Bayreuth Festival (2) - Die Walküre, 28 July 2014

 

 

Bayreuth Festspielhaus

Siegmund – Johan Botha

Hunding – Kwangchul Youn
Wotan – Wolfgang Koch
Sieglinde – Anja Kampe
Brünnhilde – Catherine Foster
Fricka, Waltraute – Claudia Mahnke
Gerhilde – Allison Oakes
Ortlinde – Dara Hobbs
Schwertleite – Nadine Weissmann
Helmwige – Christiane Kohl
Siegrune – Julia Rutigliano
Grimgerde – Okka van der Damerau
Roßweiße – Aleksandra Petersamer

Frank Castorf (director)

Aleksander Denić (set designs)
Adriana Braga Peretski (costumes)
Rainer Casper (lighting)
Andreas Deinert, Jens Crull (video)

Bayreuth Festival Orchestra

Kirill Petrenko (conductor)
 

If Frank Castorf’s Rheingold proves somewhat frustrating in its alternation between genuine dramatic power and what seemed to be boredom on the director’s part, frustration here in Die Walküre tilts more strongly in the direction of the latter. It is eventually revealed that we are in Azerbaijan, oil exploration rearing its head more overtly: Baku, 1942, for some reason, or not. So far, in its reversion from a later-twentieth century Rheingold, so ‘post-dramatic’, perhaps. Wagner plays with time, of course, especially through his web of motifs; he even, like the Bible, has two creation myths, that of Alberich in the first scene of Das Rheingold, that of Wotan as recounted by the Norns in Götterdämmerung. Narrations provide us with new information, new standpoints, but there is nevertheless always a coherent narrative, however incomplete it may be. In Wagner, that is. In Castorf, incoherence seems deliberately to be the thing. That might be interesting, but the problem is more that relatively little is done with it. A decidedly sporadic engagement with Wagner results in something which, ironically, comes more and more to resemble an old-fashioned approach of ‘park and bark’.

 

Too much of what we see proves to be just a setting, against which the singers essentially sing their parts. Aleksander Denić ingenious set, Hunding’s farm house transforming into an oil well, and film clips showing anything and everything from a woman eating cake to an issue of Pravda, a man on the telephone (it later seems that he might be Wotan, but our unreliable narration kicks in again, not unfruitfully) to a reappearance for the Rheingold barman, now in Azerbaijani oil man guise, are too often little more than scenery. I can only assume that Wotan’s delivery of his second-act monologue is purposely stationary, even un-directed: attempted deconstruction, perhaps, of the plethora of action in Castorf’s Rheingold, a reinstatement, presumably contemptuous, of ‘opera’ as he perceives it, but certainly not as Wagner did. Certainly Fricka’s mad behaviour is the most conventionally ‘operatic’ I have ever seen and could hardly contrast more strongly with Wotan’s subsequent standing and (mostly) delivering. Much the same happens in the greater part of the third act, once the other Valkyries, some with horned helmets, have departed the scene. It frankly becomes boring, the impression having been given, rightly or wrongly, that often the singers have been left to fend for themselves.

 

Castorf seemingly has little interest in the Lenz of the Volsungs’ love, Siegmund’s heroic rejection of Valhalla, or the relationship between Wotan and Brünnhilde, and in much else besides, without succeeding in putting anything in their place. Romanticism, or something akin to it, is presumably part of the problem – but that should surely prove a spur to criticism rather than an aid to indifference. It seems less a matter of failing to explore or to deconstruct Wagner’s ideas than of never having bothered to consider them in the first place. Narrative incoherence is clearly part of the point, but, even with the film, it does not carry enough weight to compensate for what is lost. And there is a very thin line between incoherence as an æsthetic principle and incoherence by default.

 

Kirill Petrenko’s conducting had improved considerably. After a largely one-dimensional Rheingold, there was far greater ebb and flow here. If tempi remained on the fast side, the music was nevertheless allowed to breathe, which was just as well, given how much it had to fend for itself. There was far greater variegation, woodwind lines in particular gaining new life, and impressive dynamic range: none of Pierre Monteux’s ‘indifference of mezzo forte’. Climaxes could have been more shattering, but they were generally well placed and well approached. It is difficult to know how differently Petrenko would approach the work in another production, but I wonder how much a laudable desire to unite music and Wagner’s ‘gesture’ had initially led to subordination of the former, only for Castorf’s apparent dramatic abdication in Die Walküre to be met with a greater role for Petrenko here. Perhaps Siegfried and Götterdämmerung will provide further hints.
 

