Salzburg Festival (10) - BPO/Petrenko: Smetana, 26 August 2024

Grosses Festspielhaus

Má vlast

Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra

Kirill Petrenko (conductor)

Images: SF/Marco Borrelli

This might have been less a case of taking coals to Newcastle than of bringing them back to double the journey, given I have spent most of the past year in Berlin. I was unable, though, to attend any of the subscription concerts earlier in the year when the Berlin Philharmonic and Kirill Petrenko played Smetana’s Má vlast, so this Salzburg Festival offered me a welcome second chance in this, the composer’s bicentenary year. If there were times when I could not help but wonder what, say, the Czech Philharmonic might have sounded like in this music, the BPO and Petrenko gave committed, accomplished performances. There might well have been an extra tang of ‘authenticity’, given that orchestra’s unusual success in resisting international homogenisation, but no more than Janáček or Elgar does Smetana deserve to be reduced to the status of a national dish. 

There was certainly nothing culinary to what we heard. Each of the six symphonic poems had its own narrative and contributed to a greater narrative. Petrenko proved a purposeful yet flexible guide. The bardic harps of ‘Vyšehrad’ offered a magical ‘once upon a time’ opening, following woodwind just as impressive. It really felt like the introduction to a series, and at times seemed even to anticipate the world of Das klagende Lied (which, after all, Mahler had begun before Smetana completed his work, let alone before its first performance). Yet that was only a hint; Smetana took a different, more Lisztian route, not least in the fugato, whose string playing was quite beyond reproach. ‘Vltava’ will doubtless always be the most celebrated of the six; it gains much from being heard in context. Here, it received an alert, colourful, directed performance, tinged with an unspoken sadness that was never permitted to overwhelm. There were occasions when I wondered whether it might have been a little less ‘beautiful’ or at least more vigorous, but I am nitpicking. 

Following a few rounds of audience coughing, ‘Šarka’ emerged in almost operatic fashion, as if the opening to a new act. It proved full of surprises, even when one ‘knew’, testament to the freshness of the performance, all the way to a fiery conclusion (a massacre according to the composer’s programme). The opening to ‘From Bohemia’s Fields and Forests’ seemed to steal from still farther into the future: Mahler again, and even Janáček. These were certainly, though, Bohemian rather than Moravian lands into which the music headed. Again, there was a proper sense both of a new chapter and also of connection. String counterpoint once more was brilliantly despatched—and with a ghostly flavour at the close. 

An eloquent reading of ‘Tábor’ again often put me in mind of Liszt, both in rhetoric and narrative. It had me think how welcome it would be to hear some of his symphonic poems from these same forces: maybe, dare one hope, even a complete series.’Blaník’ felt like the finale—and definitely a finale in context rather than something drafted to do service as such. Tonal and dramatic expectancy were properly heightened and fulfilled. Here was another Lisztian battle, but with jubilation that was very much Smetana’s (Czech) own. It may not be the ‘Ode to Joy’ or Die Meistersinger, but what is? An important nineteenth-century voice was given his due.

Salzburg Festival (9) - The Gambler, 25 August 2024

Felsenreitschule

General – Peixin Chen
Polina – Asmik Grigorian
Alexey Ivanovitch – Sean Panikkar
Babulenka – Violeta Urmana
Marquis – Juan Francisco Gatell
Blanche – Nicole Chirka
Mr Astley – Michael Arivony
Prince Nilski – Zhengi Bai
Baron Würmerhelm – Ilia Kazakov
Potapytch – Joseph Parrish
Casino Director – Armand Rabot
First Croupier – Samuel Stopford
Second Croupier – Michael Dimovski
Fat Englishman – Jasurbek Khaydarov
Tall Englishman – Vladyslav Buialskyi
So-So Lady – Seray Pinar
Pale Lady – Lilit Davtyan
Revered Lady – Cassandra Doyle
Doubtful Old Lady – Zole Reams
Passionate Gambler – Santiago Sánchez
Sickly Gambler – Tae Hwan Yun
Hump-backed Gambler – Aaron-Casey Gould
Unsuccessful Gambler – Navasard Hakobyan
Old Gambler – Amin Ahangaran
Six Gamblers – Slaven Abazovic, Konrad Huber, Juraj Kuchar, Jarosłav Pehal, Wataru Sano, Oleg Zalytskiy

Director – Peter Sellars
Set designs – George Tsypin
Costumes – Camille Assaf
Lighting – James F. Ingalls
Dramaturgy – Antonio Cuenca Ruiz

Concert Association of the Vienna State Opera Chorus (chorus director: Pawel Markowicz)

Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra

Timur Zangiev (conductor)

Images: SF/Ruth Walz

This new production by Peter Sellars of The Gambler had four important things in common with Mariame Clément’s Tales of Hoffmann, which I saw in Salzburg the previous evening. It imposed a fashionable concept on a work that might or might not have proved receptive to it, had it been pursued more coherently; the concept was at least on one level something to which it would be difficult for a thinking twenty-first-century person to object; it took reading of a programme note to discover fully what that concept had been; and finally, upon that discovery, I was left certain that the work’s own ideas were rather more interesting and fruitful than what had been imposed upon them. There were also, however, at least two important differences. Sellars’s production worked much better as a relatively ‘straight’ reading of the work, in which one could either ignore or remain in ignorance of the rest. And musically, whilst both productions had excellent casts, this one was well conducted. It made, then, for a far more satisfying night in the theatre. 

This was, I think, the third production of The Gambler I had seen, following stagings in Berlin (Dmitri Tcherniakov, 2008) and London (Richard Jones, 2010), and certainly the first in a while. The Felsenreitschule stage imposes certain constraints, though doubtless also offers certain opportunities to a director. One is unlikely to be able to do much in the way of scene-changes mid-act. In this case, since the opera was given without an interval, one is unlikely to be able to do much in that respect at all. Sellars and his team responded inventively, though, with a little help from the resources a Salzburg Festival production will have at its disposal. Spinning tops suspended from the ceiling, poised for action – I initially thought of a Russian opera from an earlier generation, Boris Godunov’s heir at play in the study – descended when required to form a casino of roulette tables. Green moss suggested both a park and a sense of decay and time running out. The rest could be understood pretty much on its own terms. 

At least I thought it could, notwithstanding irritating, capitalised anachronisms in the surtitles. ‘DADDY’, ‘ACTIVIST’, ‘CAPITAL’, and so on seemed little more than minor distractions. Prokofiev and indeed Dostoevsky still for the most part shone through. The presentation of Polina as an ‘activist’ was half-hearted enough that for the most part I missed it. Her clothes seemed a bit odd, her behaviour too, but neither of those things is especially unusual in such stagings. Brief portrayal of sadomasochistic activity between her and Mr Astley – I later learned he had been a ‘British venture capitalist’ – intrigued. Yet since nothing more happened in that respect, it was soon forgotten, until she eloped with him at the close. Presumably he had co-opted her, as venture capitalists do. Ultimately, then, Sellars’s concept seemed to be anticapitalist-cum-environmentalist, yet also to an extent a critique of that world of protest, Alexey hardly turning out to be a role model. It was difficult not to feel that Dostoevsky’s existentialism – Prokofiev’s too – was not more fitting, more interesting. Yet, since this mysterious world of ‘sole traders’ had barely impinged on my consciousness during the performance, it did not much matter either. I had witnessed obsession, social climbing, self-destruction, and the rest, and it had largely made sense. Sellars’s Personenregie, then, had worked well, whatever one thought (or noticed) of his concept. 

