Das Rheingold, Regents Opera, 9 February 2025

York Hall, Bethnal Green

Images: Matthew Coughlan (unless stated otherwise)
Rhinemaidens (Jillian Finnamore, Justine Viani), Alberich (Oliver Gibbs)

Wotan – Ralf Lukas
Donner – Andrew Mayor
Froh – Calvin Lee
Loge – James Schouten
Fricka – Ingeborg Børch
Freia – Charlotte Richardson
Erda, Flosshilde – Mae Heydorn
Alberich – Oliver Gibbs
Mime – Holden Madagame
Fasolt – Henry Grant Kerswell
Fafner – Craig Lemont Walters
Woglinde – Jillian Finnamore
Wellgunde – Justine Viani

Director – Caroline Staunton
Assistant directors – Eleanor Strutt, Keiko Sumida
Designs – Isabella van Braeckel
Lighting – Patrick Malmström
Producer – CJ Heaver

Regents Opera Orchestra
Ben Woodward (conductor)

Fricka (Ingeborg Børch), Wotan (Ralf Lukas)

 
In some ways the most radical of all Wagner’s dramas and, far from coincidentally, both the most brazenly socialist in its content and the most aesthetically distant from traditional ‘opera’, Das Rheingold will never cease to astonish. Should it not, them something has gone seriously awry. Experience nonetheless teaches one to be prepared for anything. What a joy, then, to be quite unprepared for the extraordinary success of the first instalment of Regents Opera’s Ring at York Hall, Bethnal Green.

 The space itself is part of the magic. (Doubtless the venue for earlier Regents Opera performances, the contemporaneous yet very different Freemasons’ Hall in Holborn, will also have been.) The Wimbledon or Wembley of British boxing, yet speaking far more clearly of its East End working-class roots, York Hall will doubtless have been new to many in the audience; it was to me, though I lived for some years further east, in Poplar. This is a Ring in the round, encircling what would be the (boxing) ring itself. I have never experienced a Ring so close to the stage, however small the theatre, and that both allows an intimacy one would never otherwise experience and necessitates a form of detailed acting that might otherwise only intermittently be noticed. Fortunately, Caroline Staunton’s production, as theatrically alert as any I have seen, offers Personenregie fully equal to the task—and singers fully equal to it too. 

Production and performance tell the story, but also allow you to (re-)tell it. What characters do, who they are, what this might represent and mean: these are not only accomplished through words, music, gesture, and staging, but captivatingly so. Isabella van Braeckel’s set and costume designs may stand for themselves; they tell us important things about the world in which this is taking place. They are also amenable to interpretation, without imposition (not that I am opposed to this, far from it) of any one conceptual strand upon the performance. Plinth-like objects suggest the world of the gods, notably ruling over the first scene too, with resonances of the Attic tragedy Wagner so revered but also something more recent, Speer-like, as well as the vain sacrifices to a belief that in Götterdämmerung will already all but have died. They can also suggest workbenches for and display for the products of Nibelheim, and adapt readily to the transformation in circumstances of the final scene. Objects are indeed to the fore throughout: crucial in Wagner, as has been wearily established in recent stagings (Dmitri Tcherniakov in Berlin and, far worse, Valentin Schwarz in Bayreuth) that have blithely disregarded the near-necessity of having something that on some level might represent the spear, the gold, Freia’s apples, and so on. How this is accomplished is entirely open. Here, a variety of resourceful solutions is found. Lighting, costume, gold paint, physical (in one case, highly phallic) objects, a disturbing, power-based contagion leaping from victim to victim, blocking, dance, and of course the text of the work in performance. All has been thoroughly thought through; yet equally important, all comes up fresh as new. This is, in short, a splendid theatre-piece: one that is in some sense about theatre and music, and what happens when they come together, without wearing metatheatricality on its sleeve (as in, say, Stefan Herheim’s wonderful Deutsche Oper Rheingold). 

