Bayreuth Festspielhaus
Wotan – Iain Paterson
Donner – Markus EicheFroh – Tansel Akzeyebek
Loge – Roberto Saccà
Fricka – Sarah Connolly
Freia – Caroline Wenborne
Erda – Nadine Weissmann
Alberich – Albert Dohmen
Mime – Andreas Conrad
Fasolt – Günther Groissböck
Fafner – Karl-Heinz Lehner
Woglinde – Alexandra Steiner
Wellgunde – Stephanie Houtzeel
Flosshilde – Wiebke Lehmkuhl
Aleksandar Denić (set designs)
Adriana Braga Peretski (costumes)
Rainer Kasper (lighting)
Andreas Deinert, Jens Crull (video)
Bayreuth Festival Orchestra
Marek Janowski (conductor)
And so, two years after my
first viewing, I am returning to Frank Castorf’s Ring. I shall not re-read my first reviews until afterwards: not
because I entertain some absurd fantasy about coming to the production anew,
for my present experience will clearly be coloured by prior experience; yet, by
the same token, I see no especial reason to have the former over-determined by
the latter. One’s memory can play tricks, of course, and what I perceive as
difference may or may not so; I may be misremembering, or indeed may simply not
have noticed certain aspects before; I may also be viewing them in different
contexts, the world – mostly to its disadvantage – having ‘moved on’
considerably since 2014. That, after all, is part of the message – at least
part of the message I have taken – from the video work in this production. No
one, perhaps, is so unreliable a narrator as the person convinced of the absolute
truth of his or her recollections. Even if ‘correct’, that correctness is of
limited use: few things are so pernicious as anti-historical elevation of the
momentary to the permanent; one has only to think of the runes inscribed on
Wotan’s spear, or, more generally, the bourgeois universalism of the
Declaration of the Rights of Man. Any Hegelian and/or Marxist – perhaps more to
the point, any historian or philosopher of history – could tell you that. However,
for anyone wishing to read my previous reviews, they may be found here: Rheingold,
Walküre,
Siegfried,
Götterdämmerung.
Back, then, to the Golden
Motel: the trashy Texan (Route 66) location for the action. On first glance,
like much mass culture, it might seem to be all about sex. Like the first scene
of Das Rheingold, one might say, for
what Wagner called Alberich’s liebesgelüste
(‘erotic urge’ he was at that time disdaining traditional capital letters for
nouns). In both work and production, though, things are far more complicated
than they might seem. How might we characterise that liebesgelüste? It may – as
I have argued elsewhere – be understood partly, at least when considered from
the standpoint of the history of ideas, as an important precedent for Nieztsche’s
will to power. But Wagner is not Nietzsche – even if Nietzsche is far closer to
Wagner than he ever, even earlier on, wishes to admit. For the question is
social too: Alberich’s proto-Nietzschean ressentiment
is born of his lowly place in Wotan’s society. That is the psychological – and,
in some senses, socio-political – impulse for the challenge of capital to the
established political order; or at least it was in Wagner’s time. The
relationship between Valhalla and Nibelheim is not entirely different in the
age of neo-liberalism, but nor is it the same.
The ressentiment is also æsthetic, of course: Wagner once remarked that
he had every sympathy for Alberich’s turn against the Rhinemaidens. Hedonists
reject and scorn the dwarf because he is ugly. Yet the relationship between the
social and the æsthetic – and this is just one relationship amongst many in
this complex world – also needs to be considered. (Rhine)gold is here crucial:
as itself; as the oil that powers so much of what we see, petrol pumps in the
forecourt; as the shiny stuff of hegemonic trash culture (think Donald Trump,
on whom, more soon); as the agent of the motel’s ‘rainbow’ rebranding in the
fourth act; even, perhaps, as something hallucinogenic, narcotic, when Donner’s
mysterious ‘clearing’ of the air leaves the pleasure-seekers in the bar –
something now, as the rainbow flag and tight-fitting costumes for all genders
and orientations – in a state of trance-like animation. But the complexity of
the web of power relations, not only between characters, but between forms of
power, is really the thing.