That was doubtless also testimony to the strength of the cast. I have never seen or heard a performance in which Sean Panikkar has failed to excel, and this was no exception. He truly inhabited as actor as well as singer the role of Alexey, providing the focus of the work and duly engaging our sympathies. Asmik Grigorian, here far more at home than in Strauss’s Four Last Songs the previous morning, sang gorgeously as a wilful, spirited, and ultimately enigmatic Polina. Peixin Chen’s stentorian General also offered a fascinating character study in personal weakness, not necessarily the easiest combination to bring off. Juan Francisco’s wheedling Marquis, Michael Arivony’s clever, apparently trustworthy Mr Astley, Nicole Chirka’s alluring yet shallow Blanche, and others all offered sharp characterisation. Perhaps needless to say, Violeta Urmana’s Babulenka stole the show; it is in the nature of work and role, yet hers was nonetheless a towering performance, rich-toned, impulsive, and finely characterised.    

It was doubtless no coincidence that, at the point of her arrival, the general temperature of the musical performance shot upwards. Again, that is in the nature of the work, but it seemed also to act as a spur to Timur Zangiev and the Vienna Philharmonic in the pit. A greater sharpness was to be heard, Prokofiev’s motor rhythms acquiring greater force, achieving greater impact. There was also, though, an ineffably human tenderness not only to be perceived, but to be moved by. Prokofiev’s lyricism proved the increasingly prominent obverse of the existential-dramatic coin.

Salzburg Festival (8) - Mozarteum Orchestra/Emelyanchev: Mozart, 25 August 2024

Grosser Saal, Mozarteum

Serenade in D major, KV 239, ‘Serenata notturna’
Quintet for piano, oboe, clarinet, horn, and bassoon in E-flat major, KV 452
Symphony no.38 in D major, KV 504, ‘Prague’

Isabelle Unterer (oboe)

Bernhard Mitmesser (clarinet)

Àlvaro Canales Albert (bassoon)

Paul Pitzek (horn)

Salzburg Mozarteum Orchestra

Maxim Emelyanchev (fortepiano, conductor)

Image: SF/Marco Borrelli

Making his debut with the Salzburg Mozarteum Orchestra, Maxim Emelyanchev offered three works by Mozart, each in three movements, appearing as conductor from the harpsichord, fortepianist, and conductor without keyboard. Not everyone can offer such versatility, nor indeed would wish to, but the results were generally enjoyable, although the combination of period piano and modern wind instruments in the E-flat Quintet, KV 452, proved ill-advised. Adding further complication to a slightly confusing postmodern mélange, Emelyanchev offered various performing styles within the concert, moving from a more ‘period’ approach in the Serenata notturna to a more ‘traditional’ Prague Symphony, the intervening Quintet at times strangely improvisatory. Much of the audience seemed to love it; the orchestra seemed enthused too. It at least offered something for all the family. 

The March that opens the serenade was certainly martial, though it lost something in the longer line and was arguably more unrelentingly four-square than it need have been. Some of the colours were a delight, string pizzicato offering only one such example, though the sheer aggression of tutti passages, especially those with timpani, seemed to me out of keeping. A rigorous, bracing minuet was given cultivated contrast in the sweet-toned trio, which relaxed without actual relaxation of tempo. The finale similarly offered excellent playing, the brief central ‘Adagio’ section at least avoiding undue astringency, and the final ‘Allegro’ a fine sense of release. 

Following a self-absorbed piano lead-in, the first movement of the Quintet set the scene, both for good and less good, for what would follow. It emerged as ‘interesting’ rather than great music, the lack of harmonic rhythm a serious problem, and strange balance helping neither underpowered keyboard, sometimes compelled to forcing of tone to be heard, nor wind who, in such company and despite excellent playing, tended to sound overly bright. The ‘Larghetto’ was at least more long-breathed, but likewise suffered from the lack of a fundamental pulse. Maybe it was a case of my ears having adjusted, but the third movement proved the most convincing of the three, a concerto finale in not-so-miniature, harmony and counterpoint allied to more purposeful direction.    

Returning to D major, the Prague Symphony received what was in many ways a surprisingly unmannered performance, mutual sympathy rewarded in both directions. Natural brass (horns and trumpets) were used, which contributed to the overall sense of pick-and-mix, especially in combination with noticeably more modern-sounding timpani than had been employed for the Serenata notturna, but a few rasping noises aside, they did not distract. A broad introduction – certainly when compared with performers coming from a similar standpoint – set the scene for a first movement with a considerably stronger sense of harmonic rhythm than anything heard previously. Emelyanchev’s tendency to wave his arms around too much might visually irritate, but it did not necessarily transfer into what we heard. When he slowed in preparation for the second group, it was an ‘interventionist’ moment no one listening could have missed, but it made sense, irrespective of whether one happened to approve. Doing precisely the same thing for the repeat arguably detracted from the effect, but even Daniel Barenboim has been known to repeat a little too obviously an agogic adjustment or tempo variation, so I think we can readily forgive that. 

The Andante flowed nicely without being fashionably harried and/or divested of its profound, emotional content. Indeed, its darkness came to the surface with apparent naturalness, as opposed to being imposed from without. Again, that can only be the case through harmony, which, if it not key to Mozart, Haydn, and Beethoven, it is not key to anyone at all. (The number of fashionable conductors today who fail to appreciate that is, sadly, at an all-time high.) Woodwind once more shone, but in an unassuming – one might say quintessentially Bohemian – way, as if inheriting the mantle of the players for whom the work was written. The finale was taken fast, very fast: to my ears, too fast, more Prestissimo rather than Presto, as if the point were to take it as fast as possible. It is not a matter of speed as such, but rather of giving the music space to breathe; Mozart rarely if ever calls for speed in the way that Haydn (or Mendelssohn) does. A strong sense of harmonic rhythm was here diminished, although the music was not arbitrarily pulled around as some might. The Mozarteum Orchestra’s playing was excellent throughout.

