Parsifal: Memories of the World Premiere

On the 26th of July, we celebrated the 143rd anniversary of the world premiere of Wagner's inal music drama, Parsifal. Rather than calling it an opera, the composer referred to it as a Bühnenweihfestspiel, in English, a stage consecratoin festival play. For those who share my near cultish obsession with this masterpiece there is a wealth of material and fascinating accounts of its creation, premiere and all other manner of Parsifilian lore and facts, but for anyone who hasn't read it, I can't recommend highly enough Charles Dudley Warner's account of the world premiere of Parsifal.  He shared his thoughts, writing at length about it for The Atlantic, his account being published in January 1883.  A most insightful and revealing piece it is, in its way, nearly as moving as Wagner's final work itself.  Warner describes in great detail the intricacies of the the staging, (more than some may like) but does so with such heartfelt enthusiasm and awe, it pulled this reader back into another time and space (see what I did there?)  One gets a sense of where he is coming from (and where he is going to go) from the introduction:

It is the purpose of this paper to give the impression made by the performance of Parsifal at Baireuth, last summer, in view of certain strictures upon the motive of the drama, and without any attempt at musical criticism. In order to do this, I shall have to run over the leading features of the play, already given in the newspapers. Criticism enough, and of an unfavorable sort, there has been, though I heard none of it in Baireuth, nor ever any from those who had been present at the wonderful festival. Perhaps that was because I happened to meet only disciples of Wagner. I fancy that the professional critics, who did publish depreciating comments upon the new opera, and upon Wagner’s methods in general, felt more inclined to that course after they had escaped from the powerful immediate impression of the performance, from the atmosphere of Baireuth, and begun to reflect upon the responsibilities of the special critics to the world at large, and what in particular was their duty towards the whole Wagner movement, assumption, presumption, or whatever it is called, than they did while they were surrounded by the influences that Wagner had skillfully brought to bear to effect his purpose on them.

* * * * 

Of the ending of Act I Dudley wrote:

During the repast of which Amfortas has not partaken, he sinks from his momentary exaltation, the wound in his side opens afresh, and he cries out in agony. Hearing the cry, Parsifal clutches his heart, and seems to share his agony, but otherwise he stands motionless . . . the knights rise . . . slowly depart in the order in which they came. To the last Parsifal gazes in wonder; and when his guide comes to speak to him, he is so dazed that Gurnemanz, losing all patience at his unresponsive stupidity, pushes him out of the door, and spurns him for a fool. The curtains sweep together, and shut us out from the world that had come to seem to us more real than our own.

For a moment we sat in absolute silence, a stillness that had been unbroken during the whole performance. There was not a note of applause, not a sound. The impression was too profound for expression. We felt that we had been in the presence of a great spiritual reality. I have spoken of this as the impression of a scene. Of course it is understood that this would have been all an empty theatrical spectacle but for the music, which raised us to such heights of imagination and vision. For a moment or two, as I saw, the audience sat in silence; many of them were in tears. Then the doors were opened; the light streamed in. We all arose, with no bustle and hardly a word spoken, and went out into the pleasant sunshine.

I recall the first time I read this description, I could feel my heart swelling, recalling my own experiences with the opera, and imagining his.I loved this.

Warner went on with a moving description of the curtain at the end of the second act:

When the act ended, the audience, still under the spell of the music . . . sat, as before, silent for a moment. Then it rose en masse, and turned to the high box in the rear, where, concealed behind his friends, Wagner sat, and hailed him with a long tempest of applause.

Finally, there is the sharing of his overall experience with Parsifal:

I, for one, did not feel that I had assisted at an opera, but rather that I had witnessed some sacred drama, perhaps a modern miracle play. There were many things in the performance that separated it by a whole world from the opera, as it is usually understood. The drama had a noble theme; there was unity of purpose throughout, and unity in the orchestra, the singing, and the scenery. There were no digressions, no personal excursions of singers, exhibiting themselves and their voices, to destroy the illusion.

The orchestra was a part of the story, and not a mere accompaniment. The players never played, the singers never sang, to the audience. There was not a solo, duet, or any concerted piece 'for effect.' No performer came down to the foot-lights and appealed to the audience . . No applause was given, no encores were asked, no singer turned to the spectators. There was no connection or communication between the stage and the audience. Yet I doubt if singers in any opera ever made a more profound impression, or received more real applause. They were satisfied that they were producing the effect intended. And the composer must have been content when he saw the audience so take his design as to pay his creation the homage of rapt appreciation due to a great work of art.

