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Opera Today, 28 May 2016 |
Mark Berry |
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Wagner: Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg, Bayerische Staatsoper, 22. Mai 2016 |
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Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg, Munich
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Die Meistersinger at the theatre in which it was premiered, on Wagner’s birthday: an inviting prospect by any standards, still more so given the director, conductor, and cast, still more so given the opportunity to see three different productions within little more than a couple of months). |
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Glyndebourne would come only four days later; my principal point of —
inevitable — comparison would therefore be with Stefan Herheim’s staging,
first seen in Salzburg, but later (this March) in Paris. Herheim’s
production is, unsurprisingly, one for the ages. I have no doubt that it
will reveal more upon every subsequent encounter. It comes, perhaps, closer
to Wagner’s reconciliations. However, any good Adornian — is there such a
thing? Are we not, necessarily, all at best bad Adornians? — will warn you
of the dangers of such positive Hegelianisms. David Bösch’s staging
gradually reveals itself to be quite the necessary negative indictment, with
respect above all to two particular (related) aspects of the work: violence
and gender. If less all-encompassing than Herheim’s staging — what is not? —
then it lays claim to be the first Meistersinger production in my experience
to address the work from a feminist standpoint. It also arguably offers the
most intriguing treatment — I shall not say ‘solution’, for surely there is
none — to the ‘Beckmesser problem’. Katharina Wagner’s notorious Bayreuth
staging might have given it a run for its money, had only the competence of
her craft matched the provocative thinking of her dramaturge, Robert
Sollich. Above all, though, this proved to be great musical drama: everyone
committed to something far greater than the sum of its parts, and that
includes ‘parts’ such as Jonas Kaufmann and Kirill Petrenko.
Let us
start, however, with Bösch’s staging, with excellent designs by Patrick
Bannwart and Meentje Nielsen. We are in the 1950s. What could be more apt?
And no, I am not being sarcastic. This is a work concerned with
reconstruction, set in a city which, more than most, has had to be concerned
with reconstruction. Wagner, I suppose I should reiterate for the nth time,
was in no sense concerned to present a historical Nuremberg; the
ever-present — well, nearly — spirit of Bach makes that abundantly clear.
And did not the 1950s see ‘New Bayreuth’, in particularly Wieland Wagner’s
Meistersinger ohne Nürnberg? As John Deathridge once acidly commented, when
Wieland spoke of “the clearing away of old lumber” (Entrümpelung), … [he
produced] stage pictures bereft of their “reactionary” ethos — and, as
sceptics were prone to add, most of their content as well.’ Indeed, and if
many in the audience had more to hide even than Wieland, he had his own
reasons too. The relationship between provincialism and the dreadful
reconstructionalism of the 1950s is complicated yet undeniable. Lest we
forget, 1955 was the year in which the West German Army was (re)founded,
denying its origins in what had gone before; this was also the period of
increasingly prevalent terraced dynamics and sewing-machine geometries of
Bach performances by minor German chamber orchestras, performances that
would soon metamorphose into ‘authenticke’ claims, deluded and cynically
deluding, to ‘restore’ Baroque practice. ‘They say Bach, [but] mean
Telemann,’ as Adorno unforgettably put it. Wagner meant — and means Bach,
and vice versa. There is nastiness as well as homeliness in provincialism;
Bösch draws out the former, in a useful corrective to the norm.
What
might seem a nostalgia for the period and its ‘popular culture’ — similarly
in Bösch’s Munich L’Orfeo — is revealed to be far more complicated than
that. For one thing, what does ‘popular culture’ mean? Such is a problem at
the heart of the opera, at the heart of relationships between the Masters
and the populace, and Sachs’s suggestion of testing the rules. And such has
arguably become still more so given the rise of what some of us are
old-fashioned enough still to regard with, the Frankfurt School, as the
Culture Industry. If resistance is to come, it will be more likely to come
from Helmut Lachenmann than from the world of commercial music, successfully
masquerading as ‘of the people’. And so, when microphones and various other
paraphernalia of the recording industry — ‘Classical’ in the deadly
marketing-speak of that world, then as well as now — are put in place, we
sense, amongst many other things, an act of domination such has been
inflicted upon works by Bach, now more or less unperformable, and upon every
other aspect of our ‘administered’ world and lives. Although the
Personenregie of Bösch’s staging is always detailed, interesting, telling,
it is only — as in the work itself — towards the end of the third act, in
the Singschule, that things come closer into conceptual focus. It is, as
always in the bourgeois state, with violence that that is accomplished.