 

 

Wolfgang Koch’s Wotan is too baritonal truly to plumb the dramatic depths, but his Act III anger was devastating to hear (if not to see). After a disastrous start, her Hojotohos out of sync with the orchestra, Catherine Foster recovered with considerable credit as Brünnhilde. Her diction is not always as clear as it might be; indeed, there were, unless my ears deceived me, a few lapses with regard to the poem itself. But she is a likeable singer, who draws one in, has one sympathise. Anja Kampe had some rough moments, especially earlier on, but offered a performance of true dramatic fire; she, it seemed, was really the only one who could provide the direction Castorf apparently declined. At her best, she was mesmerising, even shattering. In Johan Botha,  it was a joy to have someone who can sing the role of Siegmund with such ease. His swordsmanship, however, was embarrassing, his acting skills remaining at best rudimentary. Kwangchul Youn’s Hunding was powerfully, menacingly sung, his attention to words as well as music an object lesson, not least to the director. Claudia Mahnke’s ‘operatic’ Fricka was rather hit and miss, just as in Das Rheingold. The Valkyries were a generally impressive bunch, with more of Wagner’s poem audible and comprehensible than is generally the case.  

Die Frau ohne Schatten, Royal Opera, 14 March 2014

Michaela Schuster (Nurse), Emily Magee (Empress)
Images: © ROH/Clive Barda

Royal Opera House

Nurse – Michaela Schuster

Spirit Messenger – Ashley Holland
Emperor – Johan Botha
Empress – Emily Magee
Voice of the Falcon – Anush Hovhannisyan
The One-Eyed – Adrian Clarke
The One-Armed – Jeremy White
The Hunchback – Hubert Francis
Barak’s Wife – Elena Pankratova
Barak – Johan Reuter
Serving Maids – Kathy Batho, Emma Smith, Andrea Hazell
Apparition of a Youth – David Butt Philip
Voices of Unborn Children – Ana James, Kiandra Howarth, Andrea Hazell, Nadezhda Karyazina, Cari Searle, Amy Catt
Night-Watchmen – Michel de Souza, Jihoon Kim, Adrian Clarke
Voice from Above – Catherine Carby
Guardian of the Threshold – Dušica Bijelić

Claus Guth (director)

Christian Schmidt (designs)
Olaf Winter (lighting)
Andi A. Müller (video)
Aglaja Nicolet (associate director)
Ronny Dietrich (dramaturge)

Royal Opera Chorus (chorus master: Renato Balsadonna)

Orchestra of the Royal Opera House
Semyon Bychkov (conductor)

 

Magnificent! Following the first night of this new production of Die Frau ohne Schatten, I quipped that I could forgive an opera house anything for musical performance at this level, whether orchestral, vocal, or, in this case, both. Dread memories of Christof Loy (Tristan and Lulu, here in London, still more his unspeakable Salzburg travesty of Die Frau) made me wonder afterward whether I had shown undue clemency, but no: almost two days later, I am still reeling from the impact of so extraordinary a performance, one which no house in the world could conceivably improve upon, and which I doubt could even be matched. For whilst Claus Guth’s production had many virtues, which I shall come to a little later, it was Strauss’s astonishing, still widely misunderstood, score which, rightly, had pride of place. If any performance, anywhere in the world, does more for his cause in this anniversary year, I think I shall find myself in need of a new vocabulary of superlatives.

