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Classics Today, February 24, 2013 |
by Robert Levine |
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Wagner: Parsifal, Metropolitan Opera, 18. Februar 2013 |
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Puzzling, Bleak Parsifal, Gorgeously Sung
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Metropolitan Opera House, Lincoln Center, NY; February 18, 2013—What is
Wagner’s Parsifal about? Ritual? Prayer? Salvation/redemption? Nature
depicting inner life? The Metropolitan’s new production, by François Girard,
certainly avoids the latter. This landscape (sets by Michael Levy) consists
of arid land and small mounds of earth, with a fissure of running water that
runs from the back of the stage to the footlights; once Amfortas arrives, it
turns red—it is his wound made universal. Women are on stage but separated
from the men by the crevice. Act 2 features the wound lengthwise, as a
backdrop, looking for all the world like a giant vagina. The Flowermaidens,
in white nightgowns, carry spears; 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’ wound?
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. 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.
Amfortas climbs into Titurel’s grave in Act 3. When
Parsifal baptizes Kundry, the stage fissure closes up and the women cross
over; indeed, Kundry opens the box containing the Grail. Was the fissure the
crack in society? No one ever makes the sign of the Cross—this Parsifal is
also not specifically Christian. Dress is modern and simple: white shirts
and dark pants for the men (they are seen taking off their ties and jackets
during the Prelude); black or white dresses for the silent 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. Wagner’s stage directions are not
being taken literally at the Met either, and Girard does not help. Clearly,
the Knights (or Gentlemen) of the Grail are in a helpless, miserable
situation, but they still insist on a certain amount of ceremony, which
normally offers hope—that is why it is so popular in all religions. But one
does not feel uplifted at the end of Girard’s production; you remain
intrigued, but, to use the vernacular, also “bummed out”. The Knights may
have found their leader, but the world outside is still barren.
The singing at the Met is about as fine as one might find today.
René Pape’s Gurnemanz is tireless and imposing; his 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. Jonas Kaufmann is
a mostly quiet—introspective and unsure of himself—Parsifal, and his soft
singing is luscious and purposeful. But when he lets the voice out—as in
“Amfortas! Die Wunde!”—he commands attention in an entirely different way.
A beautiful performance. Almost stealing the show is Peter Mattei
as Amfortas, whose agony and self-hatred are terrifyingly real.
Save
for a couple of screamed high notes, soprano Katarina Dalayman as Kundry
brings handsome 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. Evgeny Nikitin’s snarling bass-baritone colors
Klingsor’s music effectively and Runi Brattaberg’s Titurel has innate
nobility.
It is hard to pinpoint precisely why Daniele Gatti’s
leadership seems somewhat aimless: it may be that in keeping with the
production’s refusal to answer any questions, he has decided to play the
opera down. 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 Met
Orchestra and Chorus play and sing magnificently. One leaves mentally
wandering, like an imperfect fool, but fascinated.
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