David has already, most intriguingly, seemed a nastier, vainer, and yes,
more interesting character than usual, with the strong implication that his
penchant for small-scale violent behaviour is owed in part not only to his
provincialism but also to his inability truly to create. Walther has tried
to defend David when the apprentices, at the beginning of the scene,
attacked him, but he will have none of it; outsiders are not to be welcomed,
perhaps not even for Magdalene’s sake. Will David prove a second Beckmesser?
We shall see; it is, at least at this stage, the first Beckmesser who
provides the shock — literally.
The electric shocks administered to
Walther, forcibly restrained in his chair, by the Marker are the work of
what Gudrun Esslin would soon call the Auschwitz generation; and as Ennslin
went on, there is of course no arguing with them. That, despite, or perhaps
because, of Beckmesser’s — and Pogner’s — relative attractiveness (relative
to how we usually see them, and indeed to the definitely older-school
Kothner). Who, after all, has not occasionally found something of attraction
in the discipline of fascism, especially when (s)he has been emboldened by
readily available bottles of Meisterbräu? Guilds had never been as stable as
nostalgia suggested; that is surely part of Wagner’s meaning here. But Bösch
brings already-existing divisions to the foreground. Some Masters look —
costumes crucial here — and act with greater modernity, or at least in
greater fashion than others. If the Guild is keeping things together — and
such, of course, was the crux of nineteenth-century Romantic and Hegelian
defences in the face of liberal attacks upon them — then it is not clear
whether it will succeed for much longer. ‘Reconstruction’ tends to incite —
as any Stolzing, Ensslin, or Lachenmann would tell you.
Sachs’s van —
‘Sachs’ says the neon, definitely not of Fifth Avenue — captures our
attention at the beginning of the second act. There is no doubt that the
mise-en-scene is of a grimmer 1950s: doubtless necessary in some ways given
the cost of war, but this is not a suburb of joy. It is not the Munich we
see in the second Heimat; nor is it the Nuremberg the tourist will see. But
it is there. Beckmesser’s virtuosity comes to the fore. He is not a fraud,
although he may be unimaginative; he has craft, even if he does not have
art; he is, moreover, certainly not a mere figure of fun. His piccolo guitar
to Walther’s full-size version invites a number of reflections. Yet his song
works, in its way: perhaps of another age, another age that most likely
never was, but such is reconstruction. Eva seems even more girlish than
usual, almost Barbie-like; I asked myself whether we should ever see a
feminist production that would address the monstrous nature of her
treatment. The violence of the Prügel-Fuge’s staging eclipses any I have
seen. Too often, we forget that there is real violence involved. (Perhaps
Wagner did so too; if so, he stands as much in need of correction as anyone
else.) Here, David’s deeds with baseball bat mark him out as every inch the
neo-fascist; Pegida would welcome him with open arms. We then begin to
wonder: what will the guild become in the hands of his generation. Is Sachs
the last hope, rather than the harbinger? Likewise, how will Walther turn
out? For ever Tariq Ali, think how many Blairs, or would-be-Blairs there
have been. At the close, the Night Watchman (in modern policeman’s garb) is
dealt with by the remaining small gang of young townsfolk. They take him
back to his car and send him on his way, but it is made clear that he has no
choice; this is their manor. Crossing themselves beforehand, they have
mimicked the (deliberately?) incongruous procession at the opening; they
know how to use traditional forms when it serves their purpose. The final
punishment beating takes place as the curtain — and one of the thugs’
baseball bats — falls.
‘Sachs’ has lost its first and almost its
second ‘s’ when we catch up, the morning after the night before. Make of
that what you will. Walther has spent his night in the van. Beckmesser, when
he hobbles back, is suicidal — quite understandably. It is discovery of the
poem that turns his mood (just enough) around. Sachs is not the only one so
to suffer, although Beckmesser would never have the imagination, nor the
understanding, to come up with the Wahn monologue. Still, the ubiquity of
Wahn is more than usually, atmospherically present. Yes, as Michael Tanner
has pointed out, the work is about ‘coping’; and coping is difficult in a
world such as this, which is one reason why we indulge in deluded and
deluding reconstruction in the first place. Walther is too young, too callow
really to understand; he and Eva are unable to keep their hands off each
other, on top of the van, as Sachs confronts a further bout of depression.