 

Above all, I must commend Semyon Bychkov and the Orchestra of the Royal Opera House. The very first time I heard this work was in 2001, the final outing of John Cox’s Royal Opera production, with celebrated designs by David Hockney; Christoph von Dohnányi’s conducting of the orchestra remains one of the finest I have heard of a Strauss opera. Then, I found myself lost in admiration both for his and for this orchestra’s achievement. Bychkov proved himself every inch Dohnányi’s equal; indeed, I am not entirely sure that he was not surpassed. No matter: it is not a competition. Bychkov’s command of the orchestra was nothing short of awe-inspiring. If in retrospect, the first act seemed seemed a little on the expository side, then that is surely a reflection of Strauss’s writing. Patiently building up not only the dramatic tension but the motivic material from which the score would truly, ravishingly blossom, Bychkov showed himself possessed in equal measure of an ear for colour so acute as almost to rival Boulez – now imagine a FroSch from him! – with the deepest of structural understanding. Horizontal and vertical presentation of the score offered in conjunction with voices and staging a three-, even four- dimensional performance  to rival that one sees in one’s mind when hearing Karl Böhm on CD. And if the Covent Garden did not sound quite with Böhm’s Viennese sweetness, it had phantasmagorical qualities all of its own: the refreshment of a true rival rather than the flattery of imitation. More than once, I found myself thinking, doubtless heretically: Klangfarbenmelodie! Strauss’s uncomprehending disdain for the ‘atonal’ Schoenberg notwithstanding, we did not stand so very far from the world of the latter’s op.16 Orchestral Pieces. Bychkov’s ear for combining musico-dramatical tension in the combination of sonority and harmonic tension ensured that we must think of him as not only an excellent, but a great Straussian.

Falcon, Emperor (Johann Botha), Empress

 

And then – the singing! That earlier Covent Garden performance had also marked my first encounter with Johan Botha. He proved at least as remarkable more than twelve years on. This Emperor, as mellifluous as he was vocally powerful, sounded every inch a Siegfried, and a golden age Siegfried at that. (If indeed such an age ever really existed.) Emily Magee had a few moments of relative fallibility, but by any reasonable standards, her Empress was an impressive achievement, all the more so given the wholehearted dramatic commitment offered in conjunction with the purely vocal. Elena Pankratova was making her Royal Opera debut as Barak’s Wife; hochdramtisch singing of the highest order was to be savoured here, her climaxes at the end of the first and second acts sending shivers down the spine. If Johan Reuter’s Barak at first sounded a little plain, that may as much have been character-portrayal as anything else; his performance grew into something genuinely moving, testament to the potential greatness of, as it were, Everyman (to borrow from Hofmannsthal’s future). As for Michaela Schuster’s Nurse, her offering of musical and dramatic malevolence – tonality on less the pre- than the post-Schoenbergian brink, though never beyond it – would have been an object lesson in itself, even had it not been heightened by such stage presence and intelligence. Smaller roles were almost all impressively handled, David Butt Philip’s attractively voiced Apparition perhaps especially worthy of note. The only disappointment was the tremulous Falcon of Anush Hovhannisyan. Renato Balsadonna’s Royal Opera Chorus was, as expected, excellent throughout.

 

Guth’s staging, first seen at La Scala in 2012, presents the Empress in a sanatorium, Christian Schmidt’s stylish designs highly evocative of the time of composition. Our heroine is, one might say, hysterical in every sense. To begin with, she – and we – are somewhat unclear concerning the boundaries of reality and dream. Is Freud being channelled or satirised? Unclear, and all the better for it, which renders the very ending, in which it appears ‘all to have been a dream’ something of a disappointment. That said, much of what we see in between is riveting. With the best will in the world, some of Hofmannsthal’s symbolism upon symbolism – The Magic Flute really is best left alone – can seem unnecessary; it certainly seemed – and seems – to do so to Strauss. Yet the poet’s idea of transformation gains a fair hearing, or rather viewing, and there is a proper sense of the mythological, even the fantastical, to the dreamed world we enter, never more so than at the spectacular close to the second act, Olaf Winter’s lighting crucial here, and the craggy opening of the third. Those problematical echoes of Tamino and Pamina’s trials are presented with greater visual conviction than I can previously recall – and indeed greater conviction than one often sees in productions of the ‘original’. The sheer weirdness but also menacing sense of judgement emanating from a courtroom of strange creatures close to the end not only testifies to imagination and its possibilities but also to the misogynistic pro-natalism, from which, try as we might, we cannot ultimately rescue the opera. By contrast, Loy in Salzburg arrogantly declared that the work did not interest him and made not even the slightest attempt to deal with it. It was the sort of thing that might appeal to those who do not care for Strauss, or indeed Hofmannsthal, in the first place, though even they would most likely have been bored to tears with the banal ‘alternative’ narrative presented. Guth, for the most part, successfully treads a tightrope between presentation and interpretation.

