Friday, March 29, 2013
the devil meets his angel
Richard Wagner (libretto and music) Der fliegender Holläder (The Flying Dutchman) / Los Angeles Opera, the production I attended was a matinee performance on Sunday, March 24, 2013
Wagner’s 1843 opera Der fliegender Holländer was perhaps the first in which he truly found the voice he expresses so profoundly in his later operas. However, there are also in this work several elements of comic opera that link him, for moments, with Rossini and other comic composers, particularly in the role of Senta’s father, Daland (James Creswell), and in the “second act” spinning song. The comedic elements were stressed in this production by Nikolaus Lehnhoff, first performed by the Lyric Opera of Chicago, particularly in the costumes designed by Andrea Schmidt-Futterer, with the high-piled wig of Daland and the honey-bee mirrored dresses of the spinners—all of which distracted, it seems to me, instead contributing to the heart of this work, the darkly-haunted hero doomed for centuries to sail the oceans and the woman destined to save him.
The sets, moreover, expressed their story literally with smoke and mirrors, which again, despite the sometimes beautiful effects, undercuts the darker elements of the work. Perhaps we needed some distraction from The Dutchman’s (Tómas Tómasson’s) lovely but rather small voice. Elisabete Matos, however, sang wonderfully as Senta, and Matthew Plenk, as the Steersman, performed as a lovely lyrical tenor.
Wagner’s tale, however, is far stranger: basically, as my companion Howard reacted, The Flying Dutchman is a kind of vampire story—without the bites! I immediately agreed. Indeed when one compares the idea of a group of sailors being forced to sail around the world endlessly, miraculously surviving their adventures because of their damnation, one is quickly reminded of F. W. Murnau’s Nosferatu, wherein the entire crew of the ship upon which undead man is coffined, die, the ship becoming overwhelmed, upon its eventual arrival in England, with rats.
Like Nosferatu, The Dutchman is damned by the devil, and like the vampire, he can find death only through the hands of a pure and faithful woman. Just as Gretchen, reading a book her husband has brought back from Transylvania, believes she must sacrifice herself to the vampire in order to kill him, so is Senta convinced by the ballad of the Dutchman that she is destined, in her love and faithfulness, to save the wandering sailor by joining him in death. And the implications of the central character, who lives primarily in an all-male world, being unable to find a woman who might be faithful to him has the same implications as does the vampire’s attraction to Hutter in Nosferatu, which also explains, in some ways, the odd scene in which the young women of this Norwegian fishing village, are unable to lure the Dutchman’s sailors into their arms, and why they flee upon seeing them. With his pale white skin and long black cape, indeed, The Dutchman strikes a figure that is not unlike the great Bela Lugosi.
Although the Dutchman is attracted to Senta, it may be more for her magic powers of freeing him from his doom, than it is about sexual love. He
has, somewhat comically, already asked for her hand from her father without even seeing her, and when the two do meet, they are both speechless, The Dutchman, an emissary of the Devil, is particularly afraid of what he asking from this angel in making a spiritual contract with him. This helps also explain why, even though Senta has rejected the pleas of love from the simple hunter, Erik, the Dutchman immediately presumes the worst, cursing her for her lack of faithfulness, not even permitting her the possibility to explain before he sulks off into the distance. One has the odd feeling throughout The Flying Dutchman that part of the Dutchman and his crew prefer their long ocean voyages to the company of the bourgeois fishers of the towns they visit every seven years.
It is these slightly inexplicable elements of Wagner’s retelling of this story that actually lend The Flying Dutchman its richness and philosophical depths. The Dutchman may be, as Senta expresses it, someone to feel sorry for, a man of despair, but he is also clearly a man that someone like Senta, in her youth and beauty—just as Erik tries to explain to her—that she should abhor. Her very attraction to him reveals that she is not only an “outsider” in the community, but is compulsively suicidal, determined to face off with the devil in a world where she might have found peace, joy, and, with the gift from the Dutchman to her father, wealth. Yet this behavior of beings who do not allow themselves to “fit into” the world is precisely what transforms Wagner’s figures into such memorably mythical types.
In Wagner’s world, a fulfilling and sustained love between the sexes is seldom possible, and even when it exists, is momentary at best. Marriage is either insufferable or transitory. And angels such as Senta, or even gods such as Brünnhilde must sacrifice themselves so that their men and mankind itself can be granted salvation.
