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I was no less fascinated than any writer by the troops of rats Hans
Neuenfels mustered for his production of Lohengrin, which premiered last
year (2010). It isn't fair or even intelligent to focus on the most obvious
twist in Neuenfels' vision of Wagner's first grail opera, but Neuenfels
turned the rodents loose on us as bait, and in the world of theater, it is
only right to jump on it with all the alacrity of one of the rats, when he
or she sniffs some appetizingly ripe garbage—or bacon, as Herr Neuenfels has
said. And I don't mention this to demean the rats, Neuenfels clearly did not
intend them as red herrings, but as an intellectually nutritious and tasty
Vorspeise.
In his perceptive and engaging review of Francesca
Zambello's San Francisco Ring David Dunn Bauer described Schenk and
Schneider-Siemssen's now retired Ring at the Metropolitan Opera as a
"Classics Illustrated" visualization of the Ring. One could equally describe
the Seattle Ring in the same terms, which doesn't make me any less fond of
it. It didn't take the world long to see the ridiculous in Wagner's shaggy
dwarves and helmeted Valkyries. Long before Classics Illustrated there were
Liebig's Meat-Extract cards, spreading operatic culture wherever in the
world beef broth is prized. Along with the the visual stereotype, there
comes the musical purple passage, the extract (Excuse me!) from the score
which has stuck in the public's mind above all else. In the Ring it is the
"Ride of the Valkyries." In Lohengrin it is the chorus "Treulich geführt,"
ubiquitously watered down to the thinnest of musical Rumfordsuppen at
countless marriage ceremonies. The image of Elsa of Brabant in her medieval
garb and the staid knight in his armor inspires cynical curls of the lip as
much in the opera house as among connoisseurs of Liebig cards. A traditional
staging is a more fearsome obstacle to comprehension in Lohengrin than it is
in the Ring.
Lohengrin, as a literary work, is especially
fascinating. In performance, the opera can come across as a simple love
story with supernatural overtones, Wagner's text is dense with language and
backstory, the sad story of Elsa, who loses the otherworldly knight who
saved her life through a trial in combat with her accuser, because she
cannot restrain her curiosity, is only the foreground of more complex events
which concern entire peoples. The Met used to perform a version that was a
good half hour shorter than the average performance today—cuts that favored
the love story. There is no reason to think that attitudes among audiences
were much different in Europe. Lohengrin became Wagner's most popular opera
in the nineteenth century on its romantic appeal. Between drastic excisions
and dramaturgical and interpretive distortions that quickly became
performance tradition, Lohengrin by 1860 was no longer the work Liszt
conducted at Weimar in 1850. Hence the importance of Ludwig II's 1867
revival of the 1858 Munich production, in which Wagner himself participated.
Although the performance was intended as a corrective, not everything met
his approval. Yet it became a model for other productions, until the
"authentic" 1894 premiere at Bayreuth. Notably, the set design shifted the
period of the action from the tenth century to the High Middle Ages, a
reflection, it is thought, of changes in Wagner's ideology and his
accommodation to Ludwig's tastes, which undermined the political focal point
of opera, the figure of Heinrich der Vogelsteller, King of the Saxons.
There are two other, equally significant focal points in Lohengrin.
