commitment and the clarity of his musical approach, he offers us a rare and necessary work, which brings silence to the tumult and light to the darkness. This is not a work that imposes itself by force, but one that permeates, infuses and transforms. It does not claim to teach, but to listen. It speaks not only to the ear, but to the conscience.
In a world where violence often masquerades as noise, Le Soleil et les autres étoiles is a silent music of fidelity, a space of vigilance, a call to attention. An opera for today - and perhaps tomorrow.