Considering Kundry (Opera'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!

Netrebko as Anna: Can no one really touch her?

A lot of fuss is being made about Anna Netrebko's ability (or inability if you see it that way) to perform the title role in Donizetti's Anna Bolena. I've listened to the recordings and videos from the prima in Vienna and find her rather exciting, if not the last word (or even close) to real bel canto style.

Several friends have argued no one in the past - at least since Callas - can properly take on the role, and that "no one today" - or even in the last ten years can compete with Anna as Anna. I'd have to disagree.

Here is Carol Vaness, not a singer I (or anyone else) would typically associate with Donizetti, but here she is in an absolutely thrilling reading of "Coppia Iniqua":

www.youtube.com/watch?v=6oAokjH6uu8&feature=related

Two more Anna's who take the unwritten high note option at the end adding a degree of frisson to the proceedings:

First up, Mariella Devia who seems as if by the role possessed - wonderfully so:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1UfHMbPAqoA

And finally, a Netrebko contemporary, Elena Mosuc, who brings a Sills-like razzle dazzle to the role, and interpolates (wildly) some thrilling high notes and sends the crowd into a frenzy!

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kc1JIHE2caw&feature=related

So, in my opinion the notion that no one can touch Nebs is a faulty one. She's exciting but hardly the last word in the role.

Vishnevskaya;s Blazing, Bloody Tosca!

Oh where to begin with this set? Why not, with the diva herself? Vishnevskaya. Never the most purely technical of singers, there are moments when the voice sounds ready to implode upon itself – while other moments are full of rich, nuanced beauty. There are moments, too, when her very Russian accent dominates the sound, and yet few sopranos (Italian or otherwise) can put across Tosca's opening music with that necessary studied casualness and juicy sensuality that Puccini gives to this fascinating creature. Vishnevskaya's voice in 1976 is oh so fascinating - it's big, it’s small - she can scale back the sound, lighten high notes and phrase like an Italian knowing this music from birth. Listen the phrase in her first aria:

"Al tuo fianco sentire
per le silenziose
stellate ombre, salir
le voci delle cose!... "

I've heard numerous otherwise great Toscas massacre that magical phrase, altering vowel sounds in order to get that arpeggiated melody out by any means necessary. One can sometimes almost hear (and visualize) a soprano's facial contortions trying to put across this music that Puccini wants sung as light as air. Vishnevskaya? She nails it - the voice is fleet and liquid, capable of incorporating a lightness of sound - every note measured and weighted precisely and perfectly. When you hear this music sung as intended - just that one little phrase can cause your face to light up. Or at least, cause mine to!

Later, as the scene plays out between Tosca and Mario, Vishnevskaya turns a little ragged at the top - a bit of a wobble creeping in (not a wide one, but that unique slant often prevalent in Slavic female singers). What makes this “wobble” even odder is that, you begin to get used to it and – all of an instant – she’s switched gears and being pouring out this gorgeous liquidy wet sound (I’m reminded of her Swedish contemporary, Elisabeth Soderstrom). Vishnevskaya finishes the scene as though using the arsenal of an accomplished spoken actress more so than your typical opera diva. That is to say, her employment of a wide range of dynamics and voice coloring, is of the kind almost entirely unheard of in opera singing today. Additionally, she tosses off pianos and pianissimi that are just meltingly beautiful – simply ravishing and possibly the envy of more canary-like singers. I understand many opera fans want a more consistently warm and balanced sound, but, for me such a sound is NOT for Tosca. Almost more than any other diva vehicle, Puccini’s heroine allows for crazy, zany alterations and gradations of text painting, particularly when working with a sympathetic conductor. Fortunately for Vishnevskaya, she had that (and much more) in her husband, Mstislav Rostropovich. The work they put into this pays off in spades and Galina – a diva from her temples to her toenails, does Tosca proud.

I remember when this recording first appeared – it was considered “controversial” – but in restrospect – like the Callas 66 recording – it’s one of the most theatrical sounding recordings of Puccini’s potboiler – the audio range remarkably broad. This, too, may frustrate some listeners, but others will find that that broadness infinitely adds to a freshness to a melodrama that can sometimes feel arch and overfamiliar.

