Born in Berlin on Nov 23, 1929, Kehl first studied piano, voice, and pedagogy at the Conservatory of Thuringia in Erfurt from 1948 to 1951. She also studied voice and piano at the Berlin University of the Arts until 1956.

She went on to make her debut at the Berlin State Opera in the role of the Polowetz woman in Borodin’s “Prince Igor” and with the company sher performed such roles as Mamma Lucia in “Cavalleria Rusticana,” Widow Browe in Lortzing’s “Zar und Zimmermann” and Mrs. Quickly in “Falstaff.”

In 1956 she won the second prize at the Robert Schumann International Competition for Pianists and Singers led to her engagement at the Leipzig Opera.

With Leipzig, she became a permanent member of the ensemble in 1957 and remained there for over 35 years. With the company, she performed 70 roles in such operas as “Il Trovatore,” “Tosca,” “Aida,” “Carmen,” “Der Rosenkavalier,” “Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg,” “Radamisto,” “Aida,” “Don Carlo,” and “Macbeth.”

At the beginning of the 1970s, Kehl went from a mezzo-soprano to dramatic soprano singing Leonore in Beethoven’s “Fidelio,” Brünnhilde and Fricka in “The Ring Cycle” and Isolde in “Tristan und Isolde.”

In 1971 she became a guest artist with the Berlin State Opera. She also performed at the Komische Oper Berlin, Theater Hagen, Teatro di San Carlo, Teatro Comunale di Bologna, Grand Théâtre de Genève, Bern Theatre, Teatro La Fenice, Vienna State Opera, Opernhaus Graz, Bolshoi Theatre, and Semperoper in Dresden.

Throughout her career Kehl was awarded numerous prizes including the title of Kammersängerin in 1963, an honorary member of the Leipzig Opera, and the National Prize of the German Democratic Republic.

Folloing her retirement from the stage, she went on to teach at the Musikhochschule Leipzig and she began an opera project in 1996. She was also the artistic director for Telemann’s “Don Quichotte auf der Hochzeit des Comacho” in collaboration with the music academies of Leipzig and Berlin and the Leipzig Opera.

Kehl also made recording that preserved her voice including Verdi’s “La forza del destino” and Princess Eboli in “Don Carlo.”

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Sharon said that his decision was made because he will need to spend more time in New York as he is set to debut at the Metropolitan Opera next season with a new production of “Tristan un Isolde” and he is developing a new production of “The Ring Cycle.”

As a result, the company’s executive director, Tim Griffin will expand his title to become both executive and artistic director. The Industry’s co-artistic directors, Ash Fure and Malik Gaines will form a new artistic advisory council.

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This 30-minute score was written in the period immediately following the composers recovery from a near-death experience early last year. The work sets texts by Abdellatif Laâbi, Anja Utler, Stav Poleg, and Shane McCrae.

Of this piece Hersch says, “In many respects, that I wanted to find you here, commissioned by loadbang, is very much in dialogue with my recent opera and we, each, but instead of an attempt to engage with the broader currents of and within relationships, this new sextet cuts directly into personal spaces… The most terrifying part of the ordeal was not, in fact, landing on that line between life and death, but simply the lack of agency and day-to-day clarity during that emergent period upon stepping back from it; restriction, confusion, and misapplication of power reigning overall. These things still haunt…”

Baritone Ty Bouque is the lead vocalist of loadbang, he is joined by fellow enesemble member and double bassist Will Yage, as well as violinist Miranda Cuckso. This piece is Hersch’s first collaboration with loadbang.

The premiere of ‘that I wanted to find you here’ is set to take place at Columbia University’s St. Paul’s Chapel on Dec. 8, at 8 p.m.

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With “Die Walküre,” the second opera of Richard Wagner’s four-opera “Ring” cycle, the epic plot comes down to the human level, having begun in the first opera, “Das Rheingold,” in the realm of gods (albeit flawed), Rhinemaidens, giants, and other immortals.

This November 15 and 17’s performances of “Die Walküre” in the Sydney Opera House Concert Hall saw the Sydney Symphony Orchestra present the second instalment of their four-year concert presentation of Wagner’s epic drama under the baton of Chief Conductor Simone Young, the Australian conductor of this year’s Bayreuth “Ring” in the German summer. It was a promising intensification of the Sydney orchestra’s impressive presentation last year of “Das Rheingold.”

This was a beautifully-conceived interpretation. ‘Luminous’ is a word that has been used to describe it. Yes, the story was exceptionally clear, even in concert format, but there was abundant evidence of Young’s desire to ‘keep the symphonic colors without overpowering the voices,’ as she has said elsewhere.

The general public’s perception of Wagner may be one of bombast. But Act One of “Die Walkure”–at least the first half-hour–is intimate. Instrumental solos provide chamber textures to savor. The orchestra’s cellos led by Kaori Yamagami aptly underscored the love developing between Siegmund (sung here by Australian heldentenor Stuart Skelton in one of his signature roles) and Sieglinde (Lithuanian soprano Vida Miknevičiūtė repeating a role she performed with Young at Bayreuth).

Young’s attention to detail was apparent, down to the specific voicing of occasional singly-placed orchestral chords. In this opera, which illustrated Wagner’s burgeoning conception of the continually-unfolding music drama, these chords were a hangover of traditional opera’s sparse recitative accompaniment. At times it sounded as if the volume and tone color of each constituent note in specific chords had been specifically attended to. Throughout the performance, other moments–for example, the cellos, bassoons, and double basses’ vigorous emphasis of a contradictory duple feel as a section-marker in Act Three’s “Ride of the Valkyries”–testified to the orchestra’s relishing of a traditional punctuating role as well as the greater narrative responsibility that Wagner entrusted to the orchestra at this stage in his career. The orchestral transitions between scenes were thrilling.