Froh (Calvin Lee), Alberich, Loge (James Schouten), Wotan

It is not only that, of course. Wagner’s musicodramatic dialectic is such, like that of any opera composer worth his/her/their salt, that intensification of one element necessitates elements of the other. (As we see painted on Alberich’s back: GESAMT KUNST WERK). Any orchestral reduction will have consequences, yet this scaling down to twenty-two-piece orchestra (on the stage above) does a splendid job in situ of conveying more than one would ever have thought possible, very much of a piece with the intense, intimate theatricality of the staging. Ben Woodward’s conducting does likewise, as does the instrumentalists’ playing. If I say that I rarely noticed them in themselves, that is not to say they were somehow neutral or featureless, but rather that the finely judged ebb and flow seemed to spring from the same source as staging and vocal performances, so that one could hardly be distinguished from the others. Use of a synthesiser was, wisely, sparing, yet assisted, for instance, with deeds of staging rendered audible (to invert Wagner’s own formulation) such as the Tarnhelm’s mysterious magic, itself splendidly acted out by Oliver Gibbs as Alberich. 

If I say that portrayal was an excellent instance of the singer-actor’s art – I could of most I saw and heard – that is not, as I know we sometimes do, to use the term as a euphemism for vocal shortcomings, but again to point to a fine alchemy in which all was considerably more than the sum of its parts. Indeed, Gibbs’s growth – negative growth, if you will – as a character was achieved precisely through that alchemy. His great antagonist, Wotan, received a thoughtful, dignified, yet ruthless performance from Ralf Lukas, finely matched by Ingeborg Børch’s human yet steely Fricka as consort. A fine Loge will always steal the show; James Schouten accomplished that and more in as complete a performance as I can recall on any stage, from Bayreuth to Bethnal Green. His palpable commitment was truly infectious—and surely a first-class invitation to consider words, music, and their meaning in a production that was text-driven in the fullest sense. (So many fall into the trap of thinking ‘text’ refers only to words—and in Wagner of all composers.)

Mime (Holden Madagame)

Yet there was more than one showstealer, Holden Madagame’s quicksilver, traumatised Mime another case in point, stage and vocal energy combined in a veritable whirlwind. Henry Grant Kerswell’s faltering, latterly lovelorn Fafner stood in dark contrast with the cynical thuggery of his brother Fafner from Craig Lemont Walters. Estimable contributions also came from an uncommonly fine trio of Rhinemaidens, distinct characters who blended with similar finesse, Mae Heydorn doubling as Erda, and well-sung Donner, Freia, and Froh (Andrew Mayor, Charlotte Richardson, and Calvin Lee).

Image: Steve Gregson
Erda (Mae Heydorn)

I now regret more deeply than before my inability to attend Die Walküre and Siegfried. However, I shall be back next Sunday for Götterdämmerung and shall hope this Ring will receive another outing. It certainly comes with my highest recommendation, whether for dyed-in-the-wool Wagnerites, neophytes, or anyone in between. New to the work, my guest loved it, apparently now as eager as I for the end of the world to come. As for the Arts Council – sorry, the article-less ‘Arts Council England’ – and its determination to destroy what remains of English operatic life, the resounding success of this project offers a stinging rebuke to its threefold rejection of Regents Opera’s applications for funding. If you can, please consider giving, lest such opportunities wither, like the World-ash, forever. Any purchase or donation will be generously repaid in terms that Nadine Dorries and Nicholas Serota could never understand, but which will long outlive their ephemeral notoriety.

Die ägyptische Helena, Fulham Opera, 19 October 2021

St John’s Church, Fulham

Helena – Justine Viani
Menelas – Brian Smith Walters
Aithra – Luci Briginshaw
Altair – Oliver Gibbs
Da-Ud – Dominic J Walsh
Omniscient Mussel – Ingeborg Børch
Hermione – Liz Stock
Servants – Christine Buras, Natasha Elliott
Elves – Maggie Cooper, Donya Rafati Rosalind O’Dowd, Rebecca Moulton, Corinne Hart
Slaves – Kester Guy-Briscoe, Jack Stone, Robin Whitehouse, Graham Wheeler

Guido Martin-Brandis (director)
Johan Ribbing (assistant director)
Sarah Heenan (producer)
Alexander McPherson (designs)
Mitch Broomhead (lighting)

Instrumental Ensemble
Ben Woodward (conductor)

A splendid evening from Fulham Opera, making an excellent case for the bizarrely, well-nigh criminally neglected (at least on Plague Island) Ägyptische Helena. That a major Strauss-Hofmannsthal opera was here receiving its staged London premiere beggars belief; such, alas, is our lot in Das Land ohne Musik. Sunlit uplands and German car manufacturers will doubtless one day come to our rescue, perhaps with a spot of ‘innovative jam’. In the meantime, hats off to this ever-enterprising company, not only for putting on the opera but for visibly and audibly winning a host of new converts. This seems actually to have been the British premiere of the so-called Vienna version of the work, first performed at the 1933 Salzburg Festival. 