The violence of Wolfgang Koch’s — and the Bavarian State Orchestra’s —
outburst here, the former occasionally edging towards Sprechgesang, even
towards Schoenberg’s Gurrelieder , was especially telling, and complemented,
extended the production memorably, indeed frighteningly. But Walther
eventually appreciates his selfishness, and comes down to help: a touching
moment, especially in light of such darkness all around.
Let us leave
the staging as some would doubtless like the work to be left, before the
Festwiese. Unlike them, those who misunderstand the Quintet and do not
appreciate that its moment of ‘beauty’ is quite deliberately foreshortened,
we shall return, but I should rather deal with Bösch’s final scene at the
end. (Think of this, perhaps, as a rupture to the account of the staging,
just as Peter Konwitschny once ruptured the aura of this allegedly
problematical scene, in order, controversially, to put it mildly, to deal
with the allegations, most of them unfounded.)
I have never heard the
work conducted better ‘live’ than by Kirill Petrenko. I was less convinced
by his Bayreuth Ring performances than many were; perhaps I did not hear him
at his best. This, however, was Wagner conducting — in a work in which I
have heard evenDaniel Barenboim and Daniele Gatti struggle to reach their
highest standards — to speak of in the same breath as that of Bernard
Haitink (my first). Petrenko’s command of the Wagnerian melos, assisted by,
indeed expressed in, the outstanding playing of the Bavarian State
Orchestra, was outstanding at every level. There was no doubting the overall
structure, but that structure was formed by the needs of the moment, by the
Schoenbergian working-out of the material, rather than imposed, Alfred
Lorenz-like, upon it. This was not a David; this was a young Sachs. He
could, indeed, hold back or press on when the singer seemed to be suggesting
it, playing the orchestra like his own piano, albeit without the slightest
hint of shallow virtuosity, for this was no Beckmesser either. But it would
not jar; indeed, performance and work seemed to form one another, which, in
this of all works, is surely the point. The orchestra had nothing to fear
from the most exalted of comparisons; rather, those with whom it might have
been compared, should fear them. Likewise the chorus, whether in terms of
vocal heft and colour, of clarity of line, or of stage movement. The
dialectic between individual and society (and changing conceptions thereof)
was brought vividly to life here and elsewhere.
I took a little while
to settle down to Koch’s Hans Sachs. That is partly personal, I think; to my
ears — and indeed to my eyes — he somehow seems more to be an Alberich. That
I found disconcerting, but it was my problem, really. There was no doubting
the intelligence of his portrayal, and in the third act, my reservations
evaporated. Here, there seemed to be a perfect marriage of Wort and Ton, of
Oper and Drama. (And yes, I know that is not quite what Wagner meant in the
latter case, but it is considerably closer than it might initially seem.) He
took us through Sachs’s struggles, and took us through some more. There was
no false reconciliation of ‘mere’ geniality, although manipulation of Wahn
might prescribe it, successfully or otherwise, if as a palliative rather
than as a cure.
Kaufmann’s Walther avoided the drawback of his first
performance in the role (I think), in concert at the 2006 Edinburgh
Festival. There, it was an astonishing performance, in which Kaufmann tired
a little towards the end. Here, he was perhaps less golden of vocal tone,
more baritonal, but that is an observation rather than an æsthetic
judgement. There was no problem whatsoever with his pacing. And my goodness,
he could act! The puppyish enthusiasm of the first acts, the inspiration
Walther drew from Eva, whilst showing off to her, not unlike a tennis player
at Wimbledon with his girlfriend in the crowd, the mixture of enforced,
societal chivalry and the arousal of deeper, or at least more primal, urges:
those and many more acutely observed moments denied the manufactured
boundary between ‘musical performance’ and ‘acting’. If we are to talk of
‘Wagner’s intentions’, let it be in that manner.