Salzburg Festival (7) - Les Contes d’Hoffmann, 24 August 2024

Grosses Festspielhaus

Hoffmann – Benjamin Bernheim
Stella, Olympia, Antonia, Giulietta – Kathryn Lewek
Lindorf, Coppélius, Dr Miracle, Dapertutto – Christian Van Horn
Muse, Nicklausse – Kate Lindsey
Andrés, Cochenille, Frantz, Pitichanaccio – Marc Mauillon
Mother’s Voice – Géraldine Chauvet
Spalanzani – Michael Laurenz
Crespel, Meister Luther – Jérôme Varnier
Hermann, Peter Schlémil – Philippe-Nicholas Martin
Nathanaël – Paco García
Wilhelm – Yevheniy Kapitula

Director – Mariame Clément
Designs – Julia Hansen
Lighting – Paule Constable
Video – Étienne Guiol, Wilfrid Haberey
Choreography – Gail Skrela
Dramaturgy – Christian Arseni

 Concert Association of the Vienna State Opera (chorus director: Alan Woodbridge)

Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra

Marc Minkowski (conductor)

Images: SF/Monika Rittershaus

Tales of Hoffmann, Offenbach’s unfinished, arguably unfinishable opéra fantastique, inevitably poses questions concerning performing versions and choices, in its subject matter going further in blurring boundaries between artist, character, and audience, just as many German Romantics, ETA Hoffmann himself included, had done. That is part of its enduring interest, as is Offenbach’s final, spirited approach to the ‘serious’ world of opera from his ‘home’ world of operetta. It is more complicated than that; it always is. And so on… It would be less odd than impossible not to confront such questions, whatever role(s) one might play oneself in a performance—and again, that certainly includes the audience. Here, the supporting programme materials are in many ways impressive: interviews with director Mariame Clément and, to a lesser extent, conductor Marc Minkowski make important points, as does Heather Hadlock’s essay. The problem – and here responsibility lies with the first two – is that so little of that comes across in performance. 

Perhaps I only have myself to blame; I was given a copy of the programme beforehand, but only read it afterwards. I might well have made more of Clément’s production had things been otherwise, though I cannot imagine I would have of Minkowski’s lifeless conducting. I know, moreover, that it is often too easy a retort to say ‘I should not have to read the programme to make sense of a production’. Indeed, but because I did not, it does not necessarily follow that I was not at fault in failing to pick up on what was there. Hand on heart, though, I am not sure it would have made that much difference, in what continues to strike me as a confused and confusing way of presenting ideas that are either mostly straightforward, indeed downright obvious, or not really there at all. Programme essays and interviews can be very good things; I have written a few myself, after all. They are not, however, substitutes for staging. If the director’s role involves anything at all, recognition of and response to that truism is surely part of it. 

Clément depicts Hoffmann as a film-maker: fair enough, though the constant obeisance other art forms must make to film and television has begun to wear thin by now. It is a strange teleology that has everything lead towards film, not least for a theatre director, yet to many it seems beyond question. To be fair, even Adorno fell prey to it at times. Surely the world of live performance is in many ways more interesting, more human, or at least differently so. It is not clear – like much else we see – where that leaves the work’s own, more interesting framing device of a performance of Don Giovanni. Is that also a film, or has Hoffmann moved to theatre? Does it matter? 

Hoffmann (Benjamin Bernheim), Nicklausse (Kate Lindsey), Mother (Géraldine Charvet)

Let us skip over the compendium of clichés that has led us there, including the inevitable Prologue shopping trolley. A couple of dustbins, from one of which the Muse emerges, does not alas suggest a move towards the endgame, let alone Endgame. As we move from the works canteen to the three central acts, we quickly realise that what we are seeing is what Hoffmann has bade his current cast watch on a television somewhere nearby: a conspectus of his career to date, moving from a tacky science fiction B-movie in which Olympia stands with a raygun that might have been a child’s toy – if there were such things as Z-movies, this might be one – through a more expensive, ‘period’ musical drama for Antonia, with an apt if banal nod to the ghostly; to a Giulietta act in which your guess will almost certainly be better than mine. Actors step in and out of character, inviting us to partake in the less-than-breathtaking insight that they are people too and, like Hoffmann, bring parts of themselves to their work. 

Quite why one should care about any of these people or their roles I do not know. The voice of Antonia’s mother from beyond is simply another singer standing there singing a part. Perhaps that is the point, but the lack of emotional involvement or engagement, alongside the insistence, albeit more thoroughly pursued in the programme than on stage, that the characters are mere projections of Hoffmann’s ego, has one continue to wonder whether there is any point in performing this work at all. The overriding note, ultimately, is of tedium, which again, if it is the point – I doubt it – is not enough to justify the experience. 

It might and should have been lifted by the musical performances, yet, despite good and, in some cases, outstanding singing, Minkowski’s grey, sub-Kapellmeister-ish meanderings accomplished nothing here. Basic competence in coordinating pit and stage, especially when it came to a chorus estimable in itself yet left cruelly exposed, eluded the conductor, let alone any sense of colour, irony, or drama, let alone lightness. The Vienna Philharmonic struggled through and sometimes shone; one can hardly blame the players for imparting a sense that their hearts were either not in it or at least not in alignment with what was going on elsewhere. That the Barcarolle passed for vanishingly little was a remarkable achievement, but hardly one to hymn. Minkowski received a good number of boos: an uncivilised practice in which I should never partake, yet if it were not quite deserved, it was perhaps understandable. 

If the orchestra and chorus deserved better, so did the soloists. Benjamin Bernheim, as tireless as he was stylish, made for an ideal Hoffmann. With apparent – doubtless only apparent – lack of effort, he had us believe in him despite enveloping disarray. That he was onstage even more than only added to his commitment and achievement. The same should be said of Kathryn Lewek in her multiple roles, as impressive in coloratura, of which there is much, as in more impassioned romantic feeling; that she had in addition to step in and out of ‘character’ again seemed only to inspire her. Christian Van Horn’s Lindorf cast due shadow over the action. Kate Lindsey’s Nicklausse proved as triumphant a success and as true a spur to emotional engagement, as any portrayal I have heard from this ever-impressive artist Other roles, including Geraldine Chauvet’s rich-toned Mother’s Voice (here, also actorly presence) and the several assumed with great spirit by Marc Mauillon, were all well taken. The team of Salzburg extras did what was asked of them well too. As for the rest, back to the drawing-board, I fear.

Salzburg Festival (6) – Grigorian/VPO/Dudamel: Strauss, 24 August 2024

Grosses Festspielhaus

Four Last Songs
Eine Alpensinfonie, op.64

Asmik Grigorian (soprano)

Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra

Gustavo Dudamel (conductor)

Images: SF/Marco Borrelli

The Vienna Philharmonic playing Strauss: what could go wrong? More than one might imagine; to be more generous, a good deal failed to go quite right. Neither Asmik Grigorian nor Gustavo Dudamel, whatever legions of fans might tell you, was well cast in the Four Last Songs. This is treacherous territory: so many in the audience will have favoured memories of past performances, not to mention recordings. How can anyone be expected to compete with Flagstad and Furtwängler, Janowitz and Karajan, Norman and Masur, or whoever the personal favourites might be? It is entirely unreasonable; yet even so, this was a disappointing performance. Diction is a problem for sopranos in Strauss. The proportion of audible and inaudible words was nonetheless askew. If Grigorian’s voice sounded darker than one might be used to, that was not a problem; there is no single ‘right’ way or voice here. More problematical was her excessively operatic approach. Rarely did one have a sense these were songs rather than arias. 

