Susan Gerstein's Blog - Posts Tagged "opera"
"The Flying Dutchman" at Covent Garden
I can’t even begin to count the number of times I have seen “The Flying Dutchman” in a lifetime of attending opera performances. There were ones in the Hungarian city of Szeged, the scene of my introduction to the genre in my earliest childhood. Then there were ones during the years of my adolescence in Budapest, sung in Hungarian and bearing the marks of the generally prevailing scarcity that defined life in those years, but we didn’t know any better and my memories of those evenings at the Opera seem lavish and grand to me to this day. -- In the New York of the early sixties and from then on to the present, and at many other venues all over the world, I had seen it too many times to count. Some of these performances were wonderful, some less so; some singers great while others in the same cast less so to produce an uneven final impression. Some of the staging rang true, some verged on the outer edges of “regietheater”. But of all of them, the greatest performance I have ever seen took place in Covent Garden in February of this year.
“The Flying Dutchman” is, as countless commentators point out, Richard Wagner’s first opera “where he becomes Wagner”. His prior ones still hark back to the formulas he would eventually completely break away from; and in “Dutchman” this becomes very clear. His lifelong obsession with redemption, preferably with the assistance of a good woman, manifests itself here for the first time. While the opera still has an occasional stand-alone aria as we have known it from the earlier styles of the nineteenth century, the integrated, seamless music, the leitmotifs, the very bones of Wagnerian orchestration here come into their own. The role of Senta, the woman destined to redeem the cursed Dutchman is a precursor to Brunnhilde in the “Ring Cycle” and Isolde in “Tristan und Isolde”. The passion that binds her and the Dutchman to each other has the desperation of self-preservation about it: each needs the other for their own salvation. It is a relatively short work, for Wagner at any rate, a mere two and a half hours of intermissionless, glorious music.
The Covent Garden production, conducted wonderfully by Andris Nelsons, was, above all else, an incomparable musical experience. Bryn Terfel, the great Welsh baritone sang the Dutchman. In all the past ten years or so that Bryn Terfel had been prominent on the international opera scene singing all the great baritone roles from Falstaff to Wotan, I have never heard him sound as magnificent as he did in this role. Senta was the Canadian soprano Adrianne Pieczonka, whom, though she had been singing internationally to great acclaim, I have never heard before. She was simply overwhelming. Her voice, full, penetrating but warm, made one long to hear her as Isolde. The two protagonists matched each other note for note, and there was never a moment, as so often happens, of one “outsinging” the other. But beyond the glories of the music, what was so astonishing about their performance was the total immersion of these two singing actors in their roles: I believed, beyond any doubt, that they were fatally, overwhelmingly attracted to each other, to the exclusion of all rationality. In fact, for the first time it had occurred to me that what is happening between Senta and the Dutchman is what must have happened between Judith and Bluebeard before “Bluebeard’s Castle” begins: a cursed man with a complicated, painful past is searching for, and finds, an infatuated young woman willing to leave all she had known behind and devote her life to his redemption. In neither case does this work out well.
Directed by Tim Albery, the production, a simple one with minimal staging – the deck of a ship, a workroom, the indication of the interior of a house, -- works well, and provides an unfussy background to the main event, the passion of Senta and the Dutchman. The single objection I had was the final scene when Senta’s death is not as clearly depicted as one would imagine it; but no matter, by then one is so emotionally exhausted, it takes an effort to start cheering and clapping.
“The Flying Dutchman” is, as countless commentators point out, Richard Wagner’s first opera “where he becomes Wagner”. His prior ones still hark back to the formulas he would eventually completely break away from; and in “Dutchman” this becomes very clear. His lifelong obsession with redemption, preferably with the assistance of a good woman, manifests itself here for the first time. While the opera still has an occasional stand-alone aria as we have known it from the earlier styles of the nineteenth century, the integrated, seamless music, the leitmotifs, the very bones of Wagnerian orchestration here come into their own. The role of Senta, the woman destined to redeem the cursed Dutchman is a precursor to Brunnhilde in the “Ring Cycle” and Isolde in “Tristan und Isolde”. The passion that binds her and the Dutchman to each other has the desperation of self-preservation about it: each needs the other for their own salvation. It is a relatively short work, for Wagner at any rate, a mere two and a half hours of intermissionless, glorious music.
The Covent Garden production, conducted wonderfully by Andris Nelsons, was, above all else, an incomparable musical experience. Bryn Terfel, the great Welsh baritone sang the Dutchman. In all the past ten years or so that Bryn Terfel had been prominent on the international opera scene singing all the great baritone roles from Falstaff to Wotan, I have never heard him sound as magnificent as he did in this role. Senta was the Canadian soprano Adrianne Pieczonka, whom, though she had been singing internationally to great acclaim, I have never heard before. She was simply overwhelming. Her voice, full, penetrating but warm, made one long to hear her as Isolde. The two protagonists matched each other note for note, and there was never a moment, as so often happens, of one “outsinging” the other. But beyond the glories of the music, what was so astonishing about their performance was the total immersion of these two singing actors in their roles: I believed, beyond any doubt, that they were fatally, overwhelmingly attracted to each other, to the exclusion of all rationality. In fact, for the first time it had occurred to me that what is happening between Senta and the Dutchman is what must have happened between Judith and Bluebeard before “Bluebeard’s Castle” begins: a cursed man with a complicated, painful past is searching for, and finds, an infatuated young woman willing to leave all she had known behind and devote her life to his redemption. In neither case does this work out well.
