Showing posts with label Le Bu. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Le Bu. Show all posts

Thursday, 9 April 2026

Salzburg Easter Festival (3): Das Rheingold, 6 April 2026


Felsenreitschule


Images: Frol Podlesyni
Performers: Olade Roland Rodolpho Sagbo, Delavallet Bidiefono, Roméo Bron Bi



Director – Kirill Serebrennikov
Set designs – Kirill Serebrennikov, Olga Pavluk
Costumes – Kirill Srebrennikov, Slavna Martinovic, Shaiva Nikvashvili
Lighting – Sergey Kucher
Choreography – Ivan Estegneev, Delavallet Bidiefono
Dramaturgy – Daniil Orlov

Wotan – Christian Gerhaher
Donner – Gihoon Kim
Froh – Thomas Atkins
Loge – Brenton Ryan
Alberich – Leigh Melrose
Mime – Thomas Cilluffo
Fasolt – Le Bu
Fafner – Patrick Guetti
Fricka – Catriona Morison
Freia – Sarah Brady
Erda – Jasmin White
Woglinde – Louise Foor
Wellgunde – Yajie Zhange
Flosshilde – Jess Dandy

Performer Compagnie Baninga
Actors, Performers

Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra
Kirill Petrenko (conductor)



Determined to bring Wagner and Berlin Philharmonic opera to his native Salzburg, Herbert von Karajan inaugurated the city’s Easter (for the greater part, Holy Week) Festival in 1967. It began with a Ring (Die Walküre first), partly co-produced with New York’s Metropolitan Opera and directed by Karajan himself, which formed the foundation for Karajan’s Deutsche Grammophon audio recording. The Ring returned to Salzburg under Simon Rattle and the Berlin Philharmonic from 2007-10, in Stéphane Braunschewig’s production, given also in Aix. Now in 2026, with the triumphant return of the orchestra to Salzburg, the Easter Festival’s third Ring begins, in a co-production with Copenhagen’s Royal Danish Opera, conducted by Kirill Petrenko and directed by Kirill Serebrennikov. 


Fafner (Patrick Guetti)

I say triumphant, since there can be no doubting that the orchestra proved the brightest stars of all in this Rheingold’s firmament. I doubt the score can ever have been better played at the level of execution—and at this stage of my Wagnerian life, I have heard it a good few times. Depth of tone, balance, and pinpoint accuracy were second to none; and, as I have noted a few times with the BPO under Kirill Petrenko, they (or their conductor) show a greater willing to draw on the wisdom and experience of their long history, a dark, more Furtwänglerian sound, closer to that of the Staatskapelle Berlin, than tended to be heard from Rattle, Claudio Abbado, or indeed Karajan proving the baseline – sometimes even the bass line – in core Austro-German repertoire. Petrenko’s Wagner conducting has also progressed in leaps and bounds not only since he conducted the Ring at Bayreuth, but also from his Wagner in Munich. Not that the former was poor, far from it, but the theatre brings its own, notorious challenges for a director and, more to the point, the conception often lacked metaphysical and, in many ways, physical depth. There is no doubting Petrenko’s grasp of the work’s vast architecture, heard and communicated as if (almost) in a single breath – not quite Daniel Barenboim, though no one else has been this century, arguably since Furtwängler himself. With this orchestra as his collaborators, though, he can draw on a greater, multi-dimensional canvas, gaining harmonic depth, timbral variegation, and a more varied, yet always firmly directed narrative thrust. If the strings sounded as of old (or so one could fancy), the woodwind arguably sounded more variegated and characterful than ever, the brass both more tender and more malevolent as necessary (and much more). Underwhelming anvils, poorly integrated were a pity, but they often are; the technical difficulties here lie far beyond a merely ‘musical’ issue. 