First, the mythological character of the story. Wagner first became aware of
the Lohengrin story in Paris in 1841-2. He developed his conception, reading
the medieval poem, while on a cure at Marienbad in 1845. In the process he
became especially excited by the prospect of creating a pure myth, a simple
symbolic tale of the people, for the stage. Secondly, there was the thought
of Ludwig Feuerbach, whose concept of pure, unconditional love, which Wagner
saw as the antithesis of materialistic greed and lust for power. It was this
progressive Hegelian stream which fleshed out the relationship between Elsa
and Lohengrin and linked it to its social surroundings: the Hungarian threat
to the Germans, the leadership of King Heinrich, the political instability
of Brabant, and the machinations of Ortrud and Telramund. Heinrich himself,
the third point, was regarded as a powerful, forward-looking leader, a
precursor of the foundation of the German Empire, and a striking contrast to
the despised Prussian King Friedrich Wilhelm IV, the romantic monarch, who
believed in a restoration of the medieval state under Hapsburg rule, with
the Prussians as the military arm of the Empire, and after a brief
flirtation with liberalization, showed himself as the true reactionary he
was. These three ideas came together in the years leading up to the March
Revolution of 1848, when Wagner's liberal position was to force him into an
exile of many years' duration. Even at the Weimar premiere in 1850, Liszt,
who was in charge, was more capable of realizing Lohengrin's musical
qualities than its philosophical content. As Lohengrin's popularity grew in
subsequent years, Wagner's intentions evaporated, not that they had ever
been present in the public mind, and they first element, the mythological,
was the only one to survive in any form at all, as a romantic myth of
impossible love. Without its Feuerbachian underpinnings, the love story
quickly degenerated into the sentimental drivel that made it the most
beloved of Wagner's works for generations. By 1868 Wagner seemed to have
lost interest in correcting the public understanding of the work. The
political issues of the Vormärz were old hat by then. In the 1890's the
orthodoxy of Cosima's Bayreuth, represented most prominently by Houston
Stewart Chamberlain, eagerly sought to repress notions of Wagner's
dependence on the ideas of others, especially the liberal, Feuerbach, who
was considered by many to be hopelessly out of date. Later, Hitler was to
identify himself with Lohengrin, and King Heinrich was seen in a
propagandistic light as well.
These are only a few of the ways one
might consider Lohengrin. They are familiar in the literature and relate
directly to issues that concerned Wagner while he was at work on the
subject, the libretto, and the music. This historical background is no
longer very fashionable, but it tells you something about what Wagner was
thinking in his praeternaturally complex life. I won't attempt to relate it
closely to Neuenfels' interpretation, but the connections should be clear
enough, if only intermittent.
In Lohengrin's heyday before the Second
World War, the mysterious knight and his swan boat, and Elsa and her
seemingly fatuous, easily manipulated curiosity flourished as beloved
absurdities. While many opera-goers considered Elsa to be the stupidest of
Wagner's heroines, she was decorative, aristocratic, and pure. After the
war, Lohengrin lost much of its old popularity. Those who were braced by
Wolfgang and Wieland Wagner's productions at Bayreuth were lucky. The
traditional imagery had become hard for the more vocal audience members to
live with. The Robert Wilson production at the Met, which replaced the quite
serviceable traditional production by August Everding, eliminated almost all
visual details in favor of Wilson's standard metaphysical murk. Lohengrin's
swan was reduced to a disembodied wing. I saw it twice and tried to be
open-minded, but the fact remained that my imagination was working overtime
filling in the missing color, movement, and pageantry, so vividly evoked by
the music. A concert performance would have been more satisfying...and less
harmful to the singers. Our re-imagining of this crucial work in Wagner's
career is an ongoing process which has reached no stable plateau. Lohengrin
continues to challenge audiences, stage directors, and designers.
Enter Neuenfels. Hans Neuenfels, now seventy, is a man of many-sided
creativity. He has been producing plays and operas, and writing fiction and
poetry, since his twenties, and has attracted a reputation as one of the
fathers of Regietheater, which is enough to damn him in the minds of many.
It is clear that, for him, stage production is creative work, rather than
re-creative, and an integral part of his oeuvre. Neuenfels is also a highly
literate gentleman, who is entirely willing and able to take a work like
Lohengrin seriously, both as an artefact of German culture and as a potent
creation in itself. The problem with Regieoper is that many of followers of
the pioneers, like Herr Neuenfels, are neither educationally prepared to
work with classic texts or patient enough to do the necessary homework.
Their working method is quasi-improvisational, and the productions are
often, so it seems, dashed off in between flights around the globe. Whatever
one thinks of the result, that is not the way things are done at Bayreuth,
nor is this kind of Schlamperei congenial to Neuenfels. Clearly a great deal
of thought and preparation went into his Lohengrin, and his work—along with
Reinhard von der Thannen's sets and costumes—were nothing if not elegant.