Gioachino Rossini, the composer of traditional comic opera, is supposed to have quipped that Wagner’s operas contain some wonderful moments but boring quarters of an hour. There were enlivening details in second after second of this performance, as also with the characterizations of the singers.

Untainted by the god-king Wotan’s corrupt dealings with the giants Fasolt and Fafner, the hero Siegmund is supposed to retrieve the cursed ring whose continued elusiveness threatens the gods’ existence. The only problem is that Siegmund and his love-interest, Sieglinde, are too few generations removed to avoid incest, and Wotan’s plan to be rescued by uncompromised humans comes unstuck against his goddess-wife Fricka’s guardianship of traditional marriage protocol. Brother and sister are not meant to be together–at least in the marriage bed!

The first part of “Die Walküre” is, therefore, almost a domestic drama, played out by an ensemble of characters (Siegmund, Sieglinde, Sieglinde’s unloved husband Hunding, and Wotan and Fricka). Although Acts Two and Three lead back to a cosmic level as Wotan condemns to an eternal punishment the valkyrie-daughter, Brünnhilde, who has usurped his role as arbiter of contests and disobediently sided with Siegmund in his fight with Hunding, we need the tension of two- and three-hander drama in the first several scenes of the performance. In Act One, Skelton, Miknevičiūtė, and Peter Rose’s Hunding succeeded in focusing the audience’s attention on an intense, three-way, close-packed dynamic.

Skelton revealed a stoic understanding of his predicament as the much-hounded Siegmund who finds himself in his enemy Hunding’s lair, face-to-face with a woman who is strangely familiar to him. Skelton’s utterances were clear and decisive, effortless in the imparting of his history to the curious Sieglinde but rising to a brave nobility in his summation: now you know why my name isn’t ‘Peaceful!’ There was almost actorly detail in his monologues, but changing to lyrical persuasiveness. This was in keeping with the change in nature of the music after he has called for his father’s help in finding the sword: a weapon that was meant to have been hidden for his use in his hour of need. Skelton’s prolonged calling for ‘Wälse,’ lengthened as is common in Wagnerian tradition in such a way that it can vocally impress, denoted anguished need.

As Miknevičiūtė aptly revealed a physical and vocal attractiveness as Sieglinde, there was the quiet desperation in her voice of a woman trapped in a loveless marriage. Once again actorly detail abounded in her account of the curious event that interrupted her wedding feast, ‘Der Männer Sippe sass hier im Saal’/’My husband’s kinsmen sat here in this hall’ (arguably Wagner’s ideal of a musically- and dramatically-balanced monologue). There was a hushed significance in her account of how a stranger entered during the proceedings, a tone of triumph finally in her account of how the visitor (who is of course Wotan, Siegmund’s father whom he knows as ‘Wälse,’ in disguise) drove a sword into the tree around which Hunding’s hut is built.

Though bass-baritone Peter Rose’s Hunding was smooth and even sympathetic, with almost a glow to his sound, there was a menacing stillness to his performance. He had gripping diction, for example, when Hunding noted the suspicious physical similarity between his wife and this unwelcome guest, the enemy who has accidentally ended up in his home.

Young launched into the rhapsodic prelude to Act Two without waiting for the audience’s applause to die down–theatrical bravado well-suited to one of Wagner’s most ebullient orchestral frescoes.

In Act Two Wotan’s plans come unstuck. In the brief scene where Wagner establishes the father-daughter relationship between Wotan and the valkyrie Brünnhilde, Finnish bass-baritone Tommi Hakala and German-Italian soprano Anja Kampe neatly established the bond between father and daughter: a bond that shall eventually break. Her valkyrie-cry presaged the excitement that would culminate in Act Three’s valkyrie “Ride,” where her eight sisters bring their collection of fallen warriors home to Valhalla in fulfilment of their mythological role.

The emotional specificity and even humor of Wotan and Fricka’s disagreement over protecting Siegmund in his fight with Hunding the following day testified to the dramatic integrity of this performance. Moldova-born Berlin-native mezzo-soprano Alexandra Ionis was a stately Fricka, defender of marriage, though not above a snide remark as the scene ends in her triumph. Hakala was a convincingly unconvincing denier of any wrongdoing in his charmingly insinuating defense of the incestuous pair, Siegmund and Sieglinde. A good sign of the dramatic effectiveness of this scene was the engaged audience’s reaction. Fricka asks when Wotan has heard that brother and sister ever were lovers. Hakala’s reply as Wotan, “It happened today” (surtitler Fiona Elizabeth Mizani’s translation of ‘Heut–hast du’s erlebt!’) elicited chuckles. It was not the only time a sung line got that reaction. When Kampe’s Brünnhilde observed that the meeting cannot have gone well for Wotan because Fricka is smiling at last, the audience chuckled again. Ionis convincingly portrayed Fricka as implacable. In the almost-spoken contempt with which Wotan conceded that Siegmund would not be protected in the coming showdown with Hunding–’Ich schütze ihn nicht’–we could feel Fricka’s pressure.

Act Two, Scene Two, in which Wotan recounts to Brünnhilde the story of the “Ring” cycle so far, and as understanding dawns upon him that he is ripe for punishment, may qualify as one of the boring quarters of an hour Rossini referred to. There is sparse musical interest here in a series of monologues that, after all, are not many steps above speech. However, the balance between Kampe and four French horns accompanying her interjection, when she assured Wotan that he might air his inmost thoughts in her presence without loss of power as she is his will, was beautifully moving. In Hakala’s presentation we could hear every word of Wotan’s pondering as he spoke to himself. We could actually see the vision he fears of elf-king Alberich and his horde gaining control of the cursed ring, and were moved by an increasing lyricism as he admitted what he cannot avoid: that he was heading towards the end of the gods. ‘Das Ende,’ Hakala sang, extracting all meaning out of this devastating conclusion, deciding now that he must will it.