Dudamel, meanwhile, tended to offer decidedly foursquare ‘accompaniments’, ‘September’ an especially notable case until its close, when, to be fair, both singer and conductor, as well as the orchestra, created a magical hush. Prior to that, though, Grigorian’s inability or disinclination to float Strauss’s lines as they demand had made for a decidedly choppy autumnal ride. Spring, in the preceding song (‘Frühling’), had proved merely perfunctory; Hesse is surely offering more than a weather commentary here, as is Strauss. If a slow ‘Beim Schlafengehen’ suggested something better at its opening, Grigorian and Dudamel both struggled to sustain a tempo that also stood out awkwardly with respect to what had gone before. The VPO concertmaster’s solo made amends, as did some glorious orchestral moments, solo birds of gloaming foremost among them, in a vocally chilly ‘Im Abendrot’. Dudamel’s inability in either to set a fundamental tempo underlay a general impression of listlessness. 

That, alas, persisted in an Alpine Symphony that suggested a misunderstanding of its Nietzschean idea as the ‘anti-symphony’ rather than the Antichrist. There was little sense, alas, of any acquaintance with any underlying conception, philosophical or musical. Night’s opening at least started a little more promisingly: slow, arguably too slow, yet in its sepulchral yet velvety tone imparting at least a sense of what it might be about. Teeming life in the following transition likewise augured well, yet sunrise proved unfortunately prophetic of most of what was to follow. Strangely metallic in tone – I should never have guessed the orchestra from it – it soon grated on the ears. Pierre Monteux once damningly referred to the indifference of mezzo forte, but I should have quickly exchanged it for Dudamel’s indifference of fortissimo. Tempi bore little relation to one another; proportions matter here rather than absolutes, but both were all over the place. There were tender moments, gratefully received, and the mountain mists were spot on, but such alas proved to be exceptions. If the ascent was wayward, the descent was taken at a surprising sprint, though it had greater purpose. Dudamel’s apparent lack of interest in orchestral balance frustrated and perplexed throughout, resulting in a crude sound as foreign to what one would expect from the orchestra as to the work.

Salzburg Festival (5) – Bronfman/Pittsburgh SO/Honeck: Rachmaninov and Mahler, 22 August 2024

Grosses Festspielhaus

Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto no.3 in D minor, op.30
Mahler: Symphony no.5

Yefim Bronfman (piano)

Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra

Manfred Honeck (conductor)

Images: SF/Marco Borrelli

Rachmaninov’s music requires a tight structural command, especially for a work on the scale of the Third Piano Concerto, to dispel suspicions of the rhapsodic, or at least to ensure that rhapsodic qualities contribute to a sense of a greater whole. Yefim Bronfman and Manfred Honeck are very considerable musicians, yet in this performance, the first movement did not quite for me cohere as it might. Its conversational opening, understated yet on the move, compelled, as if ‘recalling’ music whose origin was lost in the mists of time. The performance was swift, perhaps a little too much at times, though that is surely preferable to lapsing into sentimentality; it enabled one to listen to often kaleidoscopic harmonies coming together thematically, especially in the piano part, though the second thematic group already sounded a little distended. The development section was nicely exploratory and the recapitulation had a proper sense of return; only some sense, at times, of quite why we moved from A to B was at times lacking. If the lack of heaviness was welcome, Bronfman bringing out passagework affinities with Prokofiev as well as Liszt, there were times when Honeck kept down the Pittsburgh Symphony a little too much. 

The second and third movements redressed that relative imbalance, rhapsodic elements more properly integrated. Honeck and the orchestra were more willing to take the lead, strings properly allowed their head for the first time.  When the excellent Pittsburgh brass had spells in the limelight, featuring more prominently in a richly protean finale, the temperature rose further. To some extent, I think this was a performance conception, an expression of trajectory; in retrospect, it seemed a pity that the greater urgency – as opposed to mere speed – could not have been read back into the first movement. The audience, though, disagreed, seemingly acclaiming the performance without reservation. 

Mahler conducted the Rachmaninov concerto in New York in 1910, with the composer as soloist. It is difficult to think of any other obvious connection between the two works and also difficult to say the combination worked to Rachmaninov’s advantage. Nevertheless, the performance of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony experienced one major difficulty of its own, though not one for which the performers were in any way responsible. The opening promised excellent things, the Pittsburgh solo trumpet – as, subsequently, the brass section as a whole – spellbinding in his macabre opening solo. From the outset, this first movement sounded more grounded than its first-half counterpart, Honeck communicating a clearer sense of where it was heading. It felt like a funeral march, or rather set of obsequies, without in any sense being reduced to an implied programme. This was, as Mahler always insisted, music, not a musical rendering of something else. 

A further strength of Honeck’s reading was his strong sense of the symphony’s division of five movements into three ‘parts’, the second movement very much following on from and necessitated by the first. Here, the generative role of rhythm came to the fore. If there were occasions when I wished the strings might dig deeper, there was nothing especially wrong with the playing. In such music, one often, however unfairly, recalls favoured performances or recordings of the past; such recollections can be tinged by unreliable romanticism and perhaps mine were too. Brass nonetheless seized the initiative for a thrilling first rendition of the chorale. A certain harshness at climaxes seemed to be deliberate. What, then, was the problem? A strange noise to be heard above the orchestra, both in pitch and seemingly in location. Although it sounded like a giant mouse, I assumed it must be some sort of electronic interference. I was closer initially; it transpired a bat had come to the party and was voicing its appreciation. 

After a short pause in which the problem was somehow resolved, we heard a properly liminal, transitional Scherzo, its neo-Bachian counterpoint clear and directed. The Adagietto convinced similarly: a little slow by curren, fashionable standards, but there is no one way to perform this music, in which fashion is as unwelcome as in Bach or Mozart. It is perhaps unsurprising, given Honeck’s pedigree as a string player, that we heard chamber music writ large. He handled the transition to the finale with as great skill as the connection between first and second movements, the fifth movement then proceeding with welcome hints of the sardonic. I wondered at times whether it was a little lacking in sheer abandon, but all came together perfectly for the chorale, whose advent and jubilant aftermath imparted sense to much of what had preceded them. I say ‘much’ only because the flying rodent’s disruption to my experience had been severe: a great pity. It was almost made up for, though, in a splendid encore performance of Ochs’s waltz from Der Rosenkavalier, rubato judged in echt Viennese fashion.

Mutter/WEDO/Barenboim - Brahms and Schubert, 9 August 2024

Waldbühne

Brahms: Violin Concerto in D major, op.77
Schubert: Symphony no.9 in C major, ‘Great’, D 944

Anne-Sophie Mutter (violin)
West-Eastern Divan Orchestra
Daniel Barenboim (conductor)

Images: Jakob Tilmann

That it came close to a miracle that this concert took place at all will not be news to anyone. The West-Eastern Divan Orchestra continues to offer hope, light, and crucially listening. It has for me ever since I first heard the players in a London memorial concert for Edward Said, conducted (partly from the piano) 20 years ago, almost to the day, by co-founder Daniel Barenboim. As Barenboim and Said made clear, it was not straightforwardly a political project; an orchestra was never going to bring justice to the world or to part of it. It could, however, show a way to listen to one another in extremely difficult – some might have thought, impossible – circumstances. That it has now been doing for 25 years. I was unable to attend the anniversary concert here in Berlin in April, but it helped nonetheless to know that it was taking place—and I was able the previous September to hear them come together once again to play the three final symphonies of Mozart, conducted as (almost) always by Barenboim. It was not a concert I reviewed, but the ultra-Klemperian performance of the E-flat Symphony was the finest I have ever heard. It compelled one above all to listen. 