The epicurean elements of opera, lamented by Bertolt Brecht, if realized on
a high level, can go a long way in ensuring the success of an otherwise
debatable production—a principle the Wagner sisters seem to understand very
well.
Neuenfels faced the double task of dealing with the clichés of
Lohengrin—as well as with the unfortunate political baggage that seems to
weigh more, rather than less, on German theater, as the Third Reich recedes
into history—and of creating a compelling modern vision of the classic. The
reception of a classic work is sufficiently problematic in itself in
Germany, and many directors will find some way to distance their audiences
from works which have populated state-funded stages for scores, if not
hundreds, of years. Neuenfels has resorted to shock devices in the past,
details which upset our everyday notions of religious and sexual behavior,
for example, but he avoided that in Lohengrin. (This production is in fact
his Bayreuth debut.) The extent of the shock is the transformation of
Brabantian citizens and knights into laboratory rats, brilliantly realized
with a combination of elegance, metaphor, and creepy detail by von der
Thannen. The ratty elements undergo various transformations, as the
creatures shift from rodentine form to human and back again. It takes a
burlesque form in the kitschy parodies of 1950s party dresses worn by the
females in the bridal scene. And the discreet bit of sexuality which emerges
when the males stroke the females' tails is hardly bland. It is really in
the wedding scene that we experience the rattiness and tackiness of the
costumes most as a Brechtian Verfremdungseffekt. The audience had its
customary awkward giggle at the chorus "treulich geführt...," but Neuenfels
added further depth and bite in his troubling irony.
The first thing
we see during the First Act Vorspiel, is the at first shadowy, later
entirely present Lohengrin and his yearning to break through into the
material world. Instead of angelic hosts bearing the grail, as Wagner
described in his program note, we observe Lohengrin haunting the glass doors
that separate his world from ours, touching the boundary physically, as he
tries to push through. This Lohengrin is possessed by a desire to know the
lower world inhabited by King Heinrich, Elsa, Ortrud, and Telramund in all
its aspects, including the sexual, we learn later. This almost fallen
Lohengrin was most effectively embodied by the scruffy superstar tenor,
Jonas Kauffmann, partly by his virile, but somewhat hangdog appearance, but
also by the way he projected the pain experienced by a lighter being who
discovers the weight of the knowledge he has sought, as he acquires it.
At the beginning of the first act, we find an ailing, even unsure König
Heinrich, appearing before the people of Antwerp to call them to join in the
defence against the Hungarian invaders. The rats appear, black ones, as
rather sinister guards, followed by a more benign white variety. When Elsa
appears as the accused, many arrows protrude from her torso, as if she were
a female Saint Sebastian—fully clothed, however, in a somewhat military
double-breasted coat, reflecting the authority of her station in Brabant.
She can sit and speak, but, as she threatened by the bows and arrows of the
black guard-rodents, she collapses. Lohengrin, when he appears, can remove
the arrows and start her back to recovery, but she remains traumatized,
morally as well as physically weakened. During Telramund's false accusations
of Elsa, a screen drops down, and we are shown the first of three short
educational films, "Wahrheit I," ("Truth I"), followed later "Wahrheit II"
and "Wahrheit III." In these impeccably produced animations, telling the
story of the struggle of white and grey rats for predominance and their
leaders' hunger for power, Neuenfels reaches for the Brechtian
Verfremdungseffekt, with sophisticated treatment and trenchant
communication. The refined sarcasm of the scenes and the un-Brechtian
"culinary" quality of their refinement carried the day.
In the Act I,
as throughout the other two acts, the rat-concept undergoes many
transformations. They have opportunities of doff their costumes and to
appear in humanoid form. At times they appear fully human, and other times
their massive tails betray them. (One poor lady rat lost hers during the
wedding festivities in Act III. She calmly stuck it back where it belonged.)
