President – Jeremy Bines
Substitute President – Rachel Pinevska
Caretaker’s Voice – Jörg Schörner
Operator – Robin Adams
Performers – Marie Groothof, Tarren Johnson, Ixchel Mendoza Hernández, Dominic Santia, Laurie Young
Director – Susanne Kennedy
Conception – Markus Selg, Susanne Kennedy
Set design – Markus Seig
Lighting – Marcel Weber/MFO
Video – Warja Rybakova, Markus Seig
Costumes – Andra Dumitrascu
Dramaturgy – Beate Breidenbach
String Quartet of the Deutsche Oper Berlin (Anna Matz, Monia Rizkallah (violins), Kirsikka de Leval Jezierski (viola), Arne-Christian Pelz (cello))
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| Mittwoch aus Licht von Karlheinz Stockhausen, Regie: Susanne Kennedy, Premiere: 19.9.2026 Deutsche Oper Berlin, copyright: Julian Roeder |
Is it really fourteen years since Lucicamel, intergalactic, camelious emanation of the fallen angel Lucifer, trod (and danced) the Birmingham boards? Apparently so. At any rate, stagings of Stockhausen’s Mittwoch have been non-existent since that 2012 staged premiere, so this overture to Aviel Cahn’s Deutsche Oper intendancy marked its first appearance in a German house. (In 2003, the opera had its radio premiere on SWR2 under Stockhausen’s supervision.) The late Graham Vick’s Birmingham Oper Company’s production at the disused Argyle Works was a heroic one-off; some of us may have feared literally, never to be repeated. Does this return to the last completed of the composer’s vast Licht cycle mark the beginning of its entry into the repertoire? We can but hope so, alongside the other six days of creation, all of which have now been given by Maxime Pascal and Le Balcon, here joined by Deutsche Oper forces for another unforgettable evening, which, if not without flaws, will surely long be remembered by all present.
It began in the foyer. So, one might say, does every evening at the Deutsche Oper—and yes, unless one were to be dropped by helicopter into a newly roofless auditorium, that will be the case. But here it began more emphatically, with the purely electronic ‘greeting’, ‘Mittwochs-Gruß’, whilst some were chatting, some drinking, some consulting the programme, some staring into space, and so on. That, I think, is important, because it acted as something akin to a call to worship, or to whatever mysterious rite Licht is or has become. It continued, sound design by Florent Derex, as we took our seats, and would be paralleled by ‘Mittwochs-Abschied’ at the close. As Mittwoch entered the opera house for the first time, it helped frame questions as to whether it belongs here, will and should it be assimilated, and what consequences will that hold for the future. Parsifal has long since entered the repertoire—and much for the better. But do conventional houses, such as even Stockhausen has generally been premiered and performed in, offer an appropriate setting, facilities, musicians, and even audience?
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As boundaries dissolved between sacred and secular, rite and performance, ideal and reality, the frustration who was once Stockhausen’s closest contemporaries, Pierre Boulez, inspired by Bayreuth and depressed by the day-to-day business of other houses came to mind: ‘like cafés where … you can hear waiters calling out their orders: “One Carmen! And one Walküre! And one Rigoletto!”’ Or, less temperately: ‘New German opera houses certainly look very modern—from the outside; on the inside, they have remained extremely old-fashioned. To a theatre in which mostly repertory pieces are performed one can only with the greatest difficulty bring a modern opera—it is unthinkable. The most expensive solution would be to blow the opera houses into the air. But do you not think that that might also be the most elegant solution?’
Less
concerned with the works of others – he occasionally conducted them, but usually
as a frame for his own music, for instance incorporating his own cadenzas – Stockhausen
was nonetheless given to not dissimilar flights of fancy, or so at the time
they seemed: less playful or angry, more mystical-visionary or, according to
taste, absurd. ‘I remember a music festival in Vienna at the beginning of the
1950s,’ Hans Werner Henze would recall: ‘We were driving back to the city with
publishers from Universal Edition after an evening’s drinking in Grinzing, when
Stockhausen said on seeing the still somewhat sparsely lit city: “Look, down
there you can see the ocean of light that is Vienna. In a few years’ time I
will have progressed so far that, with a single electronic bang, I’ll be able to
blow the whole city sky-high!”’ Henze ‘pointed out that there were already
perfectly adequate explosives for such purposes and that musicians might
therefore do better to turn their attention to other matters.’ When I first
read that passage many years ago, my inclination was to smile and nod with
Henze. Now I am not so sure—partly because the world has changed, but partly on
account of greater experience of a work such as Mittwoch. Did it explode
Charlottenburg? Not as such, nor did it even blow the opera house in the air,
after Boulez. However, it attested to a vision that was yet not only a vision,
and one in which we could participate.
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The opera ‘proper’ – is that a meaningful designation? – opened with the extraordinary Welt-Parlament, polyphonic in every sense, cosmic in more than the merely hippyish (admittedly far from absent here). Jeremy Bines presided (literally, as President with gavel, doubling thereby as conductor) in an international discussion, some languages familiar, some new. Its ‘theme’ of love and particular exploration may seem dated, far more so, perhaps, than that of The Magic Flute, but it charmed with a similar wide-eyed wonder, Stockhausen’s particular brand of harmonious polyphony similarly beguiling from the Deutsche Oper chorus, Rachel Pinevska’s coloratura as substitute President (when her superior was called away by the caretaker to move his car) crowning her a decidedly more chilled successor to Mozart’s nocturnal queen. This was an extraordinary achievement for an opera house chorus and its director. Its enchantment will surely have brought more converts. Susanne Kennedy’s staging was generally straightforward and, in most ways, all the better for that. It did not look that dissimilar from Vick’s, which may – here I am speculating – have been a stipulation of the composer’s estate. Hearing it in a vastly superior acoustic made the experience a more musical one, although various spatial and mobile aspects were lost. Video from Warja Rybakova and Markus Selg was here, as elsewhere (the Helicopter-Quartet a welcome exception), a little tiring at times—all the more so when it encompassed ‘AI’. However, having experienced the recent Bayreuth Ring, anything else would offer relief. It was possible to ignore it for the most part, since it remained at the back of the stage. A recurring, all-seeing eye reminded us of the ultimate Divinity.