And so, it was a privilege once again to see, as well as to hear, these musicians assemble to perform Brahms and Schubert with long-term collaborator Anne-Sophie Mutter. Berlin’s Waldbühne is a strange venue. It was my first visit, earlier plans having been confounded. And it is certainly worth the visit for the ‘experience’, even if it rains for part of it, necessitating a sea of umbrellas and the rest. In the forest, as its name suggests, the vast ampitheatre offers no shelter for anyone but the performers; it offers little shelter either, save for the determinedly uninquisitive (never underestimate them!) from its Nazi origins and concept. Handel’s Hercules and Eberhard Wolfgang Möller’s Frankenburger Würfelspiel featured here in 1936, as well as the Olympic Games’s gymnastics competition. Still, boiling things down merely to alleged origins is as un-historical as it is un-musical. Barenboim has never been a musician to resort to such pseudo-archaeology, and nor should we be. History is, or should be, as much about dialogue, about listening, as music.

The major problem in saying much concerning the performances is the necessary amplification such a vast open-air theatre requires. I say that not to complain; if you do not wish to hear an amplified performance, do not attend one. I say it rather to explain why my remarks on the performances will be brief and somewhat generalised, and will take second place to the ‘event’ itself, reflecting the nature of the occasion and my experience of it. Insofar as I could tell, given the nature and consequences of amplification – that ‘insofar’ should be taken as read or heard for the rest – Mutter gave a fine performance: broad, unmannered, tonally centred throughout. From time to time, she led, but like those around her, she listened; her understanding with the players, as well as Barenboim, drawing on an even greater wealth of experience, was palpable. Barenboim ensured, often whilst doing apparently little – he has always known when not to conduct, as well as when to do so – that not only the proportion were there, but that they were thoroughly founded on harmony: another humanistic, as well as musical, lesson. The Divan’s strings, as so often of a greater size than one would hear with a ‘normal’ symphony orchestra, produced not only fine tone, but a true sense of how (relatively) massed musicians can come together to prove so much more than the sum of their parts—when they listen, and act on that listening. So too did the rest of the orchestra, the oboe and other wind solos in the slow movement exquisite, yet also somehow symbolic of how individual voices may continue to sound and matter when part of that greater whole. 

Barenboim has long been an outstanding interpreter of Schubert in general, and the ‘Great’ C major Symphony in particular. A performance I heard him give at the Philharmonie, with the Vienna Philharmonic, was without question the finest I had heard, drawing as much as his Beethoven on the Furtwänglerian sources of his musicianship. Here that lineage remained important, but it was joined – as indeed as has much of his symphonic Beethoven over the past fifteen years or so – by a reunion with another powerful influence on his career, albeit slightly later, the aforementioned Otto Klemperer. As with Klemperer, if there could be something implacable to the playing here, that did not preclude the more mercurial, let alone the more human; it was part and parcel of the same dialectical conception. And Furtwänger’s famed long-distance hearing or listening (Fernhören, he called it) was just as apparent, from beginning to end. Barenboim had no truck with currently fashionable, frankly idiotic ideas concerning the opening tempo; he trusted the score, listened to it, and aided his musicians to do likewise. Here, deep – well, not so deep, but one could fancy it was after nightfall – in the German forest, horns and other wind took on a magical quality of their all, spirits already presaging, like quicksilver strings, the perfectly chosen and played encore, the Scherzo from Mendelssohn’s Midsummer Night’s Dream music. The Andante con moto’s length felt truly ‘heavenly’, to reprise Schumann’s celebrated description of Schubert’s ‘lengths’: not a moment too long, but just long enough. Such Goldilocks proportions characterised the symphony as a whole and in its myriad interrelations, not least between trio and scherzo material, all with admirable, infectious Schwung. The meteor-like finale thrilled, erupted, and not least, recalling Brahms, satisfied just as it should. I may not have heard the music quite as in a concert hall, but I was drawn in to listen to it as such.

 

The orchestra has released the following statement, which I do not wish to edit or to paraphrase. As in a musical performance, the text, whilst not everything, has intrinsic value: 

As we witness and mourn tens of thousands of lives destroyed and communities shattered while political courage remains absent, we, the musicians of the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra, are horrified and deeply saddened by the extreme escalation of violence in the Middle East, which continues to intensify daily. The profound humanistic commitment of Maestro Daniel Barenboim and the late Palestinian intellectual Edward Said stands at the core of our orchestra. In and through our music we seek to model a life of mutual recognition between equals. We call on the local and the international communities and their leaders to stop procrastinating and put an end to the cycle of violence by effecting a permanent cease-fire, ensuring the safe return of all hostages and unlawfully held detainees. It is imperative to work toward a long-lasting peaceful resolution grounded in equality. 

It would not have done so without Barenboim or Said; indeed, it would not have come into existence without them. But nor would words from their founders have had the import they do without these musicians, and without the many others, musicians and otherwise, who have worked with them. Such a statement does not just ‘happen’; it requires work, reflection, listening, empathy: as do music and its performance, at least to be worthwhile. I see no reason to add to or further to comment on the orchestra’s words. The world, however, needs to listen: not at some point in the future, near or far, but now. And, like Barenboim, Said, and the Divan, it needs to act.

 

Bayreuth Festival (3) - Tannhäuser, 4 August 2024

Festspielhaus

Images: Bayreuther Festspiele / Enrico Nawrath

Hermann, Landgrave of Thuringia – Günther Groissböck
Tannhäuser – Klaus Florian Vogt
Wolfram von Eschenbach – Markus Eiche
Walther von der Vogelweide – Siyabonga Maqungo
Biterolf – Olafur Sigurdarson
Heinrich der Schreiber – Martin Koch
Reinmar von Zweter – Jens-Erik Aasbø
Elisabeth – Elisabeth Teige
Venus, Page – Irene Roberts
Young Shepherd – Flurina Stöckl
Le Gateau Chocolat – Le Gateau Chocolat
Oskar – Manni Laudenbach
Pages – Simone Lerch, Laura Margaret Smith, Annette Gutjahr

Director – Tobias Kratzer
Set designs – Rainer Sellaier
Lighting – Reinhard Traub
Video – Manuel Braun
Dramaturgy – Konrad Kuhn

Bayreuth Festival Chorus (chorus director: Eberhard Friedrich)

Bayreuth Festival Orchestra

Nathalie Stutzmann (conductor)