 

A good staging then, and a truly outstanding musical performance. My first act upon returning home was to visit the Royal Opera House website, to buy myself another ticket. Hear this if you can. The performance of 29 March will be broadcast live on BBC Radio 3, at 5.45 p.m.

 

Tannhäuser, Royal Opera, 11 December 2010

Royal Opera House, Covent Garden

Tannhäuser – Johan Botha
Elisabeth – Eva-Maria Westbroek
Venus – Michaela Schuster
Wolfram von Eschenbach – Christian Gerhaher
Hermann, Landgrave of Thuringia – Christof Fischesser
Biterolf – Clive Bayley
Walther von der Vogelweide – Timothy Robinson
Heinrich der Schreiber – Steven Ebel
Reimar von Zweter – Jeremy White
Shepherd Boy – Alexander Lee

Tim Albery (director)
Michael Levine (set designs)
Jon Morrell (costumes)
David Finn (lighting)
Jasmin Vardimon (choreography)
Maxine Braham (movement)

Dancers
Royal Opera Chorus and Extra Chorus (chorus master: Renato Balsadonna)
Orchestra of the Royal Opera House
Semyon Bychkov (conductor)

Above all, this return to the Royal Opera House of Tannhäuser proved a musical triumph. Semyon Bychkov’s conducting was superior even to that of his Lohengrin last year. He generally took his time, but the score never dragged, given that Wagner’s long line was ever secure – bar the odd occasion when abruptness cannot quite be ironed out of the score. Climaxes were sparing and therefore all the more powerful when they came. Perhaps most importantly of all, the Orchestra of the Royal Opera House was on superlative form. Brass onstage and off were weightily impressive without brashness. The woodwind choir evoked a Middle Ages that may never actually have existed, but certainly did in Wagner’s imagination. As for the strings, one might well have thought them from Vienna, so beautiful was their sheen. Equally fine were the chorus and extra chorus, properly weighty of tone without undue sacrifice to verbal meaning; Renato Balsadonna had trained them very well.

The cast was excellent too. Johan Botha is that rare thing, a dependable Heldentenor. His interpretation might not be especially novel or variegated, but the vocal reserves on which he can draw seem endless. It is a tough, far from grateful, role to sing, yet Botha surmounted its challenges commendably. Christian Gerhaher’s Wolfram could not have been more highly contrasted, providing for an unusually stark dramatic contrast between the characters. This was as variegated, as Lieder-like, a performance as one could imagine – and then more. The sheer beauty of his tone was breathtaking, but even more so were his vocal shading and verbal acuity. I do not think I have ever heard the part, not least ‘O du meiner Abendstern’, so sensitively brought to life. Volume was much less than that of his antagonist, but miraculously one could hear every word; indeed, one might have taken dictation. Eva-Maria Westbroek presented an unusually vivid Elisabeth. Saint she might become – though this, not unreasonably, was downplayed – but one could never doubt her very real human desire. This Elisabeth stood closer to Sieglinde or Brünnhilde than would generally be the case, shedding refreshing light upon a character who can readily tend to the implausible. Michaela Schuster dragged Venus – as does Wagner in this ‘Paris’ version of the score – towards Kundry: a powerful, insinuating, yet indubitably feminine portrayal. I have admired Christof Fischesser in a number of roles in Berlin, mostly at the Komische Oper; he did not disappoint here, offering a younger sounding Landgrave than one often hears. The ‘supporting’ cast generally impressed too; special mention should go to Jette Parker Young Artist, Steven Ebel, as Heinrich der Schreiber. The one emendation to the ‘Paris’ version was the reinstatement from Dresden of Walther’s song, quite justified by Timothy Robinson’s rendition. (It was only originally omitted on account of vocal inadequacy.)