Returning – or perhaps better,
again trying to return – to the beginning, then, the hedonism of swimming pool,
beach ball, sun loungers, of a supposed ‘golden age’ is lain bare, again both
in work and production. It is a construction; it always was; it creates more
gold for some, takes away that gold from others. Wagner makes it perfectly
clear that the world into which Alberich intrudes is no idyll, no ‘natural’
state of affairs; so does Castorf. The Rhinemaidens, just like the gods and
goddesses who come after them – in the hierarchy, do they come before or after?
Intriguingly, it is the Rhinemaidens who take occupation of the gods’ room once
they have vacated it to deal with the giants. Will they relive what has gone on
between those crumpled sheets, or will they – hollow laugh! – put things right?
There are, of course, many more options than that. It is, rightly, unclear, or
at least complicated – are already social beings. They are clad, and they
behave, in ways that many would consider attractive, others would consider
exploitative and/or exploited, others ‘whorish’, and so on. They have agency,
yes, but only up to a point – like the rest of us. ‘Men make their own history,’
as Marx, writing at the same time as Wagner, and under many similar influences,
tells us, ‘but they do not make it as they please; they do not make it under
self-selected circumstances, but under circumstances existing already, given
and transmitted from the past. The tradition of all dead generations weighs
like a nightmare on the brains of the living.’ So too, of course, does the
weight of those with greater power – and so too does the source of that power itself.
What might seem initially
arbitrary, and did so (at least to me) more, although not entirely, two years
ago, now speaks of complexity: when Wotan and Mime initially bring Alberich and
Mime onto the scene in Nibelheim, we are asked to consider who is ensnaring
whom, and, when we think we have an answer, that answer is immediately called
into question. Welcome to (late) capitalism. Similarly, the Trump-like – how prescient!
– depiction of Wotan, as we initially see him, a pleasure-seeking playboy who
has, we might guess, inherited power, whilst claiming to have earned it, a
vulgarian who yet exercises brute force, whilst allegedly (at least to Donner)
renouncing it, two constructed ‘blondes’ – what a custom that is, to refer to
women simply by hair-colour! – not only on his arm, but in his bed: that poses
still more questions than it might ever answer.
The video work to which I referred
adds another crucial dimension. Often we see in close-up what we would see on
stage, were we closer. Sometimes we see what we could not otherwise see, that
action taking place in a space not otherwise at the moment visible. Sometimes
we suspect that what we are seeing is different; at certain points, we know
that it is. And there are stills too; where did they come from? Did those
events, those scenes ever happen at all? We learn a great deal – and truly
acclaim the magnificent acting of the cast (and their detailed direction). We
appreciate the complexity of the action. But we are also, like the characters
in Hans Neuenfels’s Lohengrin, like the
viewers of the ‘reality television’ that seems to be being made before our eyes,
being directed. There are interests, powerful interests, at stake here. And
just as Trump-Wotan does not make history as he pleases, however much he might
insist otherwise, nor do we, as spectators-cum-participants. Patric Seibert’s
Everyman offers us almost conventionally dramatic opportunity to empathise –
but, as soon as we do, the situation is again rendered more complex.
Post-dramatic theatre actually seems to encompass that which it has negated;
but is the dialectic Hegelian or Adornian? Brecht, it seems, has more Aktualität, even in opera, than we might
have given him credit for.
That detailed direction is
really worth saying a little more about. (I am afraid there is much I shall
have to miss out, for there is far too much to say.) Whether it is the Rhinemaidens
taking occupation of and apparently driving the flashy car on stage, the
heartrending – pretty much stage-direction-literal – covering of Freia with
gold, the truly shocking, yet utterly to the point, penetration of Erda by
Wotan in the shower cubicle as giants and gods settle their accounts, or, to
take a very different example, the extraordinary acting by facial expression of
Sarah Connolly’s Fricka (on camera): there is so much to see, to think about.
It is more coherent than one might initially suspect, irrespective, I suspect,
of intention; and when it is not, the incoherence now seems far more a matter
of policy, of criticism, than it did last time (to me).