Benjamin Bruns had a
difficult time of it. This, after all, was anything but the typical David,
but Bruns had us believe in the ‘new’ — or should that be ‘restored’ —
character, his impotent (often, at least) rage as chilling as the ‘purely’
vocal delivery was thoughtful and indeed often beautiful. Sara Jakubiak
really took to the demands of her role (on which more below). Visually and
vocally striking, this was an Eva both at home in and estranged from her
Nuremberg. Okka von der Damerau’s Magdalene brought a deeper, luxuriant
vocal colour to the stage, again with clear ‘dramatic’ as well as vocal
commitment. Tareq Nazmi’s Night Watchman was deep and dark of tone: just
what the doctor has always ordered.
Of the other Masters, Christof
Fischesser was definitely first among equals: handsomely, even suavely sung,
a Pogner of ambition in which he was likely to succeed, rather than someone
entering his twilight years. Kothner was played movingly by Eike Wilm
Schulte, with the relative stiffness of his delivery, particularly striking
in the first act, a move to distinguish this ‘old-school’ Master from the
next generation(s). Markus Eiche’s Beckmesser was of the first class: more
plausible a suitor than most, intelligently, often beautifully, sung, with a
fine marriage of dignity and, increasingly, desperation.
Back, then,
to the Festwiese. Who owns the guild, or at least its products? A
corporation, albeit in the modern rather than the archaic sense:
Pognervision. Privilege, be it of class, of gender, of other varieties, is
always likely to emerge victorious. The early televisual variety show we see
might seem ‘popular’ but it is deeply — and indeed shallowly — manipulative.
(Admittedly, Bösch has nothing on ‘real life’, in this country at least,
Tory Culture Secretary Jeremy Hunt appointing his friend, the creator of Big
Brother, Peter Bazalgette, to chair the Arts Council, etc.) Falko Herold’s
video work provides ‘titles’ for each Master (‘individual’ or styled to be
corporate?) as he enters the scene, just ‘like on the television’. There is,
of course, something for all the family — within strict limits. David and
his camp dancers suggest what the real view of ‘deviance’ is: perhaps it
will be tolerated as a harmless joke, but as for any serious attack on
patriarchy… David is not in on the joke, anyway, and his humiliated by them:
again, a proto-Beckmesser. When forced (‘peer pressure’ is like that) to
drink too many shots, to prove his ‘real’ masculinity, he falls paralytic,
unable to perform his functions (doubtless in any sense).
The cruelty
meted out to Beckmesser will be even worse - although we should remember,
and we are reminded, that he too would essentially buy Eva, our bartered
bride, and he makes clear his desire to possess her, even against her will,
so is no 'victim' at all in that crucial sense. Bedecked in gaudy ‘variety’
gold, in which he is clearly anything but comfortable, Beckmesser has been
set up to fail. ‘Entertainment’ is the name of the game, and we are reminded
of the cruelty of a work in which the comedy, in the common sense at least,
is within, is of characters laughing at another; it is comedy, then, at
which we should feel uncomfortable, and we do. Eva, who has learned a great
deal during the course of the work, is increasingly disgusted by what she
sees. Kothner is ‘marketed’ as celebrating his fiftieth year in office; even
a ‘tribute’, indeed perhaps especially a tribute, must bear the ‘ratings’ in
mind. (The relative stiffness of his delivery in the first act, via-à-vis
that of Pogner and Beckmesser, thus falls into greater relief.) When Eva
thinks that Sachs has fallen in with her father’s sell-off — for surely this
‘show’, with related ‘philanthropy’, is as much for business as anything
else — she cannot bear to look at him any more. Whilst the crowd,
manipulated by the ‘event’, sings his praises, she not only turns away; from
her balcony, she haplessly throws the contents of her glass in his
direction. No one notices; on stage, that is, for we do.
Yet Sachs is
wiser than most, as we have always known. He realises that all has gone awry
at the moment when most — whether on stage or in the typical audience —
think it has been resolved. Has Walther joined the guild? It is not clear
(deliberately so, I presume). In a more fundamental sense, however, Sachs is
deeply troubled rather than triumphant. Beckmesser returns. Out of
desperation, he tries to shoot dead the presumed author of his misfortunes,
but falls before being able to carry out his punishment. The idea, we
presume, was to let the poison, or whatever it was, do its work following
the shooting. That may or may not be metaphorical. Of course, it does not
work out as intended. It never did for Beckmesser; it never does for
reconstruction. Well, not unless you are Wagner — or Herheim, and then you
acknowledge that it is not what most people think it is. And even then…
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