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Opera Now, September 2011 |
Robert Levine |
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Wagner: Die Walküre, Metropolitan Opera, 4/22/11 |
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Die Walküre - Wagner
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The machinery in Robert Lepage's new production of the Ring continues to
fascinate and perplex - all 45 tons of it. It also bring its dangers. On
opening night, leading lady Deborah Voigt slipped and fell, singing her
`Ho jo-to jo' lying prone on the stage; and ten days later, a Valkyrie fell
off her horse and had to leave the scene.
At the close of das
Rheingold, part I of the Ring, the gods were seen from above crossing the
Rainbow Bridge into their new home Valhalla, which closed behind them thanks
to the omnipresent, ever-changing 24 gray planks.
The planks are
still there at the outset of the storm that opens Die Walküre, remaining
throughout the opera in different forms, morphing in front of our eyes (and
making irritating sounds).
All talk remains about the sets and
videos, and there's no denying their fascination: louring clouds turn into a
brilliant snowstorm; planks assemble to form a dense forest; Bryn Terfel's
colossal Wotan is first seen atop a volcanic rock that spews molten lava; a
huge eye-ball appears through which Brünnhilde can `see' what Wotan is
narrating; Our final vista is an overhead view of Brünnhilde lying
upside-down on her rock amid flames.
It's quite stunning, but the
problem is that it is also distracting; one wonders what it will do next
instead of getting involved musically. Moreover, Lepage has forgotten to
actually direct his singers at times and we are often left with stock
gestures.
Jonas Kaufmann as Siegmund pays attention to every
nuance, every change in the volatile atmosphere of the first act, and his
'Wintersturme' aria is a wonder of colours and feelings. Eva-Marie Westbroek
seems to be holding back as Sieglinde. Together, they are fine, if a bit
remote. Hans-Peter König is a wonderful return to evilsounding
Hundings, as menacing as possible.
Stephanie Blythe's regal Fricka
almost walks away with the opera with her authority and grand tone. She
actually breaks into tears at one point - the epitome of manipulation - and
her husband Wotan gives in. After that, Wotan's bravado is replaced by anger
and self-pity and Bryn Terfel rants and raves with great passion and volume.
His love for Brünnhilde in the final scene is enormously touching, as he
scales his voice back to a tender whisper.
Deborah Voigt, singing her
first Brünnhilde, is simply wrong for the part. The voice has lost its
warmth, thinned out and turned edgy at the top, and the midrange was never
strong.
James Levine, leading the glorious Met Orchestra, has trimmed
a few minutes off the first and last act from his last outings with this
opera, and the new sense of one seamless sweep is welcome. So even if Lepage
refuses to offer any particular insight or vision, Levine keeps the listener
riveted.
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