Returning to Dmitri Tcherniakov’s Berlin Ring
a year after I first saw it, it seems very much the same production:
thought-provoking, amenable to almost endless further questioning, and yet, as
we reach the denouement, seemingly turning aside: not, I think, or at least not
straightforwardly, as George Bernard Shaw accused Wagner of having done in Götterdammerung,
on account of succumbing to the ‘love panacea’, but rather from having failed
to see its Konzept through. I decided this time to write a single review
rather than four instalments, partly so I could make connections between the
four parts more readily, not necessarily explicitly, but at least writing with
the whole in min. Comparison with what went before last year, with a largely
yet not entirely different cast, and a different conductor (then Thomas
Guggeis, now Philippe Jordan) is both interesting and, on some level,
inevitable, but I shall try to limit 2023 references, so this can be read on
its own terms. (I shall re-read my reviews, here,
here,
here,
and here,
once this has been written and posted.) Whatever its flaws, this remains an
important piece of theatre, and performances were of a high, often outstanding,
standard throughout. If we continue to miss Daniel Barenboim, life goes on—and
very well too.
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| Alberich (Johannes Martin Kränzle) |
Set in the ESCHE research centre, with an
ash appropriately enough at its centre, Das Rheingold does very well in
setting up expectations for the Ring as a whole. In some though not all
respects, we may safely delete ‘expectations for’. It is difficult not to think
of Blake’s ‘Art is the Tree of Life … Science is the Tree of Death,’ nor indeed
of the Biblical Tree of Life, as well of course as Wagner’s kindred World-Ash.
For this is unquestionably the realm of science, and in the most overtly
political of all Wagner’s dramas, one is led – at least I was – to consider the
relationship between politics and the natural sciences: in many respects, at
least since the Enlightenment onwards, a key question of political and indeed
other philosophy. Hegel, notably, is the trickiest figure here, at least for
those who, like Charles Taylor, find his ontology impossible to accept; but he
is arguably all the more important for that. Whatever else one might say, for
instance, of Marx and Engels – to name perhaps the two most important political
philosophers of Wagner’s generations – they were anything but vulgar
materialists. Dialectical materialism: the clue is in the name. In the
following generation, Nietzsche is an equally tricky case, arguably more
ambiguous (take his interest, often overlooked, in eighteenth-century
materialism) than self-styled Nieztscheans. Such thinkers, and others, inform
our response to this world of observation, surveillance, and experimental
psychology, in which the first scene physically abuses – and watches – Alberich
more thoroughly than any other I can recall. Arguably this is above all Loge’s
world, the world of the instrumental reason he seems to represent: that which
Adorno and Horkheimer identified as the key to modernity’s deadly dialectic of
enlightenment. When Loge gestures to Wotan in the third scene of Das
Rheingold that he knows all too well what is going on, but they need to
continue to play the game for Alberich’s benefit, the game is truly afoot. And
Wotan, quite properly after Erda’s intervention, realises something is rotten
in the state of Valhalla. Following the ineffectual yet crowd-pleasing magic
tricks of Froh and Donner, he remains alone, in despair, grabbing the once
‘natural’ ash tree, though it is probably too late already. No one else,
though, seems to know or care.
For perhaps the key question as the drama
develops is who is in charge, who is running these experiments. It might
first seem to be Wotan and the gods, yet ultimately, like serious (non-naïve,
non-liberal) political philosophy in general, there seems to be something
and/or someone beyond those we thought was ruling the roost. Rousseau’s problem
of the Legislator returns—but so ultimately does his inability to answer the
questions he set himself in The Social Contract. Questions of agency
come to the fore, just as they do with respect to Wotan and his ‘great idea’,
announced at the end of Das Rheingold and torn to shreds by Fricka. What
are we to make, when we reach Götterdämmerung, of the institute carrying
on more or less before, but with still less of an evident chain of command.
Frankenstein’s monster, in politics, even metaphysics, as in philosophy?
Perhaps.
Siegmund is an escaped inmate, with a touch
both of Ukrainian Zelensky and Russian Tcherniakov to him via Elena Zaytseva’s
costumes, Tcherniakov’s direction, and Robert Watson’s determined yet damaged
portrayal. (The Ukrainian President is, after all, nothing if he is not an
actor.) This we learn via Gleb Filshtinsky’s striking video police report,
which accompanies Die Walküre’s opening orchestral storm. And yet,
reopening or extending questions concerning scope, authority, agency, and so
forth, he is nonetheless under observation by Wotan and Fricka, a one-way
mirror from Hunding’s dwelling revealing the god’s Erich Mielke-like office,
from which his own brand of state security (failings pointed out unsparingly
both by Fricka and, more sympathetically, by Wagner) may be dispensed. Perhaps
surprisingly, given the lack of an object for the ring, there is a sword, which
in this particular context imparts a sense, if not quite of playacting, then of
enforced roleplay (an echo, perhaps, of Tcherniakov’s
Aix Carmen).