Los Angeles, March 28, 2013
Sunday, March 3, 2013
the sacred and the profaneby Douglas Messerli
Richard Wagner (libretto and music) Parsifal / HD live Metropolitan Opera production, New York, March 2, 2013
Even more strangely, although the community seems to espouse a gentle pacifist creed in itsisolated mountain habitat, their major activity, it appears, has been one of militancy, as they respond to fellow believers in struggle throughout the world (a nod to the activities of The Crusades), during which the haggard Kundry serves as a willing messenger in an attempt to atone for her former life. Indeed, when the dimwitted Parsifal stumbles upon their retreat, killing a swan that has risen up over the nearby lake where Amfortas is bathing to comfort his pain, the noble Gurnemanz chastises the “fool” for his militant behavior. This seeming contradiction is just one of many in an opera that anyone might describe as “jumbled.”
It is no wonder, accordingly, that despite its beautiful score, Parsifal has been met with a volley of sometimes outrageous criticisms, including attacks on its militarism and monasticism and Hartmut Zelinsky’s accusation of it as being a “millenarianist fantasy about the redemption of an Aryan Jesus from Judaism,” a feeling, in a milder form, expressed by our friend.
Of course, it is this very mix of elements—the “jumble” of which I speak—that also helps to make this opera an intense allegory that seems to have numerous possibilities in its reading. In his suffering condition, the sinful believer Amfortas is like Christ, is himself a kind of Christ who, as Christ himself did, temporarily loses his way. The innocent and foolish Parsifal is sent off by Gurnemanz for his inability to comprehend the service he has just witnessed; but this fool is also the future savior who will have to undergo his own spiritual journey to come into wisdom, awakened into action by the kiss of Kundry and catapulted into heroism by grabbing the holy spear from the demonic Klingsor. But even then, it will take years of painful wandering and suffering for him to find his way back to the congregation with the new knowledge that he must take over its leadership.
If Amfortas is Christ, Klingsor, as a kind of bloody-haired Lucifer, suffers equally in his chaste greed. Before Parsifal can come into any awareness he too must be bloodied, just like Amfortas, and feel the strong pull of lustful love, leaving his heart open to pangs similar to those the leader must daily suffer. Parsifal’s strange salvation comes, accordingly, from the lips of Kundry, who, in her lust awakens the young hero only to tell him the truths of his father and mother and their love for him and each other. When Parsifal rejects her embraces, she is compelled to tell him of her own need for salvation by confessing that, having laughed at Christ while he hung upon the cross, she has been damned through several life-times to laugh and jeer at everything around her; she is unable to weep—and, most importantly, is unable to die.
Through much of the director’s and designer’s strong images and staging methods, we come to understand Wagner’s deeply embroidered tale far more clearly. Yet, in my opinion, Girard has further distanced us from these tortured knights by turning them into contemporary beings, who, in symbolic gesture of their abstinence, spend the first moments of the opera ridding themselves of ties, coats, shoes, socks, wristwatches and other articles of apparel to be clad only in white shirts and pants. The leader, Amfortas, has even given up his belt. By placing these men in a tight circle (perhaps to remind us that they present “a round table”) as they move, with Busby Berkeley- precision, their hands, heads, torsos in various choreographed positions, they seem more like some strange religious contemporary cult members than worldly knights. I can well understand the director’s determination to rid Wagner’s work of the clanging armor, swords, and helmets of more traditional productions, in order to emphasize these figures’ relationships to us. But by clothing them so indistinguishably and asking them to perform in such ritual precision, Girard even further dissociates them from those in the audience who do not share the intense religious devotions of these men—which includes almost all of us.
Finally, Wagner himself, in telling his story, has drained out much of the empathy we might feel for his characters. Except for the remarkable duet between Kundry and Parsifal in Act II, most of his story is told in retrospect, in long narrative recitations by Gurnemanz, Kundry, and others. We know that Amfortas suffers, but, except for glimpses, we comprehend it only in retrospect; we realize that Parsifal awakens from his foolishness into wisdom and empathy through his long pilgrimage, but we are not permitted to witness it. It is as if everything that happens of importance in this opera was kept out of sight. Surely, Wagner’s penchant for retelling “story” is present in nearly all of his works, but in Parsifal it is the very substance of the piece, which makes us feel a void when it comes to its dramatic heart. Although clothed in the beautiful sensuality of its music, it is a work that feels cold and steely at its center. At one moment, as Gurnemanz recounts the joys and beauties of Good Friday, the ominous blacks and grays of the set momentarily opened up into a partially blue sky—a moment of intense relief—before being overtaken once more by the black and gray landscape that dominates this great work of art. Even with Parsifal’s healing of Amfortas and his rejoinder of the blood of Christ upon the Spear with that of the Grail, performed almost as a sexual act when the spear is dipped into the circular vessel, we are left still with a quite bleak statement of life. If this is what a spiritual vision demands, I would prefer to remain in the pagan palace to sinfully witness this work of art.
March 3, 2013