Stutzmann and Cura: The Paris Tannhäuser

I just finished watching something I did not know existed: The 2017 Paris Tannhäuser from L'Opéra de Monte-Carlo.  Though billed as a world premiere that just doesn't sound right. Whatever it was, it began with me already slightly prejudiced against it, yet by its conclusion moved to tears, finding myself wanting to experience it all over again. 

Performing it in this version - and in French - seemed to change not only the vocal line (in interesting ways) but also the texture and feel of the opera. In fact, its very orchestral fabric felt lighter, and, I'm not certain how to phrase it, but not quite Wagnerian seems  right - even if that doesn't sound right.  It felt very French. Peut-être oui? Anyway, I loved it. 

I had a few issues with some of the staging. It opens with the Venusberg, as a barefoot Henri arrives onstage alone with an enormous opium pipe. It's nearly 30 minutes before Henri sings, what with the Venusberg Vixens and Venus herself taunting, teasing and smoking with him. This was the part that felt silly to me, but in thinking about what I saw afterwards - I realize it works, and I need to go back with a better mind set. 

To his credit, Jose Cura is absolutely commanding in the title role. In excellent voice, while looking like a strung out wreck from his debauchery in the Venusberg, he pours himself into Henri with a commitment that made me care and have concern for Tannhauser as a character, in a way I rarely have. I'd go so far as to say, this Tannhauser may be one of the very best performances I've seen or heard Cura give - and I like this singer whose work can be variable.  He is gripping from start to finish dramatically as well as musically. By the time we arrive at the Rome Narrative Cura reveals he knew to pace himself, to reach this near mad scene  having reserves of strength and it was impossible  - at least for me - not  to want to forgive this sinner.   

I've heard Nathalie Stutzmann conduct this same opera several times now, and here she leans into the French tradition, beautifully controlling everything with a masterful touch in a way that makes it not feel or sound quite like Wagner.  If I sound crazy, it's merely because I am - and find it difficult to put into words. The best I can do is express my absolute surprise (and joy) at the enormous difference between say, this performance and the recent ones from Bayreuth or the Met - which were also excellent, by the way.  Additionally, Maestro Stutzmann's singerly attributes manifest in a way I appreciate and have heard from other great singer/ conductors (the Canadian Barbara Hannigan comes to mind) - placing the right emphasis on what comes out of the pit with a strong emphasis on vocal placement, and making the French libretto sound even smoother than German. 

Mezzo, Aude Extrémo is about as sensual a Venus as one could want, and it's interesting to see her physically return during the final scenes of the opera in a last ditch effort to pull Henri back to her world.  

Annemarie Kremer is lovely as Élisabeth, though in the third act there is a bit of a light steel to her sound where I wanted a bit more radiance and warmth, but she's good. Very good.  While I wasn't crazy about her demise, it worked in this context and was wrenching, as it should be.

Steven Humes sing and acts a very strong Hermann.

Jean-François Lapointe is just wonderful as Wolfram, and his "Song to the Evening Star" - the most beautiful aria in the score sounds just as lovely as 'Ô douce etoile, feu du soir."

Was it perfect? Almost nothing is, so this certainly was not. Several elements of the staging - which I overall liked and found myself caught up in - just felt like overkill or . . . just wront. The worst for me was the last bit of business (which I'll not spoil here) which ruined the moment for me - if only slightly. Oh, how I'd love to see this filmed again - with that bit removed.  

The physical production is directed nearly perfectly by Jean-Louis Grinda and Laurent Castaingtis's designs are stunning at every turn, even continuing the bare stage phenomenon that's taken over modern opera stagings.  There are props, e.g., the odd chair or two (or six), a lot of floor coverings in the guise of scarves and (perhaps panties?) during the Venusberg, but Castaingtis uses brilliant projections that give the entire thing a sense of cinemascope. It almost felt as if I were watching a film. The images are gorgeous and every one of them works in concert with the idea behind this style.

This was NOT at all what I was expecting today, and coming on the heels of a pair of performances of Pelléas (Vienna and Rouen) I'm not only opera-ed out . . . I'm French Opera-ed Out!