Though only reluctantly agreeing to withhold her support from Siegmund in the coming fight, Brünnhilde must inform Siegmund of his impending death, and the so-called Annunciation of Death scene is one of the Cycle’s most effective scenes (in a dramatic sense). There was still much to appreciate musically in the brass’s ever-enriching presentation of the ‘annunciation motif.’ But it was really the chill stillness of Kampe and Skelton’s stand-off before Brünnhilde’s ultimate caving-in to Siegmund that more likely explains the way audience-members leaned forward, attentive to this scene.

Wotan prevents Brünnhilde from relenting and helping Siegmund, interposing his shield against Siegmund’s sword, which shatters. But, almost as an afterthought, he also kills Hunding. Hakala’s precisely enunciated consonants–’Geh hin, Knecht! Knie vor Fricka…’–as he suggested Hunding ‘kneel’ before his patron, Fricka, conveyed much bitterness. ‘Geh! Geh!,’ repeated Hakala, the last direction not even being hissed, a mere puff. In Hakala’s reading it was clearly beneath Wotan’s effort to waste breath on Hunding.

Concert presentation though this was, there was effective use of the stage to convey such movement as we needed to see. This was as simple as placing Rose and Skelton in the circle for Hunding and Siegmund’s Act Two duel, bringing their confrontational voices closer to the audience. But the blocking raised a question. Given some directors’ overlays in certain fully-staged performances–settings in caravan parks or hospitals or similar interpretive impositions–how much movement and visuals does the music impel? There was occasionally a sense in this concert production that performers were champing toward greater movement–that the music commanded it. Does the music also prescribe limits?

Act Three began with a thrilling ‘Ride of the Valkyries.’ It was here that we enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing the stage filled–a fulfilment of theatrical space–as eight valkyries joined Brünnhilde and Sieglinde, pregnant now with Siegfried and who must be spirited away. In much of the rest of the Act, concerning Wotan’s punishment of Brünnhilde for disobeying him, Hakala convincingly portrayed Wotan’s grief as he proposed to strip Brünnhilde of her divinity and put her into a magic sleep (‘I’ll no longer kiss your childish mouth,’ a covered tone revealing a sympathetic softening). Kampe revealed Brünnhilde’s terror at being stripped of immortality and her desperate need to impose a condition–that she be woken by none but the bravest of men.

As Wotan calls on the demigod of fire, Loge, to place a ring of fire around the sleeping Brünnhilde, he accedes to this request, having the last line of this instalment of the Cycle, ‘Wer meines Speeres Spitze fürchtet, durchschreite das Feuer nie!’/’Whoever fears the point of my spear, will never breach these flames.’ Interestingly, Hakala’s pronouncement of this warning was almost mellow, and the trumpets and trombones’ echoing off its melody lacked the harsh hortatory tone this ending often has. It was as if Wotan has unlearned his severity and reached a point of resigned, compassionate acceptance.

It remains to mention that Young’s tempi were often swift in places that surprised me, though pleasantly. A case in point was Siegmund’s Act One song of spring (love) banishing wintertime (privation), ‘Winterstürme wichen dem Wonnemond.’ This was another example of the character of the situation, a kind of importuning, prioritized over dwelling on purely musical conditions. This was a performance to make us curious about next year’s “Siegfried,” and a work that is both an outgrowth of German rough theater while also a further development of Wagner’s music drama.

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(Credits: Brescia e Amisano)

This may be a Ring Cycle that will not make history, and Wagner’s monumental cycle has only just begun. As proposed by Milan’s Teatro alla Scala, the Prologue evening of “Das  Rheingold” displayed an almost complete lack of interesting, cohesive ideas concerning staging; somewhat complacent conducting; and shaky casting. This should serve as a warning of the perils inherent in much of contemporary operatic productions. Many performances today struggle to survive autocratic stage directors who rely upon an over-abundance of tecno-political interference, all apparently driven by a desire to junk the past in order to satisfy the present. All this, and no apparent proposals for creating valid interpretations of venerated masterpieces, nor the direction of artworks of the future.

This situation, by more than coincidence, recalls Wagner’s own title for his 1849 treatise, “The Artwork of the Future.” This, and other prose pieces penned by the composer, served as a stimulus for the creation of his epic operas to come. In it, the importance of man’s relation to nature is paramount. This is reflected in the opening scene of “Das Rheingold,” where innocent Rhinemaidens have their pastoral existence interrupted by the violent intrusion of “Man,” who violates the natural order in his pursuit of power through greed, while simultaneously renouncing love. As a reformist, Wagner strove to save opera, trying to remove from it the very abuses that have returned to it today. To create an operatic piece of value, be it an original production or the interpretation of a historical one, one must be aware of the piece’s possibilities and avoid the trappings of the superficial.

In order to adequately comment on the Teatro alla Scala production, and view it within the broader context of contemporary operatic interpretations, one should first step back a moment in time. One should reestablish the parameters of the entire “Der Ring des Nibelungen” cycle, which Teatro alla Scala intends to unfold piecemeal: their plan ultimately resulting in two complete  cycles slated for 2026, performed within the span of a week, as was the original intention of Wagner for the 1876 Bayreuth premiere.  

Wagner’s inspiration for his composition was the Prose Edda. This compilation of Scandinavian mythology was a folkloric presentation of culture intended to inspire its people: something attractive to the composer, who aspired to establish a German National Theatre. Thus his ideals for a lyrical encapsulation of German culture were engrained in a poem written more than 500 years before his time. How can one present a Ring Cycle today, where the greatest considerations must be on how to direct a symphonically structured orchestra, while also scenically portraying Wagner’s revolutionary visions through dramatic art? The German musicologist and performer, Stefan Mickisch, dwelt on four aspects inherent to its structure, and upon which one’s interpretation balanced: the mystical-folkloristic; the psychological; the socio-political; and the spiritual-esoteric. Mickisch believed, “That a true production of the Ring has not been staged since Richard Wagner’s time. It seems almost impossible to include all the levels in a single stage production; a realization of this phantasmagoric world is probably only possible in our imagination, be it subjectively different in each of us.”