Froh (Thomas Atkins), Wotan (Christian Gerhaher), Loge (Brenton Ryan)

On, then, to Serebrennikov’s vision and its realisation. A post-apocalyptic setting in the/a potential future, presumably following a cataclysm such as we shall encounter at the close, may not be ‘groundbreaking’. We have been there before in the Ring, perhaps most celebratedly with Harry Kupfer, let alone in other works. It is difficult to imagine, at least until it happens, what could, at least on that broad, outline scale could be by now, although arguably Frank Castorf achieved something of that kind in his 2013-17 Ring (conducted initially by Petrenko). It is surely, by the same token, especially apposite right now, at a time when monsters such as Trump and Netanyahu are threatening to unleash still worse than they have already. The devil and, just perhaps, the angels will of course lie in the detail, and here Serebrennikov’s conception offers much promise—as well as certain caveats. It is always difficult, indeed impossible, to tell from a single instalment, although one can always tell if all has gone horribly wrong. In so bleak a landscape, visited both on stage and above on Serebrennikov’s own film, should one start entirely from scratch or recall the before times? It may not be either/or; indeed, there will be choices to be made from which or, better, whose before times. The question nonetheless retains some validity. The gods seem bound to a past that may lie beyond recovery; arguably they do by at least the final scene of Rheingold anyway, perhaps earlier still. In light, uncoloured, perhaps even ragged robes, they affect poses, probably attempt solutions as if an Attic (more than Teutonic?) past were present. All they seem positively, promisingly to possess is the technology of a greenhouse to cultivate Freia’s apples of immortality. We do not so much as glimpse Valhalla; perhaps it does not exist. 

Rhinemaidens (Yajie Zhang, Jess Dandy, Louise Foor)

For this is clearly Alberich’s story more than theirs. Whether that will be the case throughout the Ring, we do not know, but it seems unarguable at least for this Rheingold. The film begins and continues with his quest across a barren, Icelandic landscape, both harking back to the Eddas and representing the problem, even the terror of the present. Where he is heading remains unclear, but when he appears onstage we recognise him and this doubling (like others between singers and actors, purely onstage) proves dramatically enabling and productive, without provoking confusion. This is a world in which religion, like all else, must or at least may be recreated, the gods and their heroes – viewed as ceramic memories at the close, hardly promising for the future – facing just the replacement Alberich threatens will come from him and his horde. And so, he builds a cult of his own, enthroned under a canopy, learning from those who have oppressed him, including an able trio of Rhinemaidens replete with actor-provided tentacles of the erotic urge (liebesgelüste) Wagner divined in Alberich. Film turns to fire and even  disintegrates, though recovers, possibly presaging the future's future.



Whether ‘borrowing’ from African cultures onstage is the best way to go about some of this may be questioned. Questions of appropriation or downright (neo-)colonialism – primitive or primitivism? – are complicated by the engagement of African dancers under the responsive choreography (and dance) of Delavallet Bidiefono. These artists have clearly contributed, to my eyes highly productively. So too have Recycle Group (Andrey Blokhin and Georgy Kuznetsov) in provision of materials. Matters are not so clearcut here as they might initially seem, though the suspicion of ethnographic tourism lingers even when one learns of the creditable research that has gone into the production from reclaimed materials and office rubbish of a reenvisaged Egungun masquerade dress for Loge. His colourful world, what appears to be a reinvention of magic – what else is there in such an environment – makes quite an impression. What lies within the portable hut his double guards remains a mystery, as doubtless it must. The questions it provokes may prove key to the whole enterprise. What seems to mark a remythologising of the Ring bucks recent practice. The politics remain; how could they not? They do not, bar the overall post-catastrophic setting, laudable environmentalism in production values, and the coming of the Global South, seem to be paramount conceptually. Perhaps that will change, or perhaps it is the intention: something approaching a new direction in itself in the twenty-first century. But will this be Wieland Wagner with a world tour and integrated recycling, or rather more than that? All eyes, or at least mine, lie on Alberich and Loge—rather than on Wotan. 


Alberich (Leigh Melrose)