I preferred Tim Albery’s production to his Flying Dutchman, though I suspect that this may have been by default. By that, I mean that Albery’s concept of cosseted creativity in the Venusberg, symbolised by a reproduction of the Covent Garden stage’s own proscenium, liberated by release into the outside world, symbolised by a vision of Elisabeth bidding Tannhäuser return, seemed soon to run out of steam, permitted the music more or less to speak for itself, which may not have been the intention. I could not understand the relevance for the song contest and the third act of what seemed to be an Eastern European warzone, for which Michael Levine’s set designs and Jon Morrell’s costumes were finely accomplished; but it was not difficult simply to disregard the setting and to concentrate upon the work. Nevertheless, the Venusberg to valley transformation worked very well. Jasmin Verdimon’s choreography tied in extremely with the Bacchanale’s frustrating attempts to climax, the dancers lithe and accomplished, whilst the new scene both contrasted with and retained something of the phantasmagorical effect. I was intrigued to find myself asking how ‘real’ this new world actually was – above all for Wagner. However, whilst the addition of distant Mahlerian cowbells was certainly evocative in a far from unwelcome modernistic fashion, I am not convinced that the experiment should be repeated.

Lohengrin, Royal Opera, 27 April 2009

Royal Opera House, Covent Garden

Lohengrin – Johan Botha
Elsa – Edith Haller
Ortrud – Petra Lang
Telramund – Gerd Grochowski
King Henry the Fowler – Kwangchul Youn
Herald – Boaz Daniel
First Noble – Haoyin Xue
Second Noble – Ji-Min Park
Third Noble – Kostas Smoriginas
Fourth Noble – Vuyani Mlinde
Pages – Anne Osborne, Deborah Peake Jones, Amanda Floyd, Kate McCarney

Elijah Moshinsky (director)
Andrew Sinclair (associate director)
John Napier (designs)
William Hobbs (fight director)
Oliver Fenwick (lighting)

Orchestra of the Royal Opera House
Royal Opera Chorus (chorus director: Renato Balsadonna)
Semyon Bychkov (conductor)

The good news is that, musically, this proved a strong Lohengrin. Semyon Bychkov, who has recently recorded the work – a rarity indeed in these straitened times – elicited some of the best playing I have heard from the Orchestra of the Royal Opera House. Perhaps most remarkable were the sweet-toned strings, their presence immediately signalled in a luminescent first-act Prelude; so sweet, indeed, did they sound that one could have believed oneself in Vienna. Each section, however, provided aural delight, the woodwind delectable and the brass warm-toned, never brash. Bychkov’s shaping of the work’s three acts was very fine; there was certainly none of the stopping and starting that have so disfigured a number of recent Wagner performances at Covent Garden. My only real criticism was a very small number of occasions, most notably at the end of the first act, when the tone was lightened in conjunction with a greater metrical rigidity. Claudio Abbado showed a good number of years ago that one can present a somewhat Italianate Lohengrin without cheapening Wagner in a Verdian direction. These were minor blemishes, however, upon a generally excellent account.

Johan Botha was a successful Lohengrin, at least in vocal terms. Apart from a few instances when he seemed to be tiring, during the second act, his tone was well projected and his line well moulded. It is only really by comparison with Klaus Florian Vogt’s truly stellar performance in Berlin earlier this month that one might register any vocal disappointment. The other reservation one might entertain is his stage presence. Far be it from me to suggest that one should prefer singers on accounts of their looks, or even their figure, but in physical stature, Botha is something of a throwback – and a half? – to an earlier age, with acting skills to match. A charismatic hero he is not. Edith Haller displayed considerable virtues – as well as slightly but fatally flawed virtue – as Elsa. Her occasional veering towards a slightly more Italianate form of expression might conceivably have bothered some but her attention to melodic concerns was far from out of place here. Haller has a beautiful voice but is clearly also an intelligent singer. Petra Lang proved an estimable Ortrud. If she could not banish memories of Waltraud Meier in this production six years ago, that would have been to ask the impossible. Lang may not quite possess Meier’s extraordinary stage presence but she performed her role very well, with commendable attention both to detail and to the longer line. If Ortrud did not make as strong an impression as she might have done until later on, that was largely a matter of being hamstrung by so inert a production. Gerd Grochowski was due to assume the role of Telramund later on in the run but Falk Struckmann’s tracheitis ensured an earlier Royal Opera debut for Grochowski. It was a pity not to be able to hear Struckmann who, time and again, has shown himself to be a fine Wagnerian (although only once at Covent Garden, as Amfortas). Grochowski confirmed the impression I had in the Berlin performance previously mentioned: he sings musically but can sometimes be a little overpowered by the orchestra. A certain degree of weakness might be considered in character but Friedrich needs at some level also to be a credible alternative leader. Kwangchul Youn had also appeared in Berlin, as King Henry. His performance here was more mixed; indeed, his surprising insecurity in the later stages of the first act made me wonder whether he was ill, although no announcement was made. Choral singing was of a predictably high standard, if without quite the edge of Eberhard Friedrich’s State Opera Chorus for the Unter den Linden house.