Jocasta's Line: Oedipus and Antigone - Father and Daughter

While not part of the core operatic repertoire, Stravinsky's Opera/Oratorio Oedipus Rex is nonetheless relatively well known, frequently more the in the domain of concert halls than opera houses. Norwegian National Opera came up with a fascinating Theban Project (at least that's what I'm calling it) and commissioned Canadian composer Samy Moussa to compose a companion piece to the Stavinsky, on the story of his daughter, Antigone. The resulting work is collectively called Jocasta's Line, and personally, I think they've got a hit onhand.  Tying it all together into the best possible theatrical experience is the work of genius director and choreographer, Wayne McGregor. While we know dance was a fundamental element of ancient Greek theatre, we may never fully know just how, but McGregor's gives a shining example of how effectively they can be used today. 

The physical production, with sets and costumes by Vicki Mortimer, are unique to each tale with no design elements in either (sets or costumes) transferring from one to the next - or more precisely from father-to-daughter, despite the tragic elements of each.  Lucy Carter's lighting design deserves not just special mention, but some sort of grand  award: her work in both pieces is nothing less than extraordinary and the images she conjures before our eyes are  constantly amazing. Both of these women make Jocasta's Line fly. 

Oedipus is visually and theatrically striking, opening from the rear of the stage with the projected image of the mouth of The Narrator - here taken up by the always wonderful Ben Whishaw. As he sets up the troubled king's story, the set rotates into place: Stage Left are The Men, clad in intricately hand painted suits, as Oedipus motionless and stage center is on a sort of elaborate podium, covering his lower half. As the music starts, the chorus is bathed in blood red light, Oedipus - now surrounded by a contingency of male dancers moving slowly, as if through time and space itself. And we are off.  

As Oedipus Paul Appleby easily gives one of the finest performances I've seen or heard from him. In splendid voice, the tenor also is given a specific choreography - elaborate, ancient-looking hand and arm gesture.  Through this combination of music and movement Appleby takes an often static character and infuses him with humanity, conveying the tortured, damned monarch and, like the citizens of Thebes, breaks our hearts. At least mine was broken.  

While no longer quite commanding the vocal beauty that marked much of her career, Sarah Connolly's strength feels right for Jocasta, and she remains a powerful presence as the doomed queen. One might even say, she is mighty, so I will. I did feel it a somewhat odd (while not distracting) decision to replace her Jocasta with a double for the queen's entombment. .  

Stravinsky (and Sophocles) assign significant importance Creon, Tiresias, The Messenger, and The Shepherd, and while small roles, Michael Mofidian, Rafal Siwek, Jens-Erik Aasbe, and Magnus Staveland, were marvelous, their brief scenes punching up the tragedy and gloom perfectly.

Throughout Oedipus, McGregor's genius shines through constant yet subtle movement of the sets AND its inhabitants, along with images of The Narrator, all propelling Sophocles' drama into our laps. Or faces. While the movement is often subtle, the result is anything but. Truly, this production joins Julie Taymor's now legendary film with Jessye Norman and Philip Langridge, as a must see and hear experience. 

Antigone follows - at least in this presentation - immediately with no intermission. WIth no expectations I was eager to plunge right in (though desperately wanted to yell and cheer for the cast of Oedipus!).  

Other than subject matter, Neither director nor composer keep any visual theme from the previous work. Initially, I was put off because I FELT they should flow, but as she progressed I realized I'd lied to myself.  I DID have expectations: including Antigone to be cut from the same cloth as the Stravinsky. That was in no part Samy Moussa's fault, it was entirely mine.I eventually got out of my own way and let Antigone take its proper hold on me.

As Oedipus was sung in Latin and with a male chorus, Antigone is performed by a female chorus (no soloists) in Ancient Greek. (Note: I do wish the work had, like Stravinsky, a narrator to make what we're seeing and hearing a bit more clear - at least to me.) Moussa's score is frequently dazzling, making great use of groupings of his instruments - high, tightly coiled and spiraling strings, punchy brass, and so on. 

I can't personally know who influences a composer and, while he is definitely creating his own unique (and rather splendid) sound, I definitely felt touches of Debussy, Khatchatourian, Tobias Picker, but most of all, Thomas Adès.  Not bad company to keep (or not keep - whatever the case may be).  

Grete Sofie Borud Nybakken is Antigone and, while I am no dance critic, I felt her performance devastatingly beautiful in every way - powerful and ultimately wrenching. The contributing dancers portraying Creon, Antigone's brothers, and Ismene were at this same, frequently dazzling level. 