I'm listening to today to a magnificent live performance from the place it all began: Bayreuth. It is under the leadership of Pablo  Heras-Casado - who has become a magnificent interpreter and for me approaches the level of Knappertsbusch and his legendary performances from the same house 70+ year ago. Today's cast is one of the best that can be assembled: Andreas Schager (Parsifal), Georg Zeppenfeld (Gurnemanz), Michael Volle (Amfortas), Ekaterina Gubanova (Kundry) and Jordan Shamajam (Klingsor), and Tobias Kehrer.  It's almost time for the second act so . . . 

Enthüllet den Gral! - Öffnet den Schrein!

A PARSIFAL IN BERGEN: Some Thoughts

 

Opera in concert is always an interesting pursuit that offers possibilities distinct from traditionally staged opera.  On the one hand, performances in an opera house are (generally) exactly what the composer had in mind when setting his or her libretto to music. This is true regardless of the type of staging, be it so called "traditional" or "regie": singers in costume, directed on a stage with sets, props, lighting design and all of the other accoutrement we typically associate with a night at the opera.  Concert opera, in and of itself, at least until more recent decades, rarely veered from singers in evening attire (i.e., gowns and tuxedos/tails) more frequently than not reading from scores and (mostly) immobile, standing in front of the orchestra, which would take up most of the stage.  

Over the last twenty years or so, we have witnessed an increasing amount of performances combining elements of both; old-fashioned "stand and sing" concert performances, along with theatrical components in the form of acting, costumes sometimes with, and sometimes without props (which are generally kept to a minimum). This hybrid, instead of limiting the effectiveness of either tradition, has the potential to elevate both. With economic downturns, particularly beginning with the Aughts, then continuing through COVID, the budgets of nearly every performing arts organization have been slashed and companies disbanded. The "concert staging" of opera offers opera companies, as well as symphony orchestras, to make a mark, to, with less financial resources, find creative ways to present grand opera. The results are, naturally, mixed, but when it works, boy howdy is it effective..

Such was the case with Norway's Bergen Philharmonic when yesterday they presented - and streamed worldwide - a concert staging of Wagner's final opera, "Parsifal."  The excellent orchestra took up about 90 percent of the stage, with a smallish platform behind the conductor that held a few pieces: a table, some chairs (which were arranged and rearranged according to staging necessities by the singers themselves), and a large settee for the central act.  Costumes by Cathrine Ahlsen were a broad combination of jeans, plaid shirts, hoody, sweaters, military uniforms, with a knock-out white silk brocade Nehru suit for the hero during the final scene.  There were flowery print dresses, and headdresses for the Blumenmädchen, basic black for the Grail Knights,  Throw in a wheelchair and beret for Titurel, a flowered drape over the settee to represent the magic garden, a spear and the Grail, and that was pretty much all there was.  Minimalism to perfection.  

In the hands of Nicolai Riise, a director with vision, and in the voices of a sublime cast, everything one could want from a Parsifal was present.  Additionally, the orchestra, so vitally important in opera, but especially in Wagner, being seen onstage, became part of the fabric of the staging itself; not invisible as Wagner intended, but an element that added rather than distracted. The experience was, we imagine, a bit different for the in-house audience than it was for the home viewer (which is always the case) as we at home were offered spectacular camera angles, close-ups, and arresting overhead shots from the multiple cameras. When we caught glimpses of Maestro Edward Gardner, he seemed both completely in control of the entire venture, while at the same time almost transfixed and transfiguring throughout the performance.

British bass, Rindley Sherratt seemed a wise, already world-weary Gurnemanz from the start, but then with flashes of passion of purpose. The voice was rich, resonant and glorious throughout the first act's long narratives and his exchanges with Kundry and the young fool Parsifal made for moving theatre. This was especially true in the pre-Transformation exchange as he attempts to describe what the Grail is and does. He was equally effective in the final act, and if the Good Friday scene sounded a bit more strained or tired in its upper regions, it, to me, did not matter as his singing was still of such beauty and imbued with emotion revealing the hope for what was to come. 