So, mostly good news concerning the musical performance. There remains to be considered, I am afraid, Elijah Moshinsky’s production. It is not only in the light of Stefan Herheim’s magnificent achievement in Berlin that Moshinsky’s effort pales; I had sought in vain to discern any dramatic insight when the production was last mounted in 2003. ‘Traditionalists’ might, I suppose, like this lifeless pageant, in which absurd Christian and pagan totems are wheeled on and off, a risible combat scene makes one wonder about – but finally decide against – comedy having being intended, and the direction of the chorus is more or less limited to walking on and off and having each member cross himself. (With respect to the chorus, Herheim’s virtuosity had been almost incredible.) However, even the notoriously unadventurous Covent Garden audience was distinctly lukewarm in its appreciation of the director when he appeared on stage. Most productions, I admit, would look tired, were they revived after more than thirty years, but I cannot imagine that this had anything to offer even in 1977.

The ‘idea’ is clear enough, that of a clash between paganism and Christianity. This is undeniably present in the text but in itself does not get anywhere near to the heart of Wagner’s dramatic concerns. It is rather as if someone were to claim that Tosca is ‘about’ the French Revolutionary Wars. One might, of course, make something rather interesting out of a clash of belief systems, especially given the undeniably nationalistic aspects of Lohengrin – more prominent than in any other of Wagner’s dramas – but there does not seem to have been made even the slightest attempt to address any issues with contemporary resonance, or indeed to explore any issues at all. I do not mean to imply that the work must be updated, or even pulled unduly in our direction; however, remnants of paganism in tenth-century Germany are not in and of themselves, I suspect, of particular interest to many audiences today. Nor were they to Wagner. Lohengrin is not an historical drama; it is a myth with aspects of historical drama attached, somewhat uncomfortably so. This Lohengrin, by contrast, appeared almost as if it were a parody of Meyerbeer. If only it had been, it might just have been a little more interesting. Let us hope that, the next time Wagner’s Romantic opera returns to the Royal Opera House, it is in a new production. The wildest excesses of Regietheater, even Calixto Bieito at his most puerile, would be preferable to this. A somewhat odd hint of the latter – not really, I know – came at the end with the return of Gottfried and a prolonged, distinctly sexual embrace between him and Elsa. I really did not know what to make of that at all, despite the references in the programme to Freud and taboo; it seemed to come from nowhere, whereas one could have predicted it only too readily with Bieito and his ilk. The totems must also, I assume, have pointed to Freudian influence, but I did not feel this reflected or explored in the action; again, I can only wish that I had.

One final matter: many of the programme essays were of a very high standard. John Deathridge and James Treadwell are always very much worth reading on Wagner. Likewise Patrick Carnegy on production history, although I thought him perhaps a little too diplomatic in his reference to Moshinsky. But if Wagner himself is to be given space – and it seems to me an excellent idea that this should be so – can it please be in a new translation? To present him even in an adaptation from William Ashton Ellis will make the composer, especially to those less versed in his prose works, seem like a raving lunatic. Ellis is often surprisingly accurate but his style is so bizarre that it is best restricted to those who know the German already.