As oratorio, both works rely significantly upon the work of the chorus: - the men in Oedipus and the women in Antigone, ar, in fact, the very heart in this style of storytelling. In this regard, the chorus of The Norwegian National Opera and Ballet - and their leaders - Stephen Harris and  César Cañon -  deserve every accolade possible for work that is consistently remarkable. 

Pulling the myriad, disperate parts of this Theban puzzle together is  conductor Charlotte Politi, who does a masterful and magnificent job, reigning the orchestral and choral forces with fierce precision and energy. She gives each score into its own aural landscape, creating rich imagery of the mind. and ear.

It will be interesting to see if other companies will take up Jocasta's Line as a pairing for a grand night of music theatre and dance. I certainly hope so. 

I Love You, Monkey King! San Francisco Opera Premiere's Huang Ruo's New Opera

The earth is enormous. The earth is tiny. Depending upon the context in which they're used, both statements are true, and the longer I live the more true each seems to become. Therefore, I was (though shouldn't have been) surprised to learn of  Sun Wukong - aka The Monkey King - beloved 16th Century Chinese superhero whose history actually goes back even further - to the 7th Century.  There wasn't time to brush up much before watching the live stream of the opera which had it's world premiere days before (on my birthday no less), and which I've been anticipating since first hearing about it.  

I purposefully avoided reviews, wanting to experience it (even from home) without prejudice expectations.  What happened when I  hit play - was practically transformative in that way unique to opera. The enthusiastic response from the house gave a strong indication of what it must have been like experiencing it in person.  Thousands of miles away on a large screen TV with good sound was not a bad alternative. Not at all.

From its opening image, Diane Paulus' visually stunning production transports us to another time and place and in scene-after-scene, the spectacle factor found me gasping in awe or proclaiming "this is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."  In reality, it may be only ONE of the most beautiful, but in the moment - which is all that matters - it blocked out any other possible competition. 

The opera opens with the Nirvana-seeking Bodhisattvas quietly chanting Buddhist sutras. They are joined by Goddess of Mercy, Guanyin, the lovely soprano Mei Gui Zhang. Guanyin, who, throughout the opera, floats high above and moves across the vast stage in a tear shaped vessel. Each appearance is simply breathtaking.  Jusung Gabriel Park - who sings the dual roles of Subhuti and Buddha, moves, as the latter throughout the story in a similar, circular vessel, adding even more of a transcendent spiritual quality to the often raucous, and comical goings on with Sun Wukong beneath them.

We quickly meet Sun Wukong, who has been imprisoned for 500 years, and whose story we will soon discover through a series of dazzling flashbacks.

So spectacular is the character of Sun Wukong, it takes three "performers" to tell his story: First is the tenor inhabiting The Monkey King, then a dancer/acrobat, and a puppet, each identically made up and costumed. The effect is seamless and magical in itself. In this role, tenor Kang Wang is never less than the ideal. Indeed, this is one of those performances that afterwards I found myself wondering, "who else can do this?"  Sun Wukong, always full of himself, speaks frequently of his handsomeness, and indeed, even through the wild make-up, loud costume, crazy monkey beard, Mr. Wang is able to project "handsome" and make an entire audience fall in love with this often reviled creature. Tour-de-force seems almost an inadequate description of Mr. Wang's remarkable performance.  He IS The Monkey King. 

As spectacular as he was, Mr. Wang was not alone in shining as the entire cast was both inspired and inspiring, with no weak links anywhere. As both Subhuti and Buddha, baritone Jusung Gabriel Park was warm of voice and created two distinct characters. As the former, his scenes with Sun Wukong found me "feeling" the similar dynamic between Gurnemanz and Parsifal, so that element hit me both in head and heart. Kuno Kim was a hilariously haughty Jade Emperor, ruler and of an elite population of immortals (which easily translates to The One Percenters  of today) as they proudly - and loudly - sing:

We're the smartest and most powerful - the wisest most deserving, which we remind each other whenever we get the chance!

Peixin Chen as Supreme Lord Laozi, Joo Wan Kang, as Lord Erlang and Ao Guang, and Hongni Wu, as the Crab General and Venus Star, round out a perfect cast with tremendous acting and song. 