Reduced orchestrations have necessarily been in vogue for opera over the past year. This, however, was a far more radical arrangement from Paul Plummer, also at the piano, for small chamber ensemble (violin, cello, clarinet, horn, percussion, with piano and organ). The myriad phantasmagorical inflections of gold, azure, deep crimson, and other orchestral hues were of course largely absent, though often skilfully hinted at. What was remarkable, though, was how little one missed the full Straussian orchestra and, as with, say, the London Opera Company’s Tristan a year ago, where one’s ears were led in novel appreciation and understanding. Hearing the piano so often in quasi-continuo role led me, for instance, to release quite how much harmonic common ground there was with Ariadne auf Naxos—and thereby to muse on dramaturgical connections too. The general acuity of Ben Woodward’s direction of the score—well paced, well balanced, welcome ebb and flow—furthered that more generally, of course. It was a fascinating musical evening, even before we consider the singers. 

With resourceful staging, exemplary in its narrative clarity, from Guido Martin-Brandis and the rest of his production team, that sense of belonging to the greater Straussian corpus was stronger than ever. The space of St Paul’s, Fulham and its altar too were used to frame a production, whose detailed Personenregie and costumed suggestiveness—essentially, antiquity mediated by 1920s exoticism and its new technologies—permitted one to draw one’s own conclusions without abdication of its own responsibility. The business of potions, inevitably leading one to think of Tristan parody was handled with commendable directness and clarity, enhancing rather than detracting from Hofmannsthal’s heavy, post-Frau ohne Schatten symbolism. To take another example, Hofmannsthal wrote of the notorious Omniscient Mussel to Strauss: ‘When I mention “gurgling”, I have in mind the noise of water “speaking” in a pipe. It is not absolutely vital that one should understand what it says; it might in fact be amusing’ if the Mussel ‘were to sound distorted like a voice on the telephone when one stands beside the receiver.’ There was, wisely, no such distortion here in performance, but that sense of the early age of the telephone and, more strongly, the wireless announcer were to be seen, framing the opera’s multiple historicisms and Freudian remythologisation, whilst also retaining a welcome sense of fun: Nietzsche’s ‘the Greeks were superficial—out of profundity!’ 

There was no superficiality, save in that very particular Nietzschean-Straussian anti-metaphysical sense, to the singing—and even in that respect, a fine balance was generally maintained with the more metaphysical requirements of Hofmannsthal and of Strauss’s Wagnerian inheritance. One could read, watch, and above all listen in different ways, which is just as it should be; one could hardly, though, fail to think the vocal artistry on show here fit to grace more glamorous stages. Justine Viani’s gleaming, glistening, forthright soprano seemed to me well-nigh ideal for Helena. This was not only a beautiful sound; the words were clear and meaningful too. Together, words, music, and gesture made more than the sum of their parts. Much the same could be said for the rest of the cast. Brian Smith Walters’s Menelas had unmistakeable roots in Siegmund. Every inch a Heldentenor, with that historic semi-baritonal hue so characteristic of Wagner roles, Smith Walters offered a moving, vulnerable portrayal very much in that Volsung line, though certainly not to be reduced to it. Luci Briginshaw’s Aithra enthralled and entranced, coloratura despatched not only with apparent ease but with definite yet properly ambiguous meaning. Ingeborg Børch brought welcome contrast of tone as the Mussel, yet similar clarity of words. The elf-chorus’s sound as a Nibelung parody was richly suggestive. All contributed to the evening’s success, but I must make final mention of Dominic J Walsh’s lovelorn, ineffably human Da-Ud. 

Looking back in 1945 over his entire operatic career—give or take a tantalising hint of a Donkey’s Shadow—Strauss saw himself not only as having closed a chapter, even a book, but as having presented an ongoing dialogue, as much with himself as with ancient mythology: ‘Particularly in scenes such as Klyämnestra’s dream, the sister’s [Elektra’s] recognition, [Elektra’s] redemption through dance, the spiritual transformation of Menelas, Apollo’s kiss (from Daphne), and Jupiter’s farewell to the human world, my Greek operas have created musical symbols that may be taken for the last  fulfilment of Greek longing.’ Such was what we saw and heard here.