Still the basic guise in which we remember them is as laboratory rats
confined to their cages. Is it that Lohengrin's appearance inspires a
situation of political and social experimentation, much like the many
conservative, bourgeois, and radical models which proliferated in the 1840s,
when Wagner was creating Lohengrin, while taking an active part in the
political struggles, as they were concentrated in Saxony. (His
responsibilities as director of the Dresden Opera would have made it
impossible for him to remain neutral, even if he had wanted to.) Lohengrin's
inspiring purity, which, if understood at a basic, textual level, touched
off a powerfully superstitious reaction among a people very much inclined to
it, whether pagan or Christian. Whatever utopian tendencies develop from
their perception of the mysterious knight are doomed to failure, like
Lohengrin's quest for unquestioning total love. The experimental laboratory
conditions seem to exist only for their own sake; the sterile conditions
never lead to any real progress, however appealing the lady rats may seem in
their brightly colored frocks. In retrospect, it is hard not to think of Dr.
Moreau and his island.
From the interviews he has conducted,
Neuenfels has shown that he is primarily interested in Wagner's characters
and their interrelationships in concrete human terms. Rehearsals are said to
be an intense process under him. This makes the concepts behind the action
all the more vivid and lively to him. In the interview published in the
Festival program, when Reinhard von der Thannen stresses love as Wagner's
leading concept, Neuenfels' animatedly responds with others: "power,
scepticism, doubt, faith, trust!...it is a matter of identity: who am I?
What leads us humans towards one another? Musical drama as magical
experiment."
In Act II, Ortrud and Telramund conduct their tête à
tête by the carcass of a horse, which seems to have expired while pulling
its carriage...a metaphor for the state of their enterprise? For everyone,
if they succeed? Rats aren't the only animals in this show, not to mention
the swan, which appears in life, on a litter, as if prepared for a feast,
and devoured to the bone. In the interchange between them, one could grasp
the full power of Neuenfels' work with actors, as they torment one another
in extreme and violent attitudes. For example, last year Evelyn Herlitzius
and Hans-Joachim Ketelsen brought a fierce edge to their scene in Act II.
Lohengrin and Elsa behave rather better in the Bridal Chamber Scene,
although the result of their interaction is no less disastrous. Like the
laboratory, the bedchamber is blazing white and equally antiseptic in the
coolness of von der Thannen's spare design, inspired by Art Deco. It has
been clear that a large part of Lohengrin's desire to enter the world is his
yearning for sex, and his profound love for Elsa no less. Neuenfels treats
the scene as a painful failed attempt at seduction. Elsa's compulsion to ask
the forbidden question is not just the product of doubt and curiosity for
its own sake, stimulated of course by Ortrud, but a ploy to keep putting off
their lovemaking. Lohengrin's tender words are accompanied by physical
gestures attempting to relax and stimulate his reluctant bride. One can
perhaps understand that, after being filled full of arrows, she might suffer
from a certain avoidance of the physical. The scene moves steadily and
inexorably through their give and take to its tragic conclusion—a marvel of
pace and structure. This was by far the most convincing and moving treatment
of this scene, leaving one to wonder why nobody ever quite got it before, at
least in my own experience.
The concluding scene was moving, both in
its personal tragedy and in the swings of pubic mood, marred only by the
usual Bayreuth cuts, which Herr Neuenfels says in the program book interview
is due to the touchy subject of nationalism. It is worth quoting what he
says: "Since we Germans are always afraid of being taken for fascists, when
we testify about ourselves among one another, we shouldn't be afraid of
Wagner. On the contrary, he is our catalyst: he doubles these anxieties.
With Wagner we approach the German critically at the closest range. His work
is a magnificent encyclopaedia about Germany and the German. Except for him,
no one else has achieved that in opera." (author's translation) Where else
can a German examine him or herself so critically as at Bayreuth? This is a
place for honesty, not self display or mere entertainment. In any case,
there should be no cuts at Bayreuth, above all ones that avoid embarrassing
truths.