Sets and puppets are by the always amazing Basil Twist (so thrilled to see his name on this project) and Anita Yavich must have had what must be a customers dream - or nightmare  in creating the challenging, explosions of colors and materials in creating the opulent, stunning costumes.  The lighting design by Ayumu "Poe" Saegusa created a magical fantasy world of movement and light that frequently took my breath away.

From first note to last, it was clear Huang Ruo was creating something special here. A uniquely Asian story, its score influenced by the musical landscapes of ancient China, other Far-Near Eastern sounds, Western classical music, jazz and theatre. In addition to traditional orchestral sounds, there were traditional Chinese elements including percussion, gongs, cymbals and more.  A few moments in the choral sections felt (to me) sounded "too casual" both in writing and delivery - but they made an effect, so perhaps I just don't understand something. It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

Completing Sun Wukong's character were the Puppet and Dancer. puppet Sun Wukong was brilliantly handled and manipulated by - by my count - nine masterful puppeteers. Dancing SunWukong was in In dancer/acrobat Huiwang Zhang, Dancing Sun Wukong was in everyway the dopplganger of tenor Wang. His athletic prowess, flying, sommersaulting, and kicking his way through dimensions and space were never less than dazzling. 

Through all of this, Maestro Carolyn Kuan propelled the score exuberantly forward with love, combining Ruo's elements of nuance, cariciature, spirituality, comedy, along with an abundance of heart and humanity in one of the most beautiful new operas I have been fortunate to experience. 

I love you Monkey King!

Teach Me To Love Parsifal

Some twenty years ago someone wrote me with a most unusual request. He’d read a lot of my postings in various groups over the years (from the old days of Prodigy, RecMusicOpera, Opera-L, etc.) and noticed my obsession with a few operas, but one in particular he was intrigued by, but could not get past a lot of his issues with it. Then he ended his request with the simple words: Teach me to love Parsifal.

Yeah, my head exploded. How does one begin to teach anyone anything, much less a complex, strange opera that so many have difficulty with? I began a series of posts and ramblings I feared would put him off, but it did the opposite. He became even more intrigued and gave in and went on the journey to Montsalvat willingly. I wish I kept the correspondence from him, but the email address I had is no longer active, and the only thing I remember is that his name was John. I wish I had his name because by asking that seemingly simple question, John got me to put down in words things about this opera I’d always felt, and frequently spoke of, but had never committed to paper (or rather the virtual equivalent of paper). Here is the first response of the several I’d sent him. I’ve fixed a few typographical errors and tenses, but essentially it’s unchanged from the original.

_________

Very interesting request, John. Parsifal is my favorite of all operas. It hit me early on as a boy without my even understanding “why.” I was made fun of through half my youth because Parsifal was, by nearly everyone I knew, considered a bore . . . even a joke: a long, boring opera with less action than Tristan. " As I've grown older, Parsifal seems to have caught on much more than when I was young (or, more likely, I’ve just been exposed to more folk like myself) and where it once seemed to be a rare bird to produce for most houses, it seems to pop up all over these days.

There are a handful of works which, from their very opening notes, seize my entire being, and the first Vorspiel to Parsifal is at the top of a very short list. As Wagner begins it - and he does more than any other composer I know - oh, so quietly, as though summoning us to the call, almost requiring us to lean forward in our seats in order just to even hear it. And . . . when we do, it feels as though we've entered into the middle of a thing that’s already begun.  There is a sense of aural mystery that begins here to weave itself and draw us into another realm. Then (for at least some of us) come the tears. Full confession: I've given up even trying to hold them back, as such a battle shifts my attention to a place - a self-awareness which means it takes me away from the music. I want to be completely . . . entirely absorbed by fascinating thing. And so, I cry.

Perhaps I'm not the proper one to respond to your request, since I'm often accused of being in the Cult of Parsifal (which is not nearly so offensive as being labeled a Callas Widow – though, either term is a bit ridiculous and gives me a dose of the creeps). But I do freely admit Parsifal is an obsession and, as with any marvelous obsession, I am eternally intrigued by every aspect of it: the more I think I know it, the more I realize how much more there is to discover.

The character of Parsifal himself undergoes one of the more amazing transformations in opera. Merely reading the libretto, or looking at it pragmatically (not recommended) or from a structurally analytical perspective, it can and does seem static, even a bit on the ridiculously simple side. In Parsifal nothing happens - and then everything changes to become . . . the same. But, if one exercises patience, takes the time to examine the development of not just Parsifal's character – but the manner in which Wagner has all of the characters evolve, one just may find himself (as I do still), astounded. Completely.