‘Orchester-Finalisten’ and the Quartet scene followed the first interval, essentially forming a second act. In a spirit of collaboration such as Stockhausen would surely have approved, Le Balcon and Pascal, excellent as ever, despatched the first scene and the Deutsche Oper String Quartet the second, Derex common to both, joined by assistants, technicians, and of course pilots in that latter case. These can seem, even when one has begun to know the work, a challenge to integrate into any such conception. There is no obvious narrative link, indeed not much in the way of dramatic narrative at all. But there is wonder once again—and there was here. The first parade of instrumentalists (and instruments) was captivating, indeed enthralling. Kennedy’s introduction of performers common to all four scenes helped with binding together—or at least permitting one to draw connections. Their movement, dance, ritualistic actions and so forth were certainly preferable to ‘AI’ images of trains and birds when, I presume, the music was held to sound a bit ‘like’ them.
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The helicopter dream seemed more overtly connected in musical terms this time around, though that may simply have been my greater familiarity and the more musical acoustic. If the excitement of events (recorded at Berlin-Brandenburg Airport a week or so before) must have been of quite another order in person, the performance was thrillingly relayed, a welcome addition to the screens for four quartet members an additional camera from under one of the helicopters, permitting one to see how the machines (helicopters and indeed strings) viewed and doubtless heard one another. It was quite a ride, and seemed perfectly timed. (Thank you, Stockhausen.) Any longer and it might have seemed too much, but Goldilocks would have approved. Instead of an interview with the performers, we had Stockhausen’s own words as recorded: a touching visitation from Sirius. Again, it is worth adding: what an extraordinary feat of musical and technical performance. It is truly like nothing else; it neither could nor should be. Yet the experience it offers, if hardly sustainable, is both more so and more wondrous than anything ‘AI’ will.
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And so, to Michaelion, the fourth and final scene. It was only here – and only, I should emphasise, in certain measure – that I felt a little disappointment. (Such, after all, is life in the opera house, even Bayreuth: indeed, sometimes especially Bayreuth.) I had not felt it drag before, and I am certain this was not the doing of Pascal and Le Balcon. It took me a while – actually, the observation of a friend following the performance – to work out why. It was, I am afraid, once again the fault of ‘AI’: not so much use of it in itself, as the particular form, presumably the ‘prompts’ employed, or at least apologists for this technology would have us believe so. The incessant, repetitive movement was all in one direction, all heading (from our standpoint) forward. That not only became extremely wearing, but also contrasted unhelpfully, banally with the many directions taken by the music and, to a lesser extent, even the circular motion of the staging. In addition, it was here that I felt most keenly the loss of the distancing employed – and employable – in the Birmingham chemical works. There we viewed and indeed heard this scene as something remote, of which we were vouchsafed a glimpse, but which we could not truly approach. That, to me, captured its mysteries better, though it would have been well-nigh impossible in this venue.
One further cavil: why no dance for Lucicamel? It seemed an odd omission, following prescribed swig of champagne from the bottle, and contributed to a slight sense of anticlimax in the scene: crucial not only in itself, but in anchoring the opera within the greater context of Licht. Rhineland-humour – that same, Hanoverian friend rightly corrected my designation ‘German’ – may not be for us all, or rather for all the time. But it is called for here; we encounter Lucicamel so rarely, it was a pity. Encounter him, though, we did, both as camel and then as Operator, Robin Adams a commanding presence once elected by intergalactic representatives and emerged from the camel suit. It was, moreover, a delight to see the return of the same suit used not only in Birmingham, but for the ‘Michaelion’ premiere at Munich’s Prinzregententheater in 1998. Short-wave radio brought its surprises and appeared charmingly dated: ‘period’ technology, one might say. If future productions may be permitted to step beyond Stockhausen’s prescriptions – unlike Wagner or Beckett, he was no theatre director – that will doubtless be welcome, but for now, it is not the gravest of concerns. Childlike wonder was retained and enhanced, in a world that seemed, recognisably, on the brink.
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For here, it seemed, was one of those rare occasions when opera took a step, arguably more than one, beyond not its only own aesthetic, however generously defined, but that of Western art more generally. They remain firmly rooted in that primary aesthetic of course; that is not the point. There is Mozart in The Magic Flute, unquestionably; Janáček in The Cunning Little Vixen; there are others, doubtless, but not so many. Henze certainly never did, though nor did he have any desire. Vienna is for most of us fine as it is, or could readily be attended to through explosives. (Please, please, literally minded people: do not take that as a threat to a city I love. I have no desire to wake up, like Boulez, to Swiss police a generation later, come to arrest me as a ‘terrorist’.) But it is meet and right to be reminded, from time to time, that there are alternatives—and that the opera houses Boulez, Stockhausen, and others dating back to and beyond Wagner have, in many ways, justly disdained can and will join them, if only from time to time, to a higher purpose than Boulez’s café.
Now, please, the rest of Licht, perhaps in cooperation with other houses, other institutions. Whatever it takes: the world needs a premiere of all seven days, even if the explosives, the oil, the computers, the Lucifers, those who would blow the opera houses into the air should bring down the curtain thereafter.