Andris Nelsons' work in the pit was revelatory. He not only
captured the brilliant, other-worldly sonorities of the score and their
shifting layers of color, he gave the melodic lines a more moulded,
sculptural shape than is usual, as well as a powerful sense of pace and a
solid foundation. His sense of the overall structure of the opera was
especially compelling. If Gatti's Parsifal were not as great as it is, it
would be easy to say that Nelsons was the most brilliant and insightful
conductor of 2010, but they must share the honor. Wagner's extraordinary
writing for strings and winds could not have been played more beautifully or
eloquently, and this Lohengrin was perhaps the best chance of all simply to
admire the superb musicianship of the Festival Orchestra.
While this
is essentially a review of the inaugural Lohengrin of 2010, it is also
intended as a preview for this year's production, which has a substantially
different cast. Only Annette Dasch (Elsa), Georg Zeppenfeld (König
Heinrich), and Samuel Youn (Der Herrufer) remain the same. Dasch sang Elsa
with impeccable phrasing and production. She maintained the beautiful line
and and tone one usually expects in Elsa, and her voice, both bright and
full, was to be savoured in its own right. It was a capable vehicle for
giving her melodies more shape and character than we often hear, and her
acting was consistently credible. She displayed most poignantly the
semi-confusion of a traumatized person prone to mystical revelations, rather
than a critical examination of falsehoods forced on her with skill and
passion. George Zeppenfeld' s handsome, nuanced baritone served him well in
his portrayal of an unusually complex King Heinrich, and Samuel Youn, who
had a triumphant season last summer, with his fearsome Hunding and his
magnificent Gurnemanz, used his larger-than-life qualities in the smaller
part of the Herrufer.
Last year, Bayreuth and Herr Neuenfels
had a treasure in Jonas Kauffmann, who is the rare kind of superstar who
lives entirely up to his reputation. He used his shadowy good looks and
stunning dark tenor to create a many-sided Lohengrin, who was entirely
human, aware of his lack of certain human joys and pains at Monsalvat, and
vulnerable in his tangles with the ordinary world. His strong pointed
phrasing and varied color are unique in Lohengrin and were most poignant in
effect. Klaus Florian Vogt, a superb singer and a vivid actor who
sang a splendid Walther in Die Meistersinger last summer, has a brighter
voice (still supported by an interestingly robust lower range, which
manifests itself as a sort of chiaroscuro in the tone) and will most likely
produce a more conventional sound in Lohengrin, but he is an interesting and
imaginative actor, and there are likely to be some interesting surprises.
The 2010 production had a exceptional Ortrud and Telramund in Evelyn
Herlitzius and Hans-Joachim Ketelsen, whose attractive and colorful
bass-baritone made for a highly emotive Telramund who was always well-sung.
Personally, I am a great of admirer of Herlitzius as both a singer and an
actress, and her portrayal Ortrud was exceptional for its fiery intensity
and detail of characterization. It was excellent as singing as well, but
Evelyn Herlitzius is a soprano, and I missed the dark chest tones of a true
mezzo in the role. This year a mezzo will be taking over, Petra Lang, who is
renowned in opera houses, festivals, and recital halls in Europe and North
America. I remember her above all for her magnificent Cassandre in Sir Colin
Davis' recorded concert performance of Berlioz' Les Troyens. She has sung
Ortrud often, and there should be much to look forward to in her
performance. The distinguished Icelandic Heldenbariton, Tómas Tómasson, will
sing Telramund, again an impressive addition to the cast.
With the
Festival Orchestra and Chorus in the superb condition they are in, the
outstanding roster of conductors, and superb casts that have been assembled,
Bayreuth is clearly in top form. With this to support it, they can afford
some experiments in Regieoper, especially such absorbing and stimulating
ones as Lohengrin, Parsifal, and Meistersinger. On the other hand, recalling
that 1894 Lohengrin at a Bayreuth, it might be a healthy exercise if some
scholarly looks back to Richard Wagner's production notes, created a
meticulously authentic production of one of the music dramas, and then
worked with it to create productions which were true to Wagner's dramaturgy,
but alive and relevant to our own times. Say just one production at a time.
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