The difficulties for Teatro alla Scala’s interpretation begins within five minutes of that mythical opening to “Das Rheingold.” This opening is best listened to without the interference of those frequent story-within-a-story pantomimes one often sees staged, where the curtain is raised so that we may be subjected to the self-indulgent messages of a staging attempting to present an aphoristic message that we are supposed to have been previously unaware of. In this opening we have 132 bars, 15 pages of a score totally marked with piano, asking for softness throughout. Softness, that is, until the last eight bars where a crescendo is indicated for all instruments. Here we sense the waters of the Rhine rising up in a tonal surge that seems to wrap us within the Rhinemaiden’s melodies. Wagner asked himself if this music was the “soothing harmony needed for artistic creation.” This simplicity reveals incredible intricacies when we consider Wagner’s own description of the musical portrait depicting the undercurrents of the River Rhine. In his partial autobiography, “My Life,” he tells us, “Sleep did  not come… I sank into a somnambulistic state, in which I had the feeling of being immersed in rapidly  flowing water. Its rushing soon resolved itself for me into the musical sound of the Eb major chord,  resounding in persistent broken chords. I awoke in terror from this trance, feeling as if the waves were  crashing high above my head… Yes, the Prelude to Das Rheingold, inchoate, was then finally revealed. I  saw how it was with me–the vital flood would come from within me, and not from without.” If it is indeed folkloristic, of fairy-tale dimensions, then the Prelude reaches us like a lullaby.

In the theatre, we may therefore attempt to recognize the Prelude as if all were in a dream, wherein the deepest, almost inaudible rumblings would signal the creation of a world, or perhaps an encounter with another unknown realm. This is Man immersed in nature in Wagner’s music, and his “trance” remains a chant. Eight double basses hum, then bassoons imitate them, then eight French horns, shifting rhythm in succession, create a sense of timelessness within the first leitmotif melody of the entire Ring: that of genesis or nature. Our readiness and concentration must be ever-present, or Wagner will trick us and exclude us. Not from what appears to be intricate, complicated, or interminable, but from the hidden harmonies and richness of the tessitura of the rhythmic, symphonic, dramatic characteristics of his musical-theatrical  language. This is pure drama, and Wagner often bowed to the scenic elements that were to be represented through his music. Any musical or dramatic interpretation of a Wagnerian opera that strays too far from these vital essences can only inhibit us from exploring our own experiences of these “emotional signposts,” as Wagner was to rename his leitmotifs. Problematizing Wagner is an arduous and all-too-often underestimated task.

Bringing the Music to Us  

Teatro alla Scala’s administration has stated that the orchestra was working towards a “sound” that would evoke the acoustic characteristics of the orchestra pit of the Bayreuth Festspielhaus, known for its pristine purity and the harmony created between singers and musicians. Alexander Soddy’s interpretation of Wagner’s score as linked to the  stage action was wholly satisfying, and the two-and-a-half-hour span reveals care in pacing the dramatic characteristics, sometimes to breathtaking effect. It is also true that Soddy appeared in tune with various modern-day renderings. Avoiding the bombastic, or the accented squabbling among the characters, gods and humans alike, all which would make Wagner’s vocal line and melodies appear harsh and broken, he instead extended sentimentalism. We find here touches of Meyerbeer, Mendelssohn, and naturally, von Weber. 

A Prelude, then, with few subtle variations, where all becomes a bit too loud and monotonous. Soddy may have asked the horns of the Rhine motif to ‘push’ or ‘slide into’ some notes. This is contrary to what Wagner asked for while rehearsing his world-premiere: “…arriving to the high G of the horns as played very tenderly, and with sustained softness… and this with each subsequent repetition… as not a mere display of feeling, but true artistic delivery.” Had this been respected today, all would lend itself to a setting for moods, a breath of musical thought bringing us into another reality.

The orchestra of Teatro alla Scala gave the best of themselves, and for many of the usual reasons one must praise their “bravura.” The strings and winds shone above all, but one must also mention the percussionists, and acknowledge the rewarding sounds from the brass. The tonal colors in the “renunciation of love” motif were vivid, dense, and moving when pronounced by the dwarf Alberich, yet poignantly whispered later on as an echo in the scene transformation, chilling in its tragic intention. However, the scene of Erda, the goddess of wisdom, was directed weakly concerning expressiveness, musically monotonous, and her ominous, declamatory message not emphasized enough to move us. Her music should be of the uncanniest sort, complimented by eerie tonal modulations.  

 The Curtain of Guilt  

The questionable staging of Sir David McVicar proposes something that could have hardly ever been effective. The issue lies in the choice of juxtaposing the time and place of the actual setting for the dramatic action. The director also appears to have not found his key concept. He stands beside what he believes to be the unifying truths that define Wagner: Man’s greed and subsequent sense of guilt. However, this is not enough to distinguish an entire opera. In a modern interpretation of any Ring Cycle there must be a basic tenet, an overall declaration, a feeling that exemplifies the raison d’être of the original work while illustrating how its values speak to us today.  

Upon arriving at the theater, one is faced with an image projected upon a stage curtain, the main house curtain being already raised. There is a circle, suggesting a ring, and within it, as if encrusted upon a prehistoric wall, an open palm pressing out towards us. It is at once puzzling, restless, and ominous. Some may have even surmised what it represented: Man’s rapaciousness, that part of the self that would physically commit a crime to satisfy its desires. In knowing Wagner’s opera, we ask if this hand may the instrument used for violating uncontaminated nature. The existence of this inner ‘siparietto’ does flood the orchestral pit with light, taking away much of the mystery and spirituality of the Rhine’s undercurrents. It also allows for two scene changes to take place, changes that were originally intended to be magically staged as transformations in time and place. At other key  moments of the opera, a circle about the hand appears, while not very effective disco-light projections blink in alternating colors, intended to give a deeper, psychological meaning to the presence of this gruesome image.   