Directed by Tim Albery, the production, a simple one with minimal staging – the deck of a ship, a workroom, the indication of the interior of a house, -- works well, and provides an unfussy background to the main event, the passion of Senta and the Dutchman. The single objection I had was the final scene when Senta’s death is not as clearly depicted as one would imagine it; but no matter, by then one is so emotionally exhausted, it takes an effort to start cheering and clapping.
King Marke Ascending
After I posted my entry on “Tristan und Isolde” on October 27th in which I waxed nostalgic about the ultimate performance of that opera many decades ago and complained about the stage production of the current one, I was reminded of an omission: in the subsequent performances there were not one but two overwhelming, magnificent King Markes appearing in various opera houses, both of them Finnish: Martti Talvela and Matti Salminen.
I said nothing about them because they belong to that other, intermediate period between the legendary ’71 “Tristan” and the current one, which I sort of dismissed as of “varied quality, neither great nor uniformly poor.” During the seasons when the original stage production had been revived at the Met minus Birgit Nilsson and certainly minus any great Tristan, followed by the intermediate production in the late nineties and its several revivals, (as well as ones seen in other parts of the country and abroad), the one constant was a lack of great principals who could join forces and perform on the same high level of intensity. What I do want to describe however, are two of those performances seen during this period that were so out of balance that they literally changed the narrative of the entire opera. In both cases, several years apart, the role of King Marke, wronged husband and disappointed friend, was sung by Martti Talvela and subsequently by Matti Salminen. I forget who the Tristan and the Isolde were; I could research it, but that is not my objective. What I remember acutely are two underpowered lovers who betray the King. When the King arrives at the end of the second act to find his wife and his best friend in flagrante delicto so to speak, his majestic outpouring of grief and disappointment make him not only the tragic center of the tale but diminishes the revealed lovers to that of petulant and irresponsible youngsters. I assure you this is not the intention of the composer or the effect this scene, and the rest of the opera, is supposed to create. Both of the great Finnish bases were physically imposing and towered over the other protagonists, which only enhanced the powerful musical statement. Martti Talvela died tragically early in 1989; Matti Salminen is still singing in Europe, though he had not been back at the Met in many years. And yes, those “Tristans” in which we were fortunate enough to hear them, were memorable simply because they made them memorable, even if lopsided in some way.
But this is a subject that pertains to all opera, not only “Tristan”. We have now grown accustomed to singing actors and the days when large divas or diminutive tenors stood center stage and sang beautifully are gone. So my memory scans some of those older performances, rarer nowadays, when the same imbalances I mentioned concerning the Tristan occurred: the quality of voice or the physical appearance of the singer put an unintended spin on the storyline. I remember an “Aida” where the Aida, the enslaved Ethiopian princess beloved by the hero, was a mediocre soprano who happened to be short, heavy and white while her rival, the reining Egyptian princess rejected by the hero was not only a magnificent mezzo but also a gorgeous black woman. The love triangle became incomprehensible. A “Carmen” with phenomenal Micaela and weak Carmen? A “Gotterdammerung” where the Gutrune overwhelmed the Brunhilda vocally, or the Alberich was a more majestic presence than the Wotan? There are many examples. I am sure that everyone who goes to the opera has some. They are part of why one does go: the eternal quest for the perfect performance. They do happen. I promise.
I said nothing about them because they belong to that other, intermediate period between the legendary ’71 “Tristan” and the current one, which I sort of dismissed as of “varied quality, neither great nor uniformly poor.” During the seasons when the original stage production had been revived at the Met minus Birgit Nilsson and certainly minus any great Tristan, followed by the intermediate production in the late nineties and its several revivals, (as well as ones seen in other parts of the country and abroad), the one constant was a lack of great principals who could join forces and perform on the same high level of intensity. What I do want to describe however, are two of those performances seen during this period that were so out of balance that they literally changed the narrative of the entire opera. In both cases, several years apart, the role of King Marke, wronged husband and disappointed friend, was sung by Martti Talvela and subsequently by Matti Salminen. I forget who the Tristan and the Isolde were; I could research it, but that is not my objective. What I remember acutely are two underpowered lovers who betray the King. When the King arrives at the end of the second act to find his wife and his best friend in flagrante delicto so to speak, his majestic outpouring of grief and disappointment make him not only the tragic center of the tale but diminishes the revealed lovers to that of petulant and irresponsible youngsters. I assure you this is not the intention of the composer or the effect this scene, and the rest of the opera, is supposed to create. Both of the great Finnish bases were physically imposing and towered over the other protagonists, which only enhanced the powerful musical statement. Martti Talvela died tragically early in 1989; Matti Salminen is still singing in Europe, though he had not been back at the Met in many years. And yes, those “Tristans” in which we were fortunate enough to hear them, were memorable simply because they made them memorable, even if lopsided in some way.
But this is a subject that pertains to all opera, not only “Tristan”. We have now grown accustomed to singing actors and the days when large divas or diminutive tenors stood center stage and sang beautifully are gone. So my memory scans some of those older performances, rarer nowadays, when the same imbalances I mentioned concerning the Tristan occurred: the quality of voice or the physical appearance of the singer put an unintended spin on the storyline. I remember an “Aida” where the Aida, the enslaved Ethiopian princess beloved by the hero, was a mediocre soprano who happened to be short, heavy and white while her rival, the reining Egyptian princess rejected by the hero was not only a magnificent mezzo but also a gorgeous black woman. The love triangle became incomprehensible. A “Carmen” with phenomenal Micaela and weak Carmen? A “Gotterdammerung” where the Gutrune overwhelmed the Brunhilda vocally, or the Alberich was a more majestic presence than the Wotan? There are many examples. I am sure that everyone who goes to the opera has some. They are part of why one does go: the eternal quest for the perfect performance. They do happen. I promise.