That shift of emphasis was paralleled, less fortunately, in terms of singing. That Loge might steal the show in Das Rheingold is far from unprecedented; it is almost to be expected. Brenton Ryan’s quicksilver portrayal was nonetheless far more than a reflection of the work, vocal and stage presence combining (in collaboration with his redder ‘double’) to represent something both primal and advanced, whether instrumental reason or sham magic dramatically ambiguous. Leigh Melrose’s Alberich was again a true animating as well as animating presence, his use of words and music in Wagner’s radical alchemy not only tracing but helping form the narrative. Christian Gerhaher, by contrast, was, like many of the full gods, oddly static. This, again, was partly a matter of the production, but there were times when he seemed parted, resorting to barking reminiscent of aspects of Karajan’s Fischer-Dieskau but without his commanding presence. Gerhaher is a superlative artist as a singer, but not so much of an actor, and it is difficult to consider Wotan, even in this ‘preliminary evening’, his ideal role. Whether he will continue in Walküre and Siegfried – Fischer-Dieskau did not – we shall see. Le Bu’s Fasolt and Patrick Guetti’s Fafner were formidable giants, offering portrayals with considerable psychological depth as well as necessary force. Erdas rarely disappoint and Jasmin White was no exception; theirs was a moment that cast its shadow over all that was to come—and presumably that is still to come. Thomas Cilluffo’s characterful Mime promised well for the greater stint to come (assuming he continues in the role). Even here, then, much judgement must necessarily be provisional, but the best onstage and all in the pit augur well indeed.



 

Saturday, 4 April 2026

Salzburg Easter Festival (1): BPO/Petrenko - Mahler, 3 April 2026


Grosses Festspielhaus


Images: Monika Rittershaus

Symphony no.8 in E-flat major

Jacquelyn Wagner, Sarah Wegener, Liv Redpath (sopranos)
Beth Taylor, Fleur Barron (mezzo-sopranos)
Benjamin Bruns (tenor)
Gihoon Kim (baritone)
Le Bu (bass)
Berlin Radio Chorus (director: Justus Barleben)
Salzburg Bach Choir (director: Michael Schneider)
Salzburg Festival and Theatre Children’s Choir (directors: Wolfgang Götz and Regina Sgier)
Tölz Boys’ Choir (director: Marco Barbon)
Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra
Kirill Petrenko (conductor)

If it initially felt more than a little strange, even heretical, to hear Mahler’s Eighth Symphony on Good Friday, this outstanding Salzburg Easter Festival performance from assembled soloists, choirs, the Berlin Philharmonic, and Kirill Petrenko swept all before it, doubts included—or perhaps better, incorporating such theological doubts into the experience of those listening 115 years on from the work’s premiere. A little under four years from the outbreak of the First World War, that age may seem, simultaneously, both strangely close to and increasingly distant from the insanity of the world’s current predicaments. Mahler was no aestheticist; this rightly offered no refuge. But nor did it hold up anything so predictable as a mere mirror. No audience member will have experienced it in quite the same way, but all will surely have been edified, exhilarated, and far more besides. The indifference, at best, in which so many contemporary Mahler performances proceed was never an option here. Petrenko’s way with the work was often surprising, yet never arbitrarily so. It was, as is typical of this artist, a deeply thought-out reading that challenged, confounded, and ultimately, dare I say, came close to that thing we may still, hope against hope, consider to be transcendence.


Beth Taylor (standing), Jacquelyn Wagner and Fleur Barron on either side

I shall admit to having had my doubts earlyish on in the First Part. The organ sound was far from ideal. More fundamentally, I wondered quite where the performance was heading, with highly contrasting blocks of material: a brisk and lithe choral section seeming almost underwhelming, followed by spacious, operatic solo singing that seemed perhaps closer to Berlioz or Verdi than Mahler. Unity of soloists and chorus intriguingly suggested something akin to the world of nineteenth-century oratorio – Dvořák’s Stabat Mater came to mind – but I began to ask myself: where is the symphonism in this? I should have known better, since Petrenko had taken a highly original view that yet proved compelling both in the moment and in retrospect. Chamber-music playing – yes, in this movement – suggested an affinity with the Berlin Philharmonic Wagner of Herbert von Karajan, reminding us of the roots of this festival, revisited this year in a new Ring, but more importantly offering a fascinating new perspective (for me, at least) on music I had thought I knew well.