 

Ricarda Merbeth's Kundry was appropriately fiery, fierce when called for, with beautiful hints of vulnerability. It is a bigger-voiced Kundry than we often hear now in the role, and I loved the sound, and it's always fun to have a singer not afraid to scream and laugh where indicated, which is something we rarely hear anymore. 

I feared Johann Reuter was not up to Amfortas and in Scene 1, the sound was terse and unfocused, leaving me nervous for his big scene later in the act. Fortunately, the voice sounded almost entirely different, richer, smoother and even. It was an interesting and unusual acting choice, this Amfortas more bitter and skeptical, indeed, laughing at the end of the ceremony, which added a chilling dimension to the role; a sort of doubting Thomas, if you will.

Stuart Skelton had some physical and (unintentional) acting awkwardness in Parsifal's first scene, but the way the role is written, so does just about every tenor (the memory of an unwigged, gray-haired 63 year old Domingo comes immediately to mind), but his expressive face, physical reactions to all around him, and most importantly, the voice, added into an admirable and powerfully moving turn as the wayward youth and future king. 

 Ólafur Sigurdarson had a field day as Klingsor, looking almost like a cross between a pimp and Wotan, offering a brightness of tone not usually associated with the great evil one. He made for, if I dare say it, a fun villain in one of the most serious works ever penned. His Flower Maidens at their first appearance had the feel of a special Spring Spectacular of "Call the Midwife" in their flowery frocks and flowered coronets, the Jackboots adding yet another oddly marvelous touch. They sang like angels and in their limited space, swayed with ease if not elegance as they attempted to seduce their prey.

There were many marvelous directorial touches by Nicolai Riise that would have worked as perfectly (I think) in a fully staged Parsifal. The final scene finds Klingsor and his girls running and kneeling before King Parsifal, who in a powerfully moving (if controversial) gesture raises Klingsor up, the symbol of ultimate forgiveness.  Already being choked up, I must admit to this putting me over the edge emotionally.  I love when that happens.  Monika Jägerová as The Voice From Above gets to be seen for a change, here as white gowned angel, who appears again in the final pages, as Parsifal relinquishes the Grail to Kundry (who holds it aloft, the crimson glow bathing her finally serene face), and gives Parsifal the Dove of Peace.

Ivar Skjørestad's lighting designs added a sense of time passing, and nice effects like the lightning flashes at Klingsor's stormy entrance. 

This was, for me, a Parsifal of profound power and beauty drawing me in both through its minimal theatrical magic and its magnificent music making.

Considering Kundry: Wagner's Most Fascinating Character

Years ago my feathers got ruffled when I read an article arguing Kundry leaves an insignificant impact in Wagner's Parsifal. He stated incorrectly Kundry's only lines are in Act 2 "and even then limited," and suggested it doesn't even matter WHO sings Kundry, and expressed wonder as to why any singer with a major career would take on this unrewarding role.

Of course, Kundry being one of the characters I find the most fascinating in the world of opera, I nearly fell from my chair and responded with my having heard seen and/or heard (live or on recording) Kundry sung by the likes of Maria Callas, Christa Ludwig, Martha Modl, Jessye Norman, Tatiana Troyanos, Angela Denoke, Catherine Malfitano, Waltraut Meier, Renata Scotto, Rita Gorr, Leonie Rysanek, Irene Dalis, Violetta Urmana, Regine Crespin, Linda Watson, Katarina Dalayman, Petra Lang, Eva Randova, Yvonne Minton, Michelle DeYoung, Anne Gjevang, Gillian Knight, Gwyneth Jones. Evidence enough of the role's power to attract a widely diverse roster of celebrated singers.

I can think of few characters more fascinating, more troubling, more perplexing and ultimately more touching, than Wagner's hybrid distillation of several of the Grail myths more interesting females. Wagner seems to have carved this fascinating creature from von Eschenbach, Chretien de Troyes, and God only knows who else. Von Eschenbach describes her as "a woman so talented that she spoke all languages: Latin, Heathen and French . . . familiar with both dialectic and geometry; and she haad also knowledge of astrononomy . . . (her) nickname the sorceress. Her mouth was not restrained for she could say quite enough (and) with it she dampened much joy." That's our gal! In each act Kundry seems not only transformed, but is transforming right before us! What a gift Wagner has given the singer of this role . and what a marvelous challenge!