The curtain rises, and we have a revolving stage yet to move, with three rather huge open hands,  seemingly in marble, porcelain, or bronze, and upon which are placed the three Rhinemaidens. The backdrop depicts streaks of blue sky, there is some semblance of water, and the ambiance seems to touch upon the poetry and painting of William Blake, whose “Songs of Innocence” addresses the theme of Man and his relation to nature, so evident in all of the Ring Cycle.  

The slimy, jagged bottom of the Rhine, where the joyful, childish Rhinemaidens play until Alberich arrives is far from here. In Wagner’s text and the music, they flitter about as brats teasing an ugly, in-need-of-love, deformed creature, flippantly refusing his advances. All was poorly staged. Alberich had nothing to slip about on, yet still was unable to grasp onto one of them. They neither swam, nor skipped, but just ran around the hands, over and under, in ungracious frolicking. The stage began to revolve. Alberich was standing downstage most of the time, singing to us, leaving the Rhinemaidens to upstage him. The leitmotif of the gold was heard, and a trap door opened centerstage, and beams of the lucent metal filtered through the air. A dancer, masked, clad all in gold, appeared. Not all of us may have understood that he was the symbol of the precious element in its natural form. His gestures were contorted, though swirling. What they represented never went beyond the  obvious, attempting to follow the stage action, and in reaction to the dynamics of the music. But when Alberich ripped off gold’s mask, robbing the gold and renouncing love, the dancer is doomed, anguished, bereft of his naturalness. The gold reappeared at the end of the opera, crawling bloodied towards the haughty, yet perhaps remorseful gods, who were placed immobile upon the staircase leading to Valhalla. The dancer seemed to beg them to return the gold that had been hauled away by Alberich. This sad, melancholic stance by the gods is disappointing as it goes against the music itself, which describes them as pompous, hubristic beings about to enter their exclusive dream palace. Bourgeois possessions may afford power, but this is only a travesty, as Wagner tells us through the demigod of fire, Loge, “They are hastening on to their end, they who now deem themselves strong in their greatness. Ashamed am I to share in their dealings.” The curtain falls upon this puzzling stage tableaux, sustaining the director’s affirmation that guilt is the price we pay for our corruptions.

As the opera progresses, we are let down by one thwarted solution after another. The giants Fafner and Fasolt are truly unimpressive as they are physically presented. They have one-foot metal baskets for lower legs, and Moon Boots attached to these. They have long walking staffs, essential for maintaining balance. There are huge, prosthetic hands attached to their—very visible—human hands. Wired above their heads are bobbing masks representing their characters’ attributes. One has an ugly, unsympathetic face—the evil Fafner—and the other a non-expressive interpretation of sorrow—Fasolt, who will be killed by his brother. The actual fratricide is depicted in a melee of clumsy movements. It is reported that the singing giants learned how to move about on these contraptions for over a month: yet they could not do more than gingerly place step after step, apparently painfully.    

Another idea that did little to create action through the characters’ movements was the addition of four mime-dancers with shaved heads and nude torsos, who flittered about in black skirts almost akin to “whirling dervishes.” They accompany the giants, hold Freia captive, and also accompany the slain giant as he falls to the floor. They also move the pieces of gold being molded in Nibelheim. Two of them will follow Loge about the stage, gliding with him in his mercurial quickness, told though gestures. They also line up behind him, waving their flame-like arms in unison with him and the music, recalling the Indian deities Shiva or his consort, Kali. In essence, they are functional, not magically so, similar to the scene servants of Kabuki theatre. What was sad is that they felt out of place. They fulfilled their duties in a non-Wagnerian manner, taking attention away from the music. Another reference to East Asian theatre was the dragon-snake—Alberich transformed by use of the magic helmet, the Tarnhelm. This was wooden,  skeletal-like, and moved about by the scene servants in a way akin to a Chinese New Year’s Parade. It was not frightening at all, and diminished the great effects of Wagner’s orchestral brass blaring, which amazingly depicts a coiling, threatening reptile.

Scenic Aspirations

In this reviewer’s opinion, the worst aspect of this production was the stage set—not, as many thought, the costumes. It was conceived by Sir David, alongside Hannah Postlethwaite: the latter, perhaps, only executed the designs. This degree of involvement on the part of the director was a major mistake. Only a Zeffirelli, a Pizzi, a Bob Wilson, and maybe few others can successfully pull off this kind of creative autocracy. Aside from the three hands upon the Rhine riverbed, we had only a large stairway, center stage. It appeared to be of stone, rune-like circles carved into its sides. One flight of stairs ended and another flight ran upwards still, yet with no landing to climb to. Many referred to these steps as resembling Escher’s “Relativity,” but one believes this to be stretching the interpretation. Obviously, this was the stairway to Valhalla, which the gods would eventually climb. Yet in this interpretation the gods stand fixed, oddly idle, even doubtful, and perplexed as they looking out to the audience. Yes, their greed has turned to guilt, but this is not Wagner’s textual or musical intention. The costumes of Emma Kingsbury did not find their place within this staging either, but were nonetheless interesting. Though hybrid, they did relate to each other in a surreal way. Some appeared Elizabethan, others as if drawn by Arthur Rackham. The gods all wore masks that, when removed, caused  them all to age in the absence of Freia, the sister of Fricka, Froh, and Donner.  

The worst scene was the depiction of Nibelheim, the underground land of Alberich. Its entrance was a huge skull, center stage, supported by sticks and slanting backwards. It looked like the entrance to an amusement park’s “Gate to Hell” ride, or something out of the original King Kong film. It slides open as a door, then closes a few times all-too-neatly so that the snake can appear, and Alberich can magically  disappear by the power of the Tarnhelm. Gold slabs are poured into its mouth—gold that shall later be fashioned into a skeletal face resembling the Nibelheim gate. Through all this, the one message scenically represented is that of Man’s greed.  