Liv Redpath (Mater gloriosa)

It goes without saying, yet doubtless should not, that the Berlin Philharmonic’s chamber playing, just as much as any titanic, surround-sound barnstorming, proved superlative and indeed enlightening. When Petrenko whipped up a storm, he truly did so; when the choirs sang, seating arrangements only enhanced a musical understanding that reached back to the antiphonies of ancient polyphony. (I thought, perhaps idiosyncratically, of Wagner’s Palm Sunday Palestrina.) Where, though, was the Mahler, I might perhaps have asked earlier on. It was increasingly clear, again both in the moment and in retrospect. Ghosts from his earlier symphonies increasingly haunted the music: liminal passages from the Rückert symphonies, ecstasy from the Second and Third, and more than a little Wunderhorn later on. And when the moment of return arrived, any idea that this conception was not, among other things, symphonic through and through was dispelled once and for all. If there was something disturbing about hearing those cries of ‘Gloria!’ on this of all days, there was something utterly thrilling to it too: a tribute to Mahler’s syncretic vision, itself reimagined in further syncretism, rather than any banal blasphemy. All came together, as it must, yet in at least the last two performances I have heard of this symphony, it utterly failed to do so; moreover, it came together in a display of long-range thinking that made complete sense of the progression we had heard so far, also anticipating that to come.

The introduction to the Second Part is, of course, one of the most extraordinary musical landscapes in the entire canon. In that, it follows Goethe and, for some of us, even goes beyond him. Bar prolonged electronic interference from what I assume was a malfunctioning hearing aid, this wanted nothing. Here, Petrenko and the Berliners offered their very own – rather, Mahler’s – rite of spring, initially cold yet melting, suggestive of the snow one can still view here on the Alpine landscape visible from all quarters in the city, yet in its translucency also partaking in a further liminality already hinting at the very different heights to come. At that moment when they must, strings dug in, in a way one fancies they must have for Mahler in 1910 Munich, yet probably did not. It was, at any rate, both expertly and movingly shaped. When choir and echo entered, it was likewise as if we heard chamber choirs writ large, that translucency extended not only to song but to words and verse themselves.


 

As other persons had their say, we recognised them both as of old and quite anew, classical yet contemporary: the ideal for any performance, as Daniel Barenboim (who surely would have had the measure of this work he never conducted) might have told us—and Pierre Boulez, who certainly did on both counts, very much did tell us, both in words and music. The early stages of the rest of this part truly imparted a sense of ascent both physical and metaphysical, as if partaking in a musical-cosmological demonstration of the mediaeval Great Chain of Being. Gihoon Kim’s excellent Pater ecstaticus was, yes, ecstatic, but also clearly heartfelt, presaging the deep (in every sense) love extolled and embodied by the Pater profundus of Le Bu. The word ‘Kettenschmerz’, towards the close of his first solo, he almost spat out, without slightest sacrifice to beauty of tone or deeper meaning. This is clearly a rare talent: an artist new to me but whom I hope to hear much more from. Beth Taylor’s Mulier Samaritana revealed a fine, Erda-like contralto-like mezzo, equally at home with the alchemy that turns words into something approaching music drama. Jacquelyn Wagner offered a thrillingly, operatic turn for Magna peccatrix. First among an extraordinary team of equals in the First Part, Sarah Wagener sounded here, quite rightly, more oratorio-like in the part of Una poenitentium, without in any sense refusing the inheritance from her composer namesake. Speaking of whom, the Siegfried-like Doctor Marianus of Benjamin Bruns, rang out in uncommon harmony with the orchestra. All soloists, as well as all choirs, contributed to the greater whole in outstanding fashion, whether the Third Symphony’s Bimm-Bamm sublimation in our corps of younger angels, Fleur Barron’s imploring, inwardly strong Maria Aegyptiaca, or the pre- and post-Parsifalian voice from above, Mater gloriosa, of Liv Redpath, both necessary response and necessarily sweet.


 

All the while, Petrenko proved, after Mahler, our (pen-)ultimate guide. There was no more a weak link in the symphonic logic of this vast structure than there was in the playing of the Berlin Philharmonic or the singing of our onstage cosmogony. All took its place with a Wagnerian inevitability that belied the elements of crowd control, however unseen and unheard, which must always inform a performance of this symphony. When, heralded by a clarion-like yet tender return for Doctor Marianus, the Chorus mysticus entered, it was with a magic that seemed to lie somewhere between Mozart and Nono. Disbelief in the celebrated and/or notorious last line of Goethe could be suspended, because one felt one actually believed; perhaps even in the old canard, credo quia absurdum. There was, though, nothing absurd to a coronation of queens and princes of heaven alike, even on Good Friday. Whether or no this were the beyond we glimpsed, none could doubt that we felt we had.