Adieu or au revoir, I asked myself when leaving the Festspielhaus, but also from time to time during this performance of Tannhäuser. It will not, I hope, be adieu to the Bayreuth Festival. My years of attendance pale in comparison to those of many, but regular visits have become part of my musical, intellectual, and indeed social life, and I should be sorry to see that come to an end. But would it be to Tobias Kratzer’s production, and to the characters it has not only portrayed and explored but created, with lives, personalities, and possibilities of their own. The closest parallel that presented itself to me, perhaps ironically, was that of Frank Castorf’s Ring, which I also saw here three times, and to which by the end I had become quite attached. Even now, I sometimes wonder fancifully whatever became of Nadine Weissmann’s Erda, following Wotan’s brutal dismissal of her at (Al-)Exanderplatz. Somehow, ridiculous though this may sound, I should like to know that, a bit like Dallas’s Sue Ellen, she battled through. For Kratzer’s similarly classic – less controversially so – staging, time will tell. 2024 was scheduled to be its final outing, but there are plausible rumours that Le Gateau Chocolat and the gang will take the stage one more time two summers from now, when Bayreuth is due to give all works from The Flying Dutchman on, adding Rienzi for the first time in the Festspielhaus, for the Festival’s sesquicentenary.

Le Gateau Chocolat

As intelligent as it is entertaining (not necessarily a word one instantly associates with this opera), Kratzer’s metatheatrical, Ariadne-like Tannhäuser thus became all the more moving for me on this occasion, though I think that may also be attributed to a slight shift in tone. At its heart – it has a big heart – lies the opposition, faithful to Wagner’s own binaries and attempts to bridge them, between the world of the Wartburg and that of the Venusberg: the former as presented at Bayreuth, the latter a defiantly alternative, joyous troupe made up of Tannhäuser, his lover Venus, and two fellow artists, the fabulous Le Gateau Chocolat (as herself) and the enchanting Oskar (as in Günter Grass’s Oskar Matzerath, played by Manni Laudenbach with tin drum). They too make art; they too can be uncompromising; but differently, as in life, and in that they are quite unapologetic. The Overture – for better or worse, this is the Dresden Tannhäuser – shows through a mixture of film and staging our players on the road, running out of food and fuel, having to make an emergency stop at a service station to replenish supplies, only to be (almost) caught by a policeman. Venus, to the horror of the others, puts her foot down in a hit-and-run incident, occasioning Tannhäuser’s jump from the van and departure from the band. ‘Unapologetic’ has its limits. A lovely touch this year, was early on to have Oskar, lump in his throat, drink a shot in memory of Stephen Gould, the production’s first Tannhäuser.

Found by a passing cyclist (the Shepherd), Tannhäuser proceeds to rejoin his former singers on the Festspielhügel, the Festival audience making its way around their discussions, in order to be present at the performance. As the first act is drawing to a close, Venus, Le Gateau Chocolat, and Oskar make their way to the Green Hill to win Tannhäuser back. Much of the actual audience – all who wish – then make their way down to the pond at the foot of the actually existing hill, for the cabaret show they have devised, beautifully compered by Le Gateau Chocolat, who draws proceedings (her own rendition of ‘Dich teure Halle’ included) to a close with a call for Bayreuth to come out of the closet and display of the Progress Pride Plag, a poignant and necessary call for queer liberation in the age of JD Vance and JK Rowling. 

For the second act, we move inside the Festspielhaus/traditional Wartburg, video taking us backstage, both for preparations (with fine, detailed work both by the live film crew and members of the chorus) and for events for which the house is anything but prepared. In explicit homage to the Young German Wagner, members of the troupe invade the temple of bourgeois art, reminding us who Wagner really was and what he stood for with the banner unfurled from the storied balcony at the front of the house: quoting the composer’s torrential revolutionary catechism, Die Revolution, of 1849: ‘Frei im Wollen/Frei im Thun/Frei im Geniessen/R[ichard] W[agner]’. Freedom in desire, deed, and pleasure offers an obvious, glaring contrast with the professed values of the Minnesänger, as of course Wagner proceeds to show in the song contest, here crashed by our alternative artists, Venus pushing herself forward as an ersatz Page (a phrase behind in the first instance). Eventually, a security guard alerts Katharina Wagner, who calls the police to arrest Tannhäuser, notably leaving a dejected, broken troupe behind as the curtain falls. 

No one is a winner here, then, and certainly not Elisabeth, whom we meet again in a desolate landscape, the van burned out, tasting soup Oskar has made. What has happened in the meantime can largely be left to our own imagination, but it is clear that the troupe has broken up and Elisabeth has similarly lost almost everything. If, moreover, she has not lost her final gift (or curse), she will do so shortly to Wolfram, though only because he agrees to dress as Tannhäuser, clown wig and all. It was clearly not a good idea; it does not seem to have brought them any joy; but in the absence of anything better in art or life, they felt a compulsion to do so in the back of the van. Only Le Gateau Chocolat, we learn, has made it, advertising watches from a giant billboard above. When Tannhäuser returns, he tears to pieces his own score in despair, pages littering the stage until tales of the Papal miracle reach us. Life having in crisis supplanted art – this is not a Nietzschean aestheticism, nor was Wagner’s – we see on film at the close an alternative path, which may or may not offer consolation: Tannhäuser and Elisabeth, riding off in the van into the sunset. Perhaps another day, in another world. 

None of this would amount to much without committed performances from all concerned. All principal roles other than Venus were played by the same artists I heard last year. Ekaterina Gubanova will return for the final two performances, but here she was replaced with Irene Roberts, who uncannily resembled her (tribute not least to those working in costumes and make-up). Her performance was alive, arresting, and unsentimental: very much what was required. Klaus Florian Vogt’s Tannhäuser was beautifully sung, tirelessly acted: another intelligent portrayal. Some do not like his voice or think it appropriate; it is for them, as his gang might (perhaps more colourfully) tell us, to deal with it. Elisabeth Teige gave another excellent performance as her namesake, showing strength and subtlety in her tragedy. Markus Eiche’s often tenor-like Wolfram offered a fine study not only in verbal response but also in wounded pride. Günther Groissböck was on considerably better form as the Landgrave than as the previous night’s King Marke. Other noteworthy performances out included Siyabonga Maqungo’s sweet-toned Walther von der Vogelweide and Olafur Sigurdarson’s charismatic Biterolf.

Eberhard Friedrich drew out variegated performances from the Bayreuth Festival Chorus, words and meaning as intelligible as those of any soloist. And whilst I was unconvinced by some gear changes in Nathalie Stutzmann’s conducting – at the end of the first act in particular – and there remained a good few peculiar orchestral balances, possibly born of a desire to highlight Wagner’s debt to grand opéra, considerable progress had been made from last year. Ensemble was not perfect, but it was a good deal sight stronger than it had been in the first of the three productions I saw and heard this year. The sum of what, I think, we may in the best sense call this ‘show’ proved greater and deeper than its estimable parts. Here is to hopes for 2026.