 Individual Weaknesses, Ensemble Strengths

The cast must be considered an unevenly strong one and given due praise simply for singing Wagner. This is especially so for the more difficult roles, which ask a singing actor to declaim dramatic tension for hours on end while weaving through stretches of rhythmical trickery. It is said that Christian Thielemann selected the  singers. We can therefore ask ourselves why some of them were not totally what one expected. Admittedly, these are ‘live’ performances, which are always risky for scores of reasons. Adverse criticism has often been unduly aimed at established singers in live productions that makes no consideration for their established careers, and instead looks only to mishaps on the day.

The family of gods, Wotan (Michael Volle, baritone), Fricka (Okka von der Damerau, mezzo-soprano), and Freia (Olga Bezsmertna, soprano), represent both the internal struggles of a bourgeois family as well as their their botched relationships with everyone else. This includes the other gods, such as Donner (Andrè Schuen, baritone), Froh (Siyabonga Maqundo, tenor), and Loge (Norbert  Ernst, tenor). Then there is difficulty with Erda (Christa Mayer, mezzo-soprano), the Nibelungen tribe of Alberich (Ólafur Sigurdarson, baritone) and Mime (Wolfgang Ablinger-Sperrhacke, tenor), and the two giants, Fasolt (Jongmin Park, bass) and Fafner (Ain Anger, bass). The gods are also at odds, albeit indirectly, with the Rhinemaidens Woglinde (Andrea Carroll, soprano), Wellgunde (Svetlina Stoyanova, mezzo-soprano), and Flosshilde (Virginie Verrez, mezzo-soprano).  

One should make an assessment here of what they each rendered onstage, and their respective vocal gifts. The Rhinemaidens were fine, vocally and stage-wise. They were all believable as water sprites, though the staging damaged their ability to carry off their requisite playfulness and sauciness. They were neither of the sea, nor the depths, and their gesturing and interactions with the dwarf Alberich were superficial. Donner and Froh had imposing voices, were dignified throughout, yet were often left alone onstage, facing walls, or just wandering about. Loge, the mercurial flame of a shifty god, whisked about the stage cunningly, accompanied unhappily by two voiceless stage servants. These imitated his gestures, becoming flickering flames, though they were scarcely effective. At times Loge’s voice wavered, and the upper register notes broke. The giants placed their voices well, coming off strong at times, though in other moments not so much. They were also truly hampered by the cylinders attached to their Moon Boots: it was as if they were walking upon eggs. More than stone-cutting artisans they appeared as Don Quixotes within a Salvador Dalí landscape. Alberich was totally convincing, carrying the weight of his importance in the action, with an imposing baritone used well and used dramatically. Mime was a bit under tone, but this could have been due to the staging. Erda sang elegantly, giving her warnings to Wotan. She did more acting with her voice as the characterization was limited on the stage. She was depicted as half Chereau Ring and half Papagena. Freia was  excellent, and fit well into the part, her delicacy of movement accentuated her being a victim of the deal  between Wotan and the giants. She sang beautifully and gave depth to her plight. Fricka, too, brought full life to the frustrated wife of Wotan. Her social drives and insecurities, nervous haste, and maneuvers to set up house in Valhalla were believable. There was a touch of royalty also, helped perhaps  by her somewhat Elizabethan dress. And Wotan? The great Michael Volle was imposing, domineering, anguished in this complex role. The voice remains a noble instrument, rich, weighty, yet never excessively seeking over-dramatic quality. We can recognize his experience as a great Lieder singer.

Wagner’s Das Rheingold, A Metaphysical Harbinger  

Where is this Ring Cycle going? Many ask, some skeptically, others hopefully. This is a common question among  Wagnerites. Yet it may not really be necessary to ask if a “Das Rheingold” has taken off  successfully. The concept may be contested, if there is a concept. Some characters of the Prologue will return, thus something of this first evening of the saga must remain. It would be useless to hypothesize, say, if the three hands on the revolving stage will end the cycle, or if Valhalla will burn. Will there be a sword stuck into the World’s Ash Tree, and will there be a tree in “Die Walküre,” and will it be Loge himself who surrounds Brünnhilde’s rock?

In history, there was only one person who ever knew where the Ring Cycle was going after “Das Rheingold,” and it was Wagner. He saw the illusions and abuses of the industrial revolution settling in. He feared the Norns looking into our future in “Götterdämmerung,” spinning the web of time until destiny snapped the golden rope. The tragedy has taken its last turn. What of our future, and the future of this Scala Ring? Maybe the thread of our futures is an expanse of golden knots, a tangle of our impulses and desires.  

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The post Teatro alla Scala 2023-24 Review: Das Rheingold appeared first on OperaWire.

Opera Revue is a company made of three talented individuals: soprano Danie Friesen, baritone Alexander Hajek, and the sonic backbone of it all, pianist Elise Harris.

Their mission, they say, is to introduce opera to newcomers and deliver a fresh way to experience it for veterans in a relaxed environment at an affordable price.

My attitude towards opera has primarily been informed by Wayne Koestenbaum who, in his book “The Queen’s Throat,” wrote: “Opera has the power to warn you that you have wasted your life. You haven’t acted on your desires. You’ve suffered a stunted, vicarious existence. You’ve silenced your passions…and your throat is closed.”

Which is to say on a recent, rainy November night, at the Redwood Theatre in Leslieville, the question on everyone’s mind was: could Opera Revue open our throats?

Illuminating Production

The show—circus-themed—began with a joke of sorts. Hajek, who also served as the main tone-setting emcee, explained that the city had not granted them the permits to use a tiger and a lion, but that they always have a back-up plan: which was for him and Friesen to put on ears and tails and get up onto stools, where they performed Rossini’s “Cat Duet,” jumping through hoops and coughing up hair balls, until their voices collided to create a harmonious meow.