Few, if any, Rheingold productions have for me so
convincingly, completely combined vocal and acting skills. In that, this is an
utterly Wagnerian, or neo-Wagnerian essay. The Rheingold Wotan is always a tricky one, often rendered
comprehensible, or more so, by what comes afterwards, yet needing nevertheless
to make a strong impression of his own in the here and now. Iain Paterson would
always have had a good many balls in the air; in this production, he had a good
few more. They were kept in motion with great conviction; it will be very
interesting to see how things turn out. Connolly’s Fricka, as previously
mentioned, was a tour de force of
vocal acting; her disquiet, yet her need at some point to reconcile herself
with what was going on, whatever her distaste (her character’s distaste, that
is) for the sub-Dallas antics around
her, were powerful, provocative, partly on account of their lack of
exaggeration. Tansel Akzeyebek’s Froh
was beautifully sung, equally well acted. Markus Eiche’s Donner came into his
more conventional own with the storm; his portrayal of the crazed, clearly
dangerous playboy earlier on, was – even if one were to dislike the directorial
concept – equally impressive. Caroline Wenborne’s Freia elicited as much as
sympathy as the post-Brechtian framework permitted; again, her marriage of
singing and acting – on stage and on camera – was worthy of the highest praise.
Roberto Saccà offered a sardonic Loge, careful with his words, yet free with
them at the same time. Nadine Weissman’s deep-toned Erda – what an entrance, in
that joyously vulgar white fur coat! – proved as much a vocal pleasure as her
character’s greater role was a provocative dramatic development.
Albert Dohmen, as Alberich,
grew in stature – quite rightly – as the performance progressed. The
earth-shattering moment of his curse was strikingly well prepared: as much
verbally as musically. Andreas Conrad did a great deal with the relatively few
lines that Mime has: his evocation of old Nibelheim struck an excellent balance
between genuine sentiment and alienated narration (reliable or otherwise). The
giants’ journey, not the least striking part of the production, was marked as
powerfully in vocal-dramatic terms by Karl-Heinz Lehner and Günther Groissböck
as it was in their costume upgrade: local thugs to (relatively)
expensive-suited Mafiosi. Both performances were sexually charged (which takes
us back to that liebesgelüste
starting-point), and highly differentiated, especially as time went on. One
would certainly not have blamed Freia at all had she opted for Groissböck’s
Fasolt, whether on grounds of physical allure or acuity of response to Wagner’s
alchemic blend of words and music. Alexandra Steiner, Stephanie Houtzeel, and Wiebke
Lehmkuhl offered both excellent blend and, where necessary, commendable
differentiation of character as the Rhinemaidens; their acting skills were,
again, outstanding.
In this, in some ways, perhaps the
most radical of all Wagner’s scores, the orchestra has a very particular role,
or roles. It offers exposition, commentary, wonder, dialectical development, emotional
and conceptual depth: all that and much more. Marek Janowski’s conducting often
seemed – at least by comparison with the multivalent drama elsewhere – to be a
little too concerned to keep the score on a tight leash. It was fast-paced,
which is fair enough, but there is more to be revealed when the work relaxes
too. Some balances were also peculiar; the conductor appeared to have a bizarre
fascination with the composer’s clarinet lines, sometimes to the exclusion of
everything else. It was fascinating to hear the work almost as if from a
clarinettist’s standpoint, but again a little odd, and one-sided. Perhaps it
was an acoustical quirk. Against those reservations, of which I do not wish to
make too much, Janowski clearly knew what he wanted and how to achieve it. His neo-Mendelssohnian
persuasion has a degree of historical warrant, and there was no denying the
ability of the Bayreuth Festival Orchestra’s ability in that respect. In
Wagner, however, at least for me, there is never one single answer; one looks
forward as well as back. Certain intimations of Schoenberg (Pierrot, and not only on account of the
clarinet!) were most welcome. More standpoints, reconciled by the slippery
conception of the Wagnerian melos,
might have been brought to our attention in certain other performances, but
this had coherence of its own.
