Die Frau ohne Schatten, 29 April 2017, Staatsoper Hamburg
Mahler Symphony No. 8, 28 April 2017, Elbphilharmonie
The sources and influences that
helped shaped Die Frau ohne Schatten are
countless, creating a complex web that criss-crosses between cultures,
centuries and genres. In his writings, though, Hugo von Hofmannsthal hinted a
clutch of works by Goethe that were of fundamental importance to his ambitions
as a librettist generally and his plan for Die
Frau specifically. One of the most important of these was Goethe’s Faust II, which in an essay from 1913-14
he described as ‘die Oper aller Opern’—the opera of all operas.
The links between Strauss and
Hofmannsthal’s most ambitious opera and Mahler’s grandest symphony, whose
second part sets the final stages of Faust
II, would therefore seem well worth exploring. Indeed, in a book chapter
from 1992, the Germanist Harry E. Seelig noted the common ground in the
apotheoses of Mahler’s 8th and Die Frau ohne Schatten, pointing also to
the similarity between the winds’ melody at the start of the Mahler’s second
half and the melody of Barak’s ‘Mir anvertraut’.
On paper, then, the
juxtaposition of both works in Hamburg felt like an important opportunity. My hopes were raised by the fact that among the credits for the performances of the Mahler in the
Elbphilharmonie were those for a Dramaturg (Johannes Blum) and ‘Lichtskulptur’
(by rosalie, perhaps best known in operatic circles for providing designs for
Alfred Kirchner’s 1994 Bayreuth Ring).
To what extent would the Mahler be ‘staged’, and would any attempt, either in
the performances of the symphony or in Andreas Kriegenburg’s new staging of the
opera, be made to explore any of the possible parallels between the works?
The answers: not at all, really, and no. For the Mahler, the dramaturg credit had seemed to have been
dropped from the programme by the time of the performance itself. We just had
seven vast rectangular light panels hung from the hall’s ceiling above the
stage, on which appeared slowly rippling patterns shifting between blues,
purples and greens—essentially the standard screensaver, media player
visualiser sort of stuff, presumably realised at considerable cost. Otherwise,
despite the lighting being very low (chorus and orchestra relied on lamps to
see their scores), this was pretty much a straightforward concert performance.
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| rosalie's 'Lichtskulptur' for Mahler 8 at the Elbphilharmonie (photo © Brinkhoff/Mögenburg) |
And straightforward not least in
the conducting of Eliahu Inbal, stepping in for the indisposed Kent Nagano. The
veteran maestro, now over 80, presided over an efficient, sensible account of
the score. He marshalled his forces (some way off the 1,000 of legend, but,
with an orchestra of some 150 musicians, still an impressive complement) with considerable
skill. I detected an understandable pragmatism in his approach, too, and a
sense of what was achievable in terms of interpretation in the circumstances: Inbal
was announced as Nagano’s replacement only three days before the first of three
performances (I was at the second).
He certainly didn’t stint on the
big moments, but this was nevertheless a reading characterised by swift tempos,
with little feeling of trying to explore the depth of feeling that the two
texts—the Catholic ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’ of the first half and the
pantheistic allegory of the Goethe in the second—inspired in the composer.
In some ways this felt as much a
test for the acoustics of Hamburg’s new hall (and it was the first time I’d
been in it) as anything else. As such, it passed impressively. The orchestral
sound was silky, rich and transparent, the choruses (the Hamburger
Alsterspatzen, the Latvian State Chorus and the Chorus of the Hamburger
Staatsoper) direct and rousing, their diction coming across well. Even the
soloists, marooned between orchestra and chorus, weren’t as drowned out as one
might have expected.
The outstanding contributions
came, in particular, from Daniela Sindram’s rich, sensuous (Mulier samaritana);
Heather Engebretson soaring as Mater gloriosa (her ‘Komm! Hebe dich zu höheren
sphären’ delivered from high up in the hall); Kartal Karagedik, a Hamburg
ensemble member, as an ardent Pater ecstaticus; and Wilhelm Schwinghammer
impressive as Pater profundis. Burkhard Fritz, alas, seemed to be having a bad
day in the demanding tenor music.
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| Die Frau ohne Schatten at the Staatsoper Hamburg (photo © Brinkhoff/Mögenburg) |
There were some signs of
tiredness in the Staatsorchester, and one imagines a good number players had been in
the pit tackling Die Frau ohne Schatten less
than 24 hours earlier (this was a Mahler matinée). There again Nagano had been
forced to withdraw, replaced at a late stage by Axel Kober, who conducted a
reading – presumably as much dictated by Nagano’s work throughout the
preparation period as by Kober’s own interpretation—that was similarly swift
and efficient, but none the worse for it.
Certainly there was plenty of
care and attention lavished on the score. The voicing of Act 1’s final chords
struck me as especially well balanced—a small point, no doubt, but one that
seemed to underline the difference in care between Nagano/Kober here and Zubin
Mehta’s disappointing conducting of the piece at the Staatsoper in Berlin. Nor
did the overall swiftness preclude generous phrasing or warmth, and rarely did
the music feel pushed. This wasn’t a reading to explore the score’s extremes,
but it was one that emphasised its coherence and dramatic effectiveness.