In Act 1, we're presented with this mysterious, wild woman of dubious character, which in no way prepares us for the seductress we're introduced to in the second act. Even then, we continue to witness her pain and the torture she's endured throughout the entire act.

Many operatic characters have screams written into the score, but, for me, none is more chilling than the moans and screams of Kundry, because we're witnessing the ultimate horror; someone realizing they are still alive, when that is the last thing they want to be.

Kundry's second meeting with Parsifal is one of the most fascinating scenes in all of opera. Beginning with "Parsifal Weile!" what ensues is of such a complex nature that it rattles my mind, this even after spending a lifetime with these characters. Throughout, we see this tortured, conflicted and ultimately cursed woman, helplessly bound to continuing Klingsor's dirty deeds, yet now, touched by this innocent fool, she longs for salvation. When she comes clean revealing her thousand year old secrets, she has in a sense found another victim as we witness Parsifal's own confliction, and at the same time, the beginning of an understanding of his place in the world.

A most wordy guy, Wagner was seldom prone towards repeating a word, a practice more common in operas that precede his own, so when he does so, the effect is of such dramatic significance that we can almost hear the gears turning in his characters’ minds. With fever pitch intensity, we hear Parsifal cry out:

"Amfortas! - -
Die Wunde! - Die Wunde! -
Sie brennt in meinem Herzen.
Oh, Klage! Klage!
Furchtbare Klage!
Aus tiefstem Herzen schreit sie mir auf.
Oh! - Oh! -
Elender!
Jammervollster!
Die Wunde sah ich bluten, -
nun blutet sie in mir! -
Hier - hier!
Nein! Nein! Nicht die Wunde ist es.
Fliesse ihr Blut in Strömen dahin!
Hier! Hier im Herzen der Brand!

All of those repeated words present us with a device that, given the right singer, has the potential to shatter an audience as we witness before our eyes (and ears), the Innocent Fool in a profound epiphany of heartstricken terror, pain, realization, understanding, and most importantly of all, empathy.

Even as a child, I was drawn to, what my mother would call, "sad stories." I still am, and it's no wonder that my favorite operas are (I believe) amongst the saddest stories set to music: Parsifal, Wozzeck, Pelleas et Melisande, Don Carlos . . . (you get the idea). There's an ineffable sadness to Parsifal that may be the cause of why it alienates so many operalovers. That quality of sadness, instead of pretending pain or ugliness away, instead embraces and reveals along with it . . . everything: not merely joy and good times, which we reflect on in happier states, but all. Alles. I’ve spoken with a number of others who like me, easily declare Parsifal to be their favorite (or one of their favorite) operas, and Kundry to be one of their favorite characters. It truly is one of those "love it/hate it" operas."

My favorite line in the entirety of the world of opera is uttered neither by the title character, nor Kundry, but rather Gurnemanz who, during their journey to the Grail Temple responds to Parsifal’s notice having barely trod, yet seems already to have traveled far, utters:

Du siehst, mein Sohn, zum Raum wird hier die Zeit.
(You see, my son, here space becomes time)

For me, this magical bit of metaphysics applies not only to the journey at hand, but to the entirety of the opera itself and the world in which its inhabitants find themselves, most pointedly to Kundry who for nearly a thousand years has restlessly roamed from realm-to-realm.

Though with only one twice repeated word (“Dienen”) to sing in Act 3, I believe Kundry makes as strong an impression in this act - or has the opportunity so to do - as any the other principals. To be effective the singer, even with only four notes, (and, of course, her entrance groan) must be felt from deep down beneath Kundry's skin. While Act II is where she shines vocally, Act III's two scenes are moving for each of the characters of the story(sans Klingsor). The ordinance of humility and Kundry’s baptism perfectly sets the stage for the second Grail Temple scene, with Wagner's sensational Transformation Music. Here transformation is an apt description not only for what we see occurring onstage, (the shifting from outdoor wilderness to indoor temple) but what we ourselves have witnessed of the characters who likewise have themselves transformed. I've always likened this moment to each having passed through the proverbial refiner's fire: The world weary, tortured Kundry finally finds her rest, the once haughty (and mildly intolerant) Gurnemanz is now the epitome of patience and humility, the hopelessly wounded Amfortas is finally healed, the once Innocent Fool has grown with wisdom and assumes his position as the new Grail King. In only his second Grail Temple experience, Parsifal has attained a level of understanding and awareness previously unimaginable, and the final words expressed by the chorus of Knights, children and the other participants in this moving moment of wonder could not be more profound: The redeemer is redeemed.