The laughs from the audience were elicited from the sheer ridiculousness of how seriously they were taking themselves. Those who couldn’t get in on the joke, chuckled in unease.

Throughout the show there were gags, ranging from a missing Burmese python to pulling out a bazooka from a pant pocket, or imitating a juggler on a motorcycle to Freisen throwing a pie in Hajek’s face to punctuate Harris’ ending note. But this sense of disorientation is part of the genius of Opera Revue’s project: to upend one’s expectations by throwing you off your little pedestal so that they can put you onto something else. This is their vaudevillian way of things.

When the introductory remarks were over, and the house lights went down, Hajek turned on a small lamp light above his head to sing an aria “Si Può,” from Leoncavallo’s “Pagliacci,” which, in the classical nature of his voice and sheer emotive power, allowed listeners to ascend with it. Just as he was about to end, Hajek rose his hand so that he could turn off the light along with the last note, which, even in it’s scaled-down form, produced the intense, dramatic moment we were longing for.

Later on in the show, during a medley to celebrate the Puccini’s centenary, Hajek was joined by one of the night’s three guests: the aerial silk artist Haley Shannon, who, in black-and-white striped pants, shimmied her way up two white silks that she spun in and hung from. Part of the wonder of watching her get herself into a knot and perform a series of moves so that she could secure her feet without the use of her hands, is the grace with which she performed it, the seeming calm and ease, as though, for her, to become one with the rope is as natural as it is for us to breathe. The art of aerial silk lies in the fact that it is about using the constraints of life to create a momentary balance that happens to be beautiful, trusting the whole of your body to suspend disbelief with pure belief. At one point Shannon had managed to maneuver herself into a harness so that the silks were on other sides of her, so that when she flapped them we suddenly found ourselves having witnessed a human become a bird—no: an angel.

Towards the end of their performance, Hajek joined in singing “Alidoro’s Aria” from “La Cenerentola,” which at the moment that it crescendoed, Shannon juxtaposed it by dropping down from the top of the crane spinning, so that—for a brief, shining moment—we believed that she might crash into the ground. After all, what is a show without a few risks?

The audience gasped then applauded.

“Wow,” the man sitting behind me said. “That’s all I have to say.”

More Production & Cast Highlights

Another guest of the night, Kalen Davidson, a circus artist who is fresh off performing with Cirque Du Soleil, performed two sets: both of which were about balance and risk, which he did, he repeatedly said, for our entertainment. In the first, in which he feigned nervousness, he juggled pinballs that glowed red and, with the help of an audience member, Shannon, whose hair, it was noted, smelled of cinnamon, spun plates on machetes while balancing on a big red ball.

In the second set he played with fire, creating two whirling balls of fire that became one circle of hell, and then taking a large metal square with various flames and balancing it in his mouth. It was here, as the audience applauded and couldn’t keep their eyes off him, that Davidson’s face, glowing with the light of the fire, beamed with the pleasure of knowing its holding an audience rapt.

But the standout was the two appearances from the Canadian soprano Ambur Braid, who audiences may know from her titular role in the Canadian Opera Company’s production of “Salome.” In the first, singing “Barak, main Mann,” from Strauss’s “Die Frau Ohne Schatten,” she appeared on the high stage barefoot, wearing a silver sequin dress that reminded one of the undulating surface of the lake when summer sun shines directly onto it, and immediately entered into character, an empress of two minds who lives in fear of what will become of her.

Here was the diva I was waiting to encounter, who causes one to reconsider the power of a voice, filling a room. “The volume, height, depth, lushness, and excess of operatic utterance reveal, by contrast, how small your gestures have been until now,” writes Koestenbaum: “How impoverished your physicality; you have only used a fraction of your bodily endowment.”

As Braid crossed and then uncrossed her legs, her voice silenced every train of thought, her voice demanded you pay attention to it, to your puniness. As Hajek said early on, Opera Revue liked to break the rules, meaning that for her second performance Braid had changed into a red pantsuit with a white ruffle collar—to fit in with the clown theme—where she performed “Il Va Venir” from Halévy’s “La Juive.” But before she began, she said that she was told a black panther—the “il” in “il va venir”—would be joining her on stage and—in a call back to the lion, the tiger and the permits—there was no expectation that the panther would appear, so when she signalled that it was time for his entrance—and we expected Hajek or nothing at all—it was the black dog named Walter appearing and jumping through a hola hoop for the treat that Braid kept in her pocket and howling as her voice trembled.
What is an opera performance if not a series of tricks—where the sound and the sight, which, for some time, run parallel to each other, suddenly, briefly collide to create a moment—that are given to the audience along the way to keep them engaged, an audience of opera hounds.

Surprising Elements

The surprise of the show, though, was Danie Friesen, whose sections, at first, I didn’t quite understand. In her first solo, she dressed herself as a clown-meets-fraulien, who sings “I Want Magic” from “A Streetcar Named Desire,” singing “Real? Who wants real? I want magic. That’s what I want. That’s what I try to give to people.” She drew red circles on each of her cheeks with nail polish; donned a cone-shaped hat with a white pom-pom atop it and a ruffly skirt and a corset. When she reappeared towards the end of the show, singing “Vesti La Giubba” from “Pagliacci,” her tune changed and she threw away the hat, taking off the armour with which she’s equipped herself with, undoing the very thing that she’d created over the course of the show—this happy clown turned sad—after which an emptiness follows liberation.

The fool is the one that feels the deepest and Freisen’s modesty belies her operatic ambitions.

In the last number, each member of Opera Revue donned a black clown nose, performing a rendition of Sondheim’s “Send in the Clowns” and near the end, Freisen enchantingly turned the microphone towards Harris so that she could deliver the volta of the standard.