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| Siegmund (Robert Watson) and Sieglinde (Vida Miknevičutė) |
Forcible return of the Volsung hero to the
facility proper, or to more intense observation within, is at least as shocking
as, in the previous instalment, Alberich’s not dissimilar bundling off,
courtesy of research centre heavies, and approaches Fafner’s horrifying
gun-murder of Fasolt. Violence is omnipresent both in the Ring and
Tcherniakov’s reading of it, whatever Wotan (‘Nichts durch Gewalt!’) might
claim. We might also mention in that breath Wotan’s dragging a hooded –
essentially imprisoned and undoubtedly traumatised – Sieglinde back to the
lecture theatre, which makes the tentative steps toward childhood play and then
full display of father-daughter love between him and Brünnhilde all the more
moving, as did magnificent performances from both Tomasz Koniezcny and Anja
Kampe.
In Siegfried, there is also much to
glean and admire. The thug-orphan-hero’s smashing of childhood toys in the
first act has obvious symbolism. So too has his sheer might. Intriguingly, he
sees Wotan at the end of that act, through what had once seemed to be a one-way-mirror.
Maybe it never was; we may just have wanted to believe that. Or perhaps it is
testament to the old order and/or older generation giving way. There is room
for different interpretation here. Certainly, Konieczny’s Wotan, previously the
loudest – at least at his loudest – I have heard, though that is not to deny
his verbal subtlety either, seemed transformed, and not only visually (though
tremendous work is done there through costume, make-up, and prosthetics). This
Wanderer was old, and we heard it too. So too, far from incidentally, was Johannes
Martin Kränzle’s Alberich; their confrontation at the beginning of the second
act was one of the deepest I can recall, as focused on Wagner’s poem as any ‘straight’
theatre performance, but with the additional intensity only music, vocal and
orchestral, can bring.
The enclosed violence of something
approaching a cage-fight – a lab fight – between Fafner and Siegfried is
terrible to behold, though it was a pity for Peter Rose’s Fafner, so powerful
and intelligent elsewhere (a fine pair earlier with his namesake Matthew Rose,
as Fasolt), to let out his final ‘Siegfried’ seemingly without any recognition
of what that name might mean. The experiment on our ‘rebel without a
consciousness’, as Peter Wapnewski once called Siegfried, has him gain some of
that, though oddly not really fear. (Nor does he have the slightest idea who
the Norns are when he passes them: perhaps a missed opportunity to depict
change.) It is in the final scene that things really begin to fall apart. Much
seems merely silly, the forced laughter of Brünnhilde and Siegfried grating, as
if Tcherniakov can no longer bear the seriousness of Wagner’s dramas and just
wishes to mock it. It prefigures similar laughter in Götterdämmerung,
for instance between Gunther and Gutrune; more seriously, it prefigures the
failure of that drama chez Tcherniakov.
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| Siegfried (Andreas Schager) and Mime (Stephan Rügamer) |
Before, though, we turn to the denouement,
let us consider the musical achievements, at least those not discussed above.
Above all, there is the astonishing achievement of the Staatskapelle Berlin. I
am not sure I have ever heard quite so faultless a performance, even under
Barenboim. That there were a few instances of tiredness in Götterdämmerung
is only to be expected; that there were so few is eminently worthy of note.
Jordan’s conducting was extremely fluent, navigating the score almost as if he
were Karajan. The sheer elegance of his approach will not be to all tastes, but
it deserves serious consideration. Ultimately, I felt there was often, though
not always, a degree or two of range lacking, and that Götterdämmerung had
a tendency to drag just a little, as if tempi were slightly out of sync with
the overall conception. But Jordan’s command of his forces and the sheer
excellence of those forces – there was not a single vocal performance that
really fell short – was testament to more than Barenboim’s extraordinary
legacy, however important that may be. It was certainly the best Wagner yet I
have heard from the conductor; it was also just as heartening to hear this
great orchestra continue to consign any other Wagner band, Bayreuth’s included,
to the shade.