Rostropovich finds a mostly excellent band in the Orchestre National de France, and he coaxes them in a reading that is one of the richest sounding on recordings – (a friend and I used to joke “he out Karajan’s Karajan). This broadness of dynamics makes for particularly big fun in moments like Scarpia’s entrance, the cannons and chaos of the choirboy rehearsal and, ultimately, the Te Deum. Rostropovich explores the score mining it for nuances glossed over by more famous conductors of this work, and while some of his choices sound surprising to us today – unsettling even, he offers some of the most viscerally thrilling soundscapes one is likely to hear in this opera, and in some of the most surprising places. An example, take that little bundle of notes before Tosca utters “Dove son?” and then continues “Potessi coglierli, i traditori!” . . . it has NEVER been more etched in mystery, the winds adding eerily familiar yet utterly strangeness to the mix – an almost late 20th century minimalism quality affixed to it – but never letting go of its Puccini-ness, and Slava lets it build until Tosca’s shouted “Tu non l'avrai stasera. Giuro!” The Tosca/Scarpia exchange ends and what happens next is one of the greatest homages to Puccini’s masterpiece as I have ever heard. After the Tosca/Scarpia exchange ends explosively, Slava shapes the score as though he himself is composing it himself on the spot; each of the numerous motifs pours out, one bleeding directly into the next: love theme, Scarpia, the Sacristan chaos – it’s all in there. I don’t know of another conductor (not even Serafin, de Sabata and certainly NOT HvK) who creates so seamless a transition through these eight or so minute sequence - morphing directly into the Te Deum – it’s a positively dizzying swirl of sound, Scarpia, chorus, children, cannons, organ, bells . . . all winding down a single path to the gloriously explosive finale.
Matteo Manuguerra’s slightly fruity, edgy, twisted baritone pours his liquid sinew all over the place, but his “Va, Tosca!” is something special. No, it’s not the greatest of baritone voices, but the way he shades, his flawless understanding of the line makes him an unusually subtle (and thus, creepier than usual) Scarpia. His exchange with Mario in Act II is one of the more exciting on record. Like everything else, Mario’s exit music to the dungeon for this scene is milked for maximum drama. Like the Callas 66 set, there are special sound effects – as though this had been intended as a soundtrack. Also, like the Callas set, Vishnevskaya’s Act II high notes can strip the paint off a car, but you know what? You won’t care (or at least you shouldn’t!) Any subtleties Galina provided in Act I are here, thrown out the window as she lets loose spraying blood all over the place. It may not always be pretty, but it’ll sure as hell let you know what she’s all about.

While Franco Bonisolli never won a prize for subtlety (if he did, I’ll eat my hat), but in 1976 he could offer a visceral, impassioned and wildly over the top young painter with a penchant for and well matched to his Tosca’s. He lets his sound “break” during the fever pitched scene singing from the dungeon and ne’er has there been a more horrific male scream (though, blessedly muffled in the sound mix) before Tosca blurts out Angelotti’s hiding place.

From here on in we’re in for one long wild rollercoaster ride of nearly unrelieved depravity, treachery and high dudgeon from all three stars. While this kind of hell-for-leather take will definitely put some off, others (like me) will find it gloriously old-fashioned and exactly what is missing from too many Tosca’s today. As close to the brink of disaster as he lets it get, Slava knows when to reign it all back in and it’s a fucking thrill a minute here.

Vishnevskaya takes an almost naturalistic, prayerful approach to Vissi d’arte, Slava introducing a far brisker pace than most will be used to, but oh its works! This is all, or course, mere prelude to one of the most terrifying go’s at the murder ever, and an “E morto orgli perdono..." that could give Callas herself the shivers (and one of the just plain weirdest deliveries of “e evanti a lui . . . “ you’ll ever hear). The attention to detail Rostropovich pays here, the music almost disappearing into the floorboards of the stage, then rising, vapor like as if in a blood mist. It makes me wish all the more I could have experienced his Tosca in the theatre.

Bonisolli does nicely enough through “E lucevan la stelle” with a sort of old-fashioned declamation in the first half, then finishes it exactly as you might imagine: milking every last yelp and sob – the equivalent of silent movie eyes, and yes, it, too feels germane to these proceedings. Of course Slava (again!) rolls the postlude into a thrilling springboard for Tosca’s penultimate entrance in this show of shows. The lilting (almost Austrian sounding) upward sweeping glissandi during the scaffold scene as Tosca awaits her lover’s execution underscores the grand horror about to unfurl . . . and we wait with her – and then “e con Artista!” is screamed out with zeal, love, pride and abandon.

Yes, her soprano can be wild, uneven, almost crude at times – but there is no doubt that Vishnevskaya has thought about and fleshed this character out so meticulously that, I find myself coming back to it as often as I do the more famous versions by those Greek and Roman woman. It's that damn good!

La Stupenda on La Divina

I recently re-watched an interview of Joan Sutherland on Charlie Rose from several years back. I thought it pretty cute when Charlie asked "other than your own ... excluding your own, what other voice have you been enchanted by?"

"Flagstad. Tebaldi. Ummm... Callas." Charlie mentions he knows they worked together early in her carrer and asks what Callas was like to work with. Sutherland described Callas as “humble, very humble very sweet, very helpful, a worker - my goodness.”

"But, brilliant as an actress too?" asks Charlie.

Uh oh. Dame Joan gave her shoulders a nervous shrug, her eyebrows raised up
her to the top of forehead escaping worms. She remained silent – almost as though couldn’t believe the question had been asked. She issued forth more physical ticks - neck stretches, swang her head from shoulder to shoulder before responding with a long "ummmmmm.... in some cases.” Charlie was leaning in now. “ [acting] it was a bit hammy [loud, deep chuckle] but it ... it ... it told -- it ... it ... it was always full of a . . .
certain expression, yes.”

So from Miss Sutherland we now get a portrait of Callas as an enchanting singer, a kind, sweet, helpful woman . . . but a hammy actress. Wow!