Bayreuth Festival (2) - Tristan und Isolde, 3 August 2024

Festspielhaus

Tristan – Andreas Schager
King Marke – Günther Groissböck
Isolde – Camilla Nylund
Kurwenal – Olafur Sigurdarson
Melot – Birger Radde
Brangäne – Christa Mayer
Shepherd – Daniel Jenz
Steersman – Lawson Anderson
Young Sailor – Matthew Newlin

Director – Thorliefur Örn Arnarsson
Set design – Vytautas Narbutas
Costumes – Sibylle Wallum
Dramaturgy – Andri Hardmeier
Lighting – Sascha Zauner

Bayreuth Festival Chorus (chorus director: Eberhard Friedrich)

Bayreuth Festival Orchestra

Semyon Bychkov (conductor)

 

Images: Bayreuther Festspiele / Enrico Nawrath

Almost uniquely amongst operas (dramas, if we prefer), Tristan und Isolde resists conceptualisation, even much in the way of framing. Perhaps not uniquely, but to a greater extent than any other. Any attempt to make Tristan ‘about’ anything other than what it is intrinsically about seems doomed to fail. I continue to live in dread of the director who decides it is somehow ‘about’ immigration, Covid, or anything pertaining to the phenomenal world. So many, distrusting or simply uninterested in music, seem incapable of sensing what it is concerned with. 

Put frankly, if you are uninterested in music, you should leave Tristan well alone. Its action is interior; the exterior is largely back story. For Wagner at his most Schopenhauerian, in aesthetics as much as ontology, the striving of the Will is the action, to which music – not opposed to, but as drama – as its representation comes closer than any other art form or means of expression. It is the music drama in which least would be lost if words and staging were discarded. In reality, of whatever kind, that how we listen to it, even when convinced otherwise. At a certain point in the Act II love-duet, it becomes difficult, even impossible, to have the words, fascinating, complex, and telling though they may be, register in one’s consciousness. Whether we call this the world of the noumenon, of night, of Dionysus, or of Tristan, we as well as the lovers are – or should be – there and not in its phenomenal, diurnal, Apollonian, operatic equivalent. 

All very well, you may say, but we do have words, we do have singers, we do have staging. Indeed we do, and they – singers and staging, in a sense words too – must work within these realities, these artistic truths. That need not be a problem; art thrives upon constraint of one sort or another. (Ask Wagner’s antipode, Stravinsky.) Too often, though, directors do not, perhaps cannot, since they seem to have little sense of what this work is actually concerned with, still less that it seemingly cannot be wrenched to be concerned with anything else. A signal feature of Bayreuth’s new Tristan, which I saw in its second performance, is that Thorliefur Örn Arnarsson seems to grasp this, in theory and in practice, and moreover to grasp that this does not negate but rather invites his work as director. There are cases, I think, in which he might go further in this direction in paring down the extraneous – is there a better model than Wieland Wagner here? – but this makes for a very good start and, following so many misfires, whether in Bayreuth or elsewhere, comes as a great relief. 

Nietzsche wrote a good deal of arrant nonsense about Wagner, often deliberately so, yet in calling Tristan the opus metaphysicum, he was on the mark. Only a couple of stagings I have seen, by Dmitri Tcherniakov and Peter Konwitschny, have offered serious challenge to that and Konwitschny in considerably more circumscribed fashion; they are destined, I suspect, to remain exceptions. Anarsson’s production treads on safer ground, neither without reason nor without advantage Moreover, there is to Anarsson’s work and to that of his collaborators, not least the outstanding Semyon Bychkov as conductor, a sense not only of the noumenal but of the aesthetic. 

Ship enthusiasts will find themselves well catered for. Not only the first act but the entire drama has a ship as its setting. Vytautas Narbutas’s set designs evoke this powerfully, suggestively, and without clutter—save, in the second act, where the clutter is the point. Ropes mostly do the trick in the first act, whose abiding visual motif is Isolde’s billowing wedding dress, also suggestive of sails. The words displayed – and just as much, concealed – on it from Wagner’s poem tell their own story, especially as she attempts, with varying success and perhaps intent, to free herself from it. Anarsson sees no reason actually to visualise the love potion, knowing that it is simply a symbol, not a cause. I have no especially strong feelings either way on that in principle; it is merely an external manifestation. It felt slightly odd, though – I realise this may seem somewhat at odds with what I say above – as did the onset of what seemed like a realistic fight between Tristan and Melot at the end of the second act, Melot wielding a sword, only for its outcome to happen seemingly spontaneously. Those objects and acts of the day perhaps benefit, if less strongly than their counterparts in the Ring, from some sort of visualisation.

The second act moves to the inside of the ship, seemingly its core: the core, one might say, of what action there may be. Its décor is fascinating, suggesting a lumber room strewn with objects that may in some sense have led us – which is to say Wagner, the work, those performing and otherwise experiencing it – there. Caspar David Friedrich’s presence is doubtless inevitable, and will at least evoke recognition, though part of me feels it is time to give his more celebrated images, like those of Monet and Klimt a while ago, a period of rest. The broader, unaggressive deconstruction of ‘civilisation’, western and perhaps eastern too, forms a captivating backdrop for the stage and ultimately the ‘real’ action. Cleared of that baggage, moved to a different part of (presumably) the same ship, the third act unfolds in a ‘later’, barer environment. It already feels too late, which in the most obvious if not necessarily the deepest sense, it is. Lighting, or rather its lack, throughout seems intended both to accentuate but also to develop the contrast between night and day. It reminds us that these are not operatic characters; the point is not necessarily to observe them minutely. There are greater forces – ultimately, one great, overwhelming force – at work.

Following the crude lack of direction, balance, and tuning brought to us two nights earlier by Oksana Lyniv in the covered pit, Bychkov’s work sounded like aural manna from heaven. He knew how to work with the theatre and its particular characteristics; beyond that, he knew the workings and expressive possibilities of Wagner’s score and communicated them in a reading that often took its time, especially in the second act, yet never dragged. The opening of the first-act Prelude – and its echo, towards the end of the act – sounded more beautifully hushed than I can recall, yet in no sense narcissistically; this was expectant, apparently imbued with knowledge, albeit knowledge that could not yet be imparted, of where the music would head, of what dramatically, in the fullest sense of the world, was at stake in melody, dissonance, and their consequences, always, if sometimes only just, within a tonal framework. That was the story, in which intensification of string vibrato could play as important a role as overwhelming orchestral climax. Bychkov did not hold back; his is not Wagner that defers to the voice, nor to anything other than its own musicodramatic requirements. He nonetheless helped liberate the voice’s expressive potential, even when vocal realities fell short of the ideal.

I did not feel that so strongly as a couple of people I have spoken to since, and wonder how much of that might be ascribed to seating in the theatre (as well, perhaps, as to aesthetic priorities). Seated at the back of the stalls, I may have benefited from the healing balm of the Bayreuth acoustic. That said, Andreas Schager’s Tristan, for stretches of the performance possessed of many of this Heldentenor’s familiar qualities, also experienced difficulties. Balance in the second-act duet was sometimes awry with Camilla Nylund’s Isolde, who at times also seemed stretched, if more in control of her part. A degree of abandon is, of course, no bad thing; Schager’s performance, however, came into and went out of focus a little too often and became strangely disjunct in the third act, as if the effort to sing more softly, to offer a more variegated reading, made it more difficult to maintain his line at all. 