Some individual performances I have
mentioned already. I cannot run through them all, but shall select some
highlights. Rolando Villazón’s Loge is always likely to remain controversial,
though it seemed to me to have progressed significantly from last year: less bel
canto, more Rheingold dialectic. There could be no doubting his
wholehearted commitment, nor his thriving on stage. That is surely more
important than individual preferences for what a role ‘should’ be. Siyabnoga
Maqungo made for a pleasingly lyric Froh. If I felt Claudia Mahnke’s Fricka
came more into her own in Die Walküre, that is doubtless as much a
matter of work and production than performance as such. She certainly lived and
breathed her character’s argument and ruthlessness in its presentation, with
none of the misguided recent trend to make Fricka unduly sympathetic (cheered
on by commentators who clearly have little understanding of either the drama
itself or Wagner’s position). Anna Kissjudit’s Erda remained essential; as with
so many exponents of the role, she seems to be a singer who can do no wrong
(her recent Ježibaba a case in point). That does not mean we should take for granted
the deep beauty and penetrating verbal commitment of her portrayal; we should
not.
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| Alberich |
Kränzle’s Alberich may have been less black
of tone than many, but that offered a caution against essentialism, the
intelligence of his portrayal showing it is perfectly possible for an artist
both to play the forger of the ring in three out of four evenings, yet also to
be capable of satisfying the very different requirements of a Beckmesser.
Stephan Rügamer’s Mime was every bit as distinguished, thoughtful, and
similarly verbally founded a portrayal as one would expect from this fine
artist: again never something we should take for granted. Vida Miknevičutė’s
Sieglinde was everything one could wish for: vulnerable, yes, yet with great
inner strength, blossoming and crushed according to the dramatic requirements
of work and production—and René Pape’s brutal, yet beautifully sung Hunding.
This is surely more his role than Wotan.
Andreas Schager’s Siegfried continues to be
a significant achievement. If Schager’s voice no longer has the freshness it
once did – how could it? – his was a tireless performance, committed throughout
in its attempt to show us what both Wagner and Tcherniakov asked of him. Kampe
went from strength to strength as Brünnhilde, truly enlisting our sympathy,
without ever playing a ‘mere’ victim’. A more distinguished set of ‘other’
Valkyries, some of whom appeared in additional roles, one would struggle to
find anywhere at any time. Not only the ‘Ride’ but the crucial scene
thereafter, cast from such vocal and acting strength, came to urgent, necessary
life such as may only rarely be experienced. (To have such a Wotan, Brünnhilde,
and Sieglinde did no harm, of course.) Stephen Milling’s Hagen was another
commanding performance, and I greatly enjoyed Victoria Randem’s performance,
likewise completely inhabiting the world of the Woodbird. Rhinemaidens and
Norns were similarly of the highest standard.
Back, then, to Tcherniakov. It pains me to
say, as a great admirer of his work in general, that the perverse achievement
of his Götterdämmerung is to have made it so boring. Having seemingly
run out of ideas (and/or time?) by the last scene of Siegfried, he goes
through the motions here. I presume the lack of observation from elsewhere in
the centre signifies something—and one can certainly speculate about what that
might be. Given that it occurs before the Norns’ rope snaps, it must have
happened either at the end of Siegfried or in between. I have no
objection to trying to fill in the gaps; there is no reason the audience should
not have to do some work too. The problem is that it becomes difficult to care.
Whatever explanations one comes up with, the production seems either to repeat
itself, for want of anything better to do, or introduces something arbitrarily
new. No basketball so far? Why not introduce it for the hunting scene. Of
course, one can argue that such sport is a reasonable masculine equivalent, but
it is unprepared at best. The return of various characters, Erda (still played
by Kissjudit, rather than an actor) and an elderly Wanderer included, to
observe Siegfried’s funeral rites could be touching. It is certainly not an
intrinsically bad idea. But amidst a host of apparently ‘new’ characters,
presumably from younger generations (although the decor has not changed at
all), it is all a bit confusing, even random.
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| Brünnhilde |
I do not think I have seen a less eventful
Immolation Scene, and hope never to do so. Brünnhilde really is parked, if not
to bark, then to sing very well. After that, she jumps on top of Siegfried on a
hospital trolley, and that is that until a final scene change to follow Hagen’s
‘Zurück vom Ring’ (from offstage). She has packed her bag – it is not quite a
suitcase, I suppose, but come on… – and is heading off somewhere to be
intercepted by Erda, who offers her a bird. Perhaps there was a fire after all,
since the research centre seems to have vanished. For want of anything more
meaningful, the words of Wagner’s so-called ‘Schopenhauer ending’ are projected
for us to read. If Schopenhauer is being invoked as therapy, this must rank as
the weakest, least motivated instalment of Tcherniakov’s often intriguing therapeutic turn. This, alas, seems more, not less, tired
on a second viewing. One looks to do more than shrug and say ‘so what?’ at the
end of a Ring, all the more so when it had started and, for the most
part, continued so well. It is above all a great pity, and not in a Parsifalian-Mitleid
sort of way.
