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International Record Review, June 2014 |
Robert Levine |
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Wagner - Parsifal |
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Since
Wieland Wagner's 'revolution' in staging, it is nigh on to
impossible to watch a performance of Parsifal, unless it is done
literally, following Wagner's stage directions, without
wondering what the opera is actually about. If it is a
straightforward religious play, then so be it, but we rarely
come across that anymore. Is it about Ritual — or should the
very performance of it be seen as a ritual? Is it about the
nature of prayer, salvation and/or redemption? Is Nature a
depiction of mankind's inner life? Working backwards through
these questions, the Metropolitan's new production, by Francois
Girard, certainly avoids the latter. Despite Wagner's
instructions, the landscape (sets by Michael Levy) consists of
arid land and small mounds of earth, with a fissure of running
water from the back of the stage to the footlights; once
Amfortas arrives, it turns red: it seems to stand for his wound
made universal. There is no forest or lake in Act 1 or
springtime in Act 3 (despite Gurnemanz's statement to the
contrary), and neither the first nor third-act Transformation
scene offers any physical transformation. Gurnemanz and Parsifal
stroll — the Transformation is clearly inner. Women are onstage
but separated from the men by the crevice until it closes in Act
3 when Amfortas is healed, at which point the women join the
men. Act 2 features the wound lengthwise, as a backdrop, looking
for all the world like a giant vagina. The Flowermaidens
(without a flower in sight), in white nightgowns, carry spears
and sway seductively; the stage is awash in blood throughout the
act; a bed appears and the sheets become saturated with it — the
sign of women's 'curse' or Amfortas's wound? In the opera's
final moments, Parsifal places the tip of the spear in the Grail
cup — can we avoid the male-female imagery?
Stunning
projections throughout the opera (by Peter Flaherty) that act as
backdrops run the gamut from blood to parts of the solar system
approaching dangerously close to the action, to what look like
close-ups of flesh, to threatening weather systems, to a rather
odd lava lamp.
In a horrifying moment in Act 3, Amfortas
crawls pathetically into Titurel's grave. It is Kundry who opens
the box containing the Grail and it is left open, for all to
see. Was the fissure the crack in society? Kundry's death is
peaceful and beautiful — she dies cradled in Gurnemanz's arms.
No one ever makes the sign of the Cross — this Parsifal is not
specifically Christian. Dress is modern and simple: white shirts
and dark trousers for the men (they are seen taking off their
ties and jackets during the Prelude); black or white dresses for
the silent women. Parsifal returns in Act 3 utterly exhausted
(his once black, curly hair now straight and graying). He is not
a knight in armour come to heroically heal the world's wound
caused by the spear and, by association, by women; he does not
bring springtime and renewal. He simply comes back to do his
job, to perform a ritual that for some reason brings comfort to
a group of men and women.
The production leans in the
direction of the post-apocalyptic viewpoint of the opera as
staged by Nicholas Lehnhoff (from Baden-Baden under Kent Nagano)
that can be seen on an Opus Arte DVD. Clearly, the Knights (or
Gentlemen) of the Grail are in a helpless, miserable situation,
but they still insist on ceremony, which normally offers hope —
that is why it is so popular in all religions. But there is no
uplift, no feel of salvation at the end of Girard's production;
one remains intrigued, but, to use the vernacular, also 'bummed
out'. There may be a leader for the rite and some wounds have
been healed, but the world outside is still barren.
The
singing at the Met is about as fine as one might find anywhere.
Rene Pape's Gurnemanz is tireless and imposing; his
soul-weariness in Act 3 (he, like Parsifal when he shows up, has
aged considerably) is in his gait and in his sound until he
realizes that Parsifal might solve the Knights' problems, at
which point some excitement re-enters his tone. Close-ups reveal
a type of calculation on his part that one does not sense from a
distance in the theatre but it does not register poorly. Jonas
Kaufmann is a mostly quiet — introspective and unsure of himself
— Parsifal, and dynamics aside, this is clearly Girard's
reading. Kaufmann's soft singing is luscious and purposeful,
devoid of affectation, but when he lets the voice out — as in
'Amfortas! Die Wunde!' — he commands attention in an entirely
different, very human way. It is a divinely beautiful
performance. Almost stealing the show is Peter Mattei as
Amfortas, whose agony and self-hatred are terrifyingly real. As
penitence, one assumes, this Amfortas crawls more than he is
carried, he pleads more than he rants; it is almost difficult to
watch. Taken as Christian suffering — or any type of suffering —
it is close to unbearable.
Save for a couple of desperate
high notes, soprano Katarina Dalayman as Kundry brings fine tone
and a seductive air to the second act, but there is little
chemistry between her and Kaufmann in this production: he puts
his shirt back on when she appears, sensing danger, or something
more maternal — very odd, indeed. Is it because he is more human
or less human? Evgeny Nikitin's snarling bass-baritone colours
Klingsor's music effectively but the character is not
specifically drawn. Rúni Brattaberg's Titurel has innate
nobility, his lines delivered at a snail's pace.
It is
hard to pinpoint precisely why Daniele Gatti's leadership seems
somewhat faceless: it may be that in keeping with the
production's refusal to answer any questions, he has decided to
follow Girard's lead, rather than imposing an 'interpretation'.
The long, soft spells are almost languid, and the outbursts —
even the last-act mania for the Knights — are never gigantic.
(In the Lehnhoff/Nagano version, they behave like desperate
animals.) The Transformation scenes lack luminosity. Perhaps
there is a reason why Amfortas's scenes are the most
penetrating; perhaps this is his story.
The Met Orchestra
and Chorus play and sing magnificently. One leaves this
performance wandering, like an imperfect fool, but fascinated.
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