There have always been complaints regarding Parsifal: the music is overly long for the minimal amount of words carved into the libretto . . . not enough movement or action either onstage, or in the score itself. These are but two often lobbed at Wagner’s final work, and yet, if one allows themselves to take it all in - in its own time, there are countless discoveries to be made . . . endless subtleties to discover in Wagner’s musical treatment of his own text, and how precisely, how perfectly, he sets it.

When we first meet him, Parsifal's speech is almost a stammer; he is coltish, abrupt, one might even say, unmusical. And so it remains until, by the end of the Act, after the conclusion of the first Grail ceremony, he is subdued by what he’s witnessed, completely overwhelmed. He is, in fact, rendered speechless and by this we see his being simultaneously divided between being both perplexed, and awestruck. Gurnemanz, frustrated at this silence, misunderstands, and berates his stupidity – but then, a voice from above reiterates the prophecy we've previously heard heard several times earlier:

Durch Mitleid wissend, der reine Tor 

(the King (and thus, the realm) will be healed by an innocent fool made wise through compassion.)

In the second act, we again hear the stammer-like element of Parsifal's speech, but added to it now is a sense of awe, as understanding and comprehension become clear to the hero. Ever the dramatic genius, Wagner achieves this effect by having Parsifal repeating certain words: Die Wunde! Die Wunde! . . .  Kläge! Kläge! . . . Oh! Oh! . . . Hier - heir!, etc, Through this, he allows the singer an opportunity, with each reiteration, to increase the intensity of emotion. In doing this, Wagner amps up everything in a manner that transforms the youth from dullard to enlightenment before our very eyes . . . and by using our ears.
By the end of the act the all of the young knight’s experiences have led to a genuine epiphany, and Wagner has given us us a front row seat to witness this miracle of Parsifal's awakening.

With that awakening comes his ability to know, to comprehend, and fully grasp the tragedy that befell not only Amfortas, but the entire brotherhood of the Knights.

During the duet that anchors this act - an intense exchange between Kundry and Parsifal - something extraordinary happens. Something that I believe is musically and dramatically unique in the entirety of opera, for here there is an intimacy typically reserved for operas more romantic or carnal, and yet Wagner has now transferred those elements into the spiritual realm, which should not be confused with the religious. So, "Don’t do that!" we think, but we need to just give in to Wagner here, for if we allow ourselves to go there, we too are immediat ely caught up in what is so revelatory in this moment: Parsifal's discovery of understanding . . . of compassion,  And it is soul searing. Wagner has invited us to witness the emerging of this empathy which will redeem the fallen Amfortas, heal his wound, and restore order, bringing peace to the suffering community of the Knights of Montsalvat.

One can, of course, mine the work for its rich symbolism which lends itself to as many interpretations as there are people. One can't begin to count the number of  books or papers about those - and I've devoured many of them over the years. But let's stay here for a moment. As we begin the first transformation scene, Parsifal states:

Ich schreite kaum, doch wähn' ich mich schon weit

(I scarcely move, yet already seem to have travelled far.)

Well, if that doesn't just prompt Gurnemanz to utter what is, for me, the greatest single line in in all of opera:

Du siehst, mein Sohn, zum Raum wird hier die Zeit.

(You see my son, time here becomes space.)

By bringing in the time/space continuum, Wagner has opened up an entirely new can of worms. He has introduced another dimension to the experience, and now, an element of the transcendental has inextricably woven itself into the tale. And it blows my mind every single time, no matter how many times I watch and listen to this opera. 

Then there is the character of Kundry - Wagner's fascinating distillation of a handful of women from the various Grail legends. I have written a lot about Kundry (who I consider the most fascinating character Wagner ever created) but will spare you this at the moment. But be prepared, she is coming.

I haven’t even begun to go into the third act and, despite all these words  I've spilled onto the page, have truly barely touched the tip of the particular iceberg that is Parsifal.  Nonetheless I hope I've provided some semblance of why I love it so much, and why it’s been an obsession of mine since boyhood. 

I will end here by saying this: if we are willing to tune into Wagner's sensibilities, take them as is  on their own (or his own)  . . . if we allows the entirety of it to wash over us , so to speak, the rewards truly are truly endless,  And yes:  time here does indeed become space.