Christa Mayer’s Brangäne was, by contrast, everything it should have been: warm, sustained, intelligent, and as well as integrated as any orchestral line. Günther Groissböck’s snarling Marke seemed to be making a play to come across as more cruel, even vindictive, than one might expect; this emerged as something of a work-in-progress. If a little bluff, even gruff at times, Olafur Sigurdarson had what it took for Kurwenal. The smaller roles were all well taken, Birger Radde’s ambivalent Melot, Daniel Lenz’s sweetly sung Shepherd, and Matthew Newlin’s clear-toned Sailor all standing out, whilst taking their place in the greater ensemble. The latter was ultimately what mattered and which, shortcomings aside, made this a satisfying and often moving whole.

Bayreuth Festival (1) - Der fliegende Holländer, 1 August 2024

Festspielhaus

Images copyright: Bayreuther Festspiele / Enrico Nawrath

Daland – Georg Zeppenfeld
Senta – Elisabeth Teige
Erik – Eric Cutler
Mary – Nadine Weissmann
Steersman – Matthew Newlin
The Dutchman – Michael Volle

Director, set designs – Dmitri Tcherniakov
Costumes – Elena Zaytseva
Lighting – Gleb Filshtinsky
Dramaturgy – Tatiana Werestchagina

  
Bayreuth Festival Chorus (chorus director: Eberhard Friedrich)
Bayreuth Festival Orchestra
Oksana Lyniv (conductor)

The Dutchman sets sail every seven years, though more often at the Bayreuth Fetival. Like all of Wagner’s operas and dramas staged there, The Flying Dutchman will run for several years, then take a few years off prior to a new staging. I first saw Dmitri Tcherniakov’s production here last year and welcomed it with enthusiasm: a return to form for a director who had seemed in danger of falling into a therapeutic rut. Despite a few, largely unvoiced misgivings over Oksana Lyniv’s conducting, I put them to one side, knowing what a challenge it can be to conduct in the covered pit and trying to remain open to approaches that would not necessarily be mine. This year, Tcherniakov’s staging continued to impress, though I could not help but feel a little had been lost in tightness of presentation (or lack of Werkstatt development in the meantime). The major problem, though, was Lyniv’s direction of the score, loudly acclaimed by the audience, yet which for me fell seriously short, resulting in the strange, unwelcome achievement of making Wagner’s score sound incoherent, arbitrary, and for long stretches – which, sadly, seemed even longer – simply dull, mostly excellent vocal performances notwithstanding. 

Back to Tcherniakov first, though. Here ‘H’ – presumably ‘Holländer’, someone to whom even hardline Line of Duty fans seem not to have given due consideration – returns to his home town, as usual with Tcherniakov, brilliantly evoked scenically through his own set designs. The horrific deeds he recalls from his childhood are played out during the Overture, a small town closing ranks against his mother, perhaps a prostitute or at least in receipt of financial aid from Daland, leading to her death by hanging from a window. This is something, understandably, of which he can never let go; traumatised, he is clearly bent on vengeance against Daland and family (which now includes Mary as his wife), and more broadly against the entire community. Whether his feelings for Senta are ‘real’, whatever that might mean, or not, seems beside the point. He clearly has his own trajectory and she has hers, determined (as in so many stagings, as in Wagner) to escape a world of stifling conformity—and, in a sense, does so. 

Yet at what cost? When the inevitable conflagration occurs, perhaps hinted at earlier by Mary’s placing of candles at the impeccably bourgeois dinner table that proves only a source of misery and misunderstanding, the Dutchman, having shot others, is himself shot by Mary (as you will have gathered by now, a considerably extended part) to whom a now clearly traumatised Senta turns for comfort. The surplus wealth our ever-venal Daland has achieved in the meantime has gone up literally in flames, leaving the women once again both to suffer the consequences and to attempt to pick up the pieces. Dreams can readily turn into nightmares—although someone seated near me appeared, unaccountably as well as distractingly, to find the whole thing a comedy, merrily chortling throughout. 

Michael Volle gave another fine performance as the Dutchman. Every word counted, at least as much as, arguably still more so than, every note. Though this was undoubtedly an opera performance, it drew on his deep experience of Lieder and other concert singing. Moreover, he dealt extremely well with what I assume was a serious injury, appearing with a crutch, though wielding it so well in the course of his portrayal that I initially thought it must be a new feature of the production. Only when he retained it for curtain calls, was I reasonably sure this was not the case (though I shall happily be corrected.) Elisabeth Teige’s vocal strength, accuracy, and dramatic commitment were second to none throughout. Hers was a haunted, haunting portrayal that drew on a wide-ranging palette of vocal colour whilst remaining absolutely centred throughout. Nadine Weissmann as Mary once again impressed as a fine singing actor, whilst Georg Zeppenfeld showed for the nth time that he can apparently do no wrong in any role, including one that requires unattractive traits of personal weakness. This was mostly the same cast as in 2023, the exceptions being Eric Cutler’s Erik and Matthew Newlin’s Steersman. Cutler truly made Erik into a character of his own; what a luxury it was to hear a Heldentenor hold his imploring own in this role. Newlin likewise impressed greatly in his smaller role, clearly relishing the Festspielhaus acoustic and what he could accomplish, verbally and musically, within it. 

Lyniv’s conducting had its moments. It retained a sense of urgency to begin with, from last year, though all too often that dissipated into a strangely meandering tour through the music. A tendency, already pronounced in 2023, to overemphasise the number-opera aspects to the score, as if ashamed of the seeds of something more ‘progressive’, had now become an apparent determination to make it sound as if it were little more than Das Liebesverbot. Yes, of course one can hear varied roots in the score; of course, highlighting them on occasion can be revealing. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Erik benefited most from such emphasis, though it is worth recalling that the opera does not fall so neatly into ‘backward-looking’ Erik and Daland, and ‘forward-looking’ Dutchman and Senta. Indeed, the way in which Cutler brought that to the fore through gesture as well as voice was not the least of his achievements. 

Yet so heterogeneous an approach required some sense of direction, whereas what we heard, especially in the second act, promised less redemption than interminable day-to-day tedium. I can only wish I believed that to have been evidence of a musicodramaturgical point of view. The third act fared better, not least since problems with the chorus, or rather with coordination between it and the orchestra, which Lyniv failed for too long to address, had now been fully resolved. Even here, though, an apparent determination to rob the orchestra of its depth and, more seriously still, Wagner of harmonic meaning suggested more an abdication of musical dramaturgy than an alternative. I can only assume the production’s use of Wagner’s post-Tristan ‘redemptive’ revisions to the score was intended to evoke irony; to an extent it did, more at the close than in the revised Overture. Yet it made little sense given such an approach to the score, other than to suggest it was a bit of a mess. My sentiments, however, seemed to place me in a minority; I do not think I have heard a more enthusiastic reaction to any performance at Bayreuth.