Many modern audiences (not me) have a problem with many newer productions having Kundry remain a live at the end, but my strongest preference is always to allow her to die. On the opposite end of the stick I know many who despise Wagner's stage direction "Kundry sinks silently to the ground" calling it a Victorian or puritanical "judgment." This train of thought I simply can’t agree with seeing it this way: release is what all Kundry has longed for (far long before we meet her). She's earned it, and Wagner's score, shimmering, shining and filled with the resolution of a long hoped for freedom, provides us with every indication her suffering is now at an end and Kundry is, at long last, finally at peace.

It remains amazing to me how Wagner's music ever matches this bizarre, complex bizzare twist of a tale with equal parts carnality, rage, torment and hope filling it with some of his most beguiling music. Yet, more amazing still is when I'm caught up in it, I often forget I'm even listening to music at all, such is the total effect that I feel almost as though I've entered someone else's reality. Wagner’s final work is so powerful even just writing, thinking, or talking about it can put tears in my eyes and make my blood run just a bit faster.

Enthüllet den Gral! Öffnet den Schrein!

Stephen Fry: Wagner and Me

Somehow this film, approaching four years old, has evaded me until only a few days ago and I've now watched it twice. The BBC produced documentary finds Stephen Fry, an ardent fan of the music dramas of Richard Wagner, exploring Wagner's world while wrestling with his own Jewishness and the composer's anti-Semitism.

Fry's personality will always be a bit much for some (personally, I've always loved the guy) and he's prone towards a type of childish over-exuberance that puts some off, but he is sincere, earnest and (for folks like me) an engaging part of the film, making me recall my "falling in love with Wagner" experiences of my own youth. (The overture to Rienzi, then Parsifal - which I understood not a word of but nonetheless grabbed me by the heart and has never let go in the ensuing 40+ years.)

Fry gives short biographical analyses as he retraces some of Wagner's steps through Lake Lucerne, Geneva, St. Petersburg, and opens and closes the film at Bayreuth, first during rehearsals and ultimately entering the Festpielhaus for his first Bayreuth performance. In between he explores the music, speaking with Wagner scholars and historians, a Jewish cellist who survived Auschwitz, Valery Gergiev, a clearly irritated Eva Wagner (whose German coolness can barely tolerate Fry's exuberance), costumers, and others, (all too briefly), with each shedding their own light on the myriad aspects of Wagner's creative genius and his role within and without music.


His schoolboy enthusiasm may irritate some as in a constant of awe, he reveres a doorknob, Wagner's chair, boxes of wigs, costumes and props, but again, there is an earnestness here that I found endearing . . . and amusing.

The most satisfying musical "bit" explores Tristan und Isolde, as, with Fry, we wander into into the villa Wahnfried, catching Stefan Mickisch playing the snippets of the Liebesnacht and Liebestod on Wagner's own Steinway. whilst explaining the nature of a certain chord. (Guess!)  As Mickmisch plays, the scene intertwines with a live performance of Robert Dean Smith and Irene Theorin, looking more like Richard and Pat Nixon than the legendary Irish Princess and her consort. During the final pages of the Liebestod we weave back and forth between an ecstatic Fry and his pianist friend, and Theorin's Isolde, creating a magically, satisfying effect. For me, it's the best part of the film and a wonderful, almost cathartic moment.

Since watching I've had several discussions with friends who I was, frankly surprised by, as not only didn't they share my enthusiasm, or were moved as I was, but actually deplored the movie. There were complaints claiming it "too vapid" and how it didn't go deep enough into Wagner's life and creative process. I won no points by countering them with the fact the name of the film is Wagner and Me . . . not Wagner and You or . . . Exploring the Creative Genius of Richard Wagner, etc. It is an appropriately titled documentary of one man sharing his deeply personal journey, and as such, it succeeds marvelously.

If you like Stephen Fry and love Wagner (as I do), and haven't yet seen this, I give it a hearty and heartfelt recommendation. If you (as do many) find his outsized personality and brand of ego irritating, you may want to give it a pass, as several friends wished they had. For me? It's a winner.