The performances of Claus Guth’s
staging in Berlin were still fresh in the mind, and Kriegenburg’s Hamburg production
was interesting in being built on a contrasting, if somewhat counterintuitive
premise: whereas Guth had concentrated on the action as existing in the
Kaiserin’s mind, Kriegenburg chose to emphasise the Färberin’s development. (As
an aside I feel duty bound to quote a letter to Strauss from Hofmannsthal from July
1914, which certainly suggests, for what it’s worth, that the librettist
wouldn’t have approved. ‘I would like to draw all your attention to the
character of the Empress,’ he wrote. ‘She has not a great deal to say and yet
is actually the most important figure in the opera. You should never forget
that. It is all about becoming human; she—not the other one—is the woman
without a shadow.’)
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| Lise Lindstrom (Färberin) and Andrzej Dobber (Barak) (photo © Brinkhoff/Mögenburg) |
Here the Färberin had the
stage to herself at before the music began, mumbling about wanting to be taken
away, and concluding with the Kaiserin’s own words—‘Ich will nicht’—before the
orchestra thundered in with the Keikobad motif. She, or a body double, mirrored
the Empress a great deal throughout, and she appeared in both forms for ‘Mir
anvertraut’, one singing separate from Barak, the other, apparently unwell,
being attended to by him.
It was a general feature of the
production, in fact, to have many different characters witnessing scenes
they’re not involved in. It’s not a bad idea per se, but a recipe for some very
cluttered stage pictures: the comings and goings of different characters,
doubles and extras in the Emperor’s and Empress’s scenes in Act 2 were a case
in point.
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| click to enlarge |
This too seemed to reflect
Kriegenburg’s lack of concern for the clear delineations laid out in the
libretto. Harald B. Thor’s set consisted of two two levels—the upper sphere antiseptic and featuring a series of white angled poles, the lower dark and dingy and cluttered—which were raised up and down. This allowed for fluid
movement between spheres, but surely too much of it: the Empress and Nurse not only made their way down to the human world,
via the central spiral staircase, but Barak and his Wife were able to
wander up to the spiritual realm whenever they fancied.
Within this context, the members
of each realm were nevertheless well differentiated, those from the spiritual
realm in wafty white, often accompanied by a similarly dressed group of extras,
against whom the Gabriele Rossmanith’s Falke, in bright red, stood out in sharp
relief. I also liked the way the Emperor’s stony trajectory was conveyed by his
increasing infirmity. The human world featured grubby costumes, with the
occasional appearance of a posse of masked businessmen.
The Konzept had some major casualties, however, not the least of which was the Empress, whose own trial and
triumph were reduced to a sideshow. This sense was further emphasised by the
fact that there was no apparent attempt to deal with or portray the presence of
Keikobad, whatever or whoever one might view him as being. This also meant a
more general lack of concern for any possible deeper meanings in the work,
which reached its apogee in a disappointingly glib and trite take on the
finale, staged—without irony, apparently—as a straightforward happy ending.
Those businessmen reappeared, then unmasked and partly disrobed to reveal
themselves as colourfully dressed children who proceeded to play ball games and
pat-a-cake. The Emperor and Empress played along before joining the Barak and his
wife on a pair of park benches at the front for the quartet.
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| The finale of Die Frau ohne Schatten at the Staatsoper Hamburg (photo © Brinkhoff/Mögenburg) |
Despite my misgivings about the production, Lise Lindstrom was impressive in her newly expanded role
as the Färberin (and even distantly reminiscent
visually of Barbara Hannigan’s omnipresent Lulu in Christoph Marthaler’s production at this house earlier in the year). She’s a fearlessly committed actress
and has a striking stage presence. Her voice is a slow-burning lyrical instrument
that can take a while to display its steel, but that only helped give the
character the extra humanity that the staging demands.
Relegated to also-ran status,
Emily Magee’s Empress perhaps unsurprisingly failed to make anywhere near as
strong an impression as she had in the role for Guth’s staging at Covent Garden.
There’s never doubting her commitment, though, and her gleaming voice still
delivered the goods once it had warmed up. The outstanding performance perhaps
came from Andrzej Dobber as Barak. The Polish baritone sang in generous,
well-filled phrases and with powerful tone, and he acted with a moving sincerity.
Though perhaps not strictly a bass baritone (the big Verdi roles are a
speciality), Dobber lacked some richness and warmth of tone, but the voice has
a directness and honest beauty—not to mention easy volume—that suit the role
well.
Roberto Saccà had all the Emperor’s top notes,
but struggled with the cantilena that links them together. Linda Watson, who has often sung the Färberin herself, was a powerful Amme here,
although not always one with the necessary verbal incisiveness. Among the smaller
roles, Bogdan Baciu’s imposing Geisterbote stood out. Some fine things musically, then, but a disappointing staging from Kriegenburg.
Marina Prudenskaya performs the role magnificently, turning in an impressively agile Veil Song and an impassioned, powerful ‘O don fatale’ and throwing herself gamely into all the challenges of the production. René Pape’s Philip also gains in complexity as a character from the encounter at the start of his big scene. He sings in powerful, smooth phrases throughout, but achieves touching melancholic grandeur here, the scene leading into a compelling encounter with Mikhail Kazakov’s implacable, bitingly sung Grand Inquisitor.