“Don’t bother,” she said of the clowns: “They’re here.”

“I digress,” Hajek chided early on in the night; and throughout the night that is what Opera Revue did, each digression allowed them to exhibit another aspect of their personality, one which, historically, doesn’t have place in the opera halls, which, gradually, told its own story.

It was quite a throat-opening ruckus indeed.

The post Toronto’s Opera Revue 2024 Review: Ruckus! At The Redwood appeared first on OperaWire.

It’s no surprise that Richard Wagner’s music is a popular choice for cinematic moments of intense dramaticism, humor, horror, suspense, philosophical gravity, and pleasure. From the many comical moments in the 1957 Warner Bros’ film, “What’s Opera, Doc?,” Werner Herzog’s sobering 1992 documentary experience, “Lessons of Darkness,” the endearing 1930 film, “Fire At The Opera,” or the 1950 biofilm about the soprano Nellie Melba, “Melba,” finding Wagner’s music is hardly a needle in the haystack. Instead, it seems the natural step for any film looking to add subtext without lots of heavy lifting getting in the way. That’s where music comes in, a perfect resource!

Unfortunately, the diversity of choices seems, when looking at it in the abstract, thanks to the resources available, hardly diverse at all. As LA Times Jon Burlingame noted in 2010, one of the most famous examples of contemporary cinematic usage of Wagner’s music, specifically the “Ride of the Valkyries” from the eponymously titled second opera of Wagner’s tetradic epic, “Der Ring des Nibelungen” (or The Ring Cycle), is found in the helicopter scene from the 1970 film, “Apocalypse Now.” But what if I told you there are WAY more than one might think, so many in fact that documenting all of them would be impossible for one article alone, let alone a book. 

Instead of going through each, from the most recent (Tár, 2022) to some of the earliest (The Birth of a Nation, 1915), let’s instead look at what music is used, what kinds of films use it, and what it possibly says about the attractiveness of Wagner’s musical-philosophical worldview. It is no surprise that Wagner’s ideals about the world are full of provocative and controversial perspectives and fans, from his anti-Semitism to “total work of art“ (colloquially, Gesamtkunstwerk, although Wagner hated the term), to his laudation by Nazi leaders, the presence of Wagner’s music in a film is hardly neutral but neither can it be considered purposefully political either.

However, the counterargument is the idea of separating the art from the artist, a topic whose central argument is that an artist can have done harmful things but their art stands above or not in opposition to their personal actions. Of course, as one Reddit user noted, “bad people do, however, make good art, and that they do bad things is not a mutually exclusive fact” but “we just can’t separate the art from the artist. This will always be a problem.” What to do, what to do. Can we enjoy Wagner’s music in films and stand aloof from the creator’s personal beliefs? Maybe it doesn’t matter or maybe it matters a lot. As the controversies around J. K. Rowling demonstrate, valuing art does not have to come at the expense of holding its authors accountable. Instead, personal fallibilities add depth to art.

A Tale of (Many, Many) Films

If you take a look at the Wikipedia page entitled, “List of films using the music of Richard Wagner,” you’ll find a lot of very interesting things. First, you’ll notice that most of the films seem to use the same music. Either its the “Ride of the Valkyries,” the glorious prelude to “Tristan und Isolde,” the “Siegfrieds Trauermarsch“ from “Götterdämmerung,” the famous prelude from “Parsifal,” or the overture to “Tannhäuser.” However, on the rare occasion it’s something else, you’ll find less common choices employed like music from Wagner’s early operas like “Rienzi” from 1838 or non-operatic literature like his WWV 103, or the symphonic poem, “Siegried Idyll,” based on the operatic character.

You would then notice that the film’s dates seem noticeably consistent, almost like using Wagner’s music in films is an industry standard as opposed to a creative quirk. There are a few names who repeat on the list, some being the Spanish director Luis Buñuel and German director Hans-Jürgen Syberberg. Other than these two, it is a rather eclectic mixture of names, from Americans like D. W. Griffith and Todd Field to more worldy figures like Werner Herzog, Yukio Mishima, Elem Klimov, and Baz Luhrmann. Thus, the attraction to Wagner is hardly located in one country but seems something universal, as if Wagner’s music speaks to themes and topics which strike up relationships with other concepts, from Schopenhauer philosophical pessimism to the law of fate and destiny.

Some of the early 20th-century films like Rouben Mamoulian’s 1930 film, “City Streets,” an altruistic crime drama, Leni Riefenstahl’s 1935 Nazi propaganda film, “Triumph of the Will,” and Harold French’s 1942 spy lovestory, “Secret Mission,” ironically, all use music from the same opera, “Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg.” One of the earliest films to use “The Ride of the Valkyries” was the 1935 film, “R.A.F.” by Gaumont-British Picture Corporation. Later, in 1936, “Tarzan” writer Edgar Rice Burroughs would try his hand at using the iconic music in his 1936 film, “The Lion Man.” After WWII, one would think Wagner’s music would become more, not less, controversial and used but instead, the opposite happened. After 1945, the use of Wagner’s music in films skyrocketed considerably.

Jean Negulesco, director of “Titanic” (1953), led the charge with his iconic 1946 film, “Humoresque,” followed by iconic films like the 1957 film starring Audrey Hepburn, “Love in the Afternoon,” the 1972 historical drama, “Ludwig: Requiem for a Virgin King,” and the 1981 Medieval fantasy, “Excalibur,” my personal favorite. During the 2000s, the trend continued but the kinds of films radically diversified. The 2005 film, “The New World,” directed by Terrence Malick could be considered one of the new directions in American cinema’s relationship with Wagner, now bringing the narrative and usage of Wagner back home and as topical as ever. In recent years, “Army of Thieves” (2021) and “Promising Young Woman” (2020) have reignited Wagnerian music’s lighter side, comedies being the new direction.

So, here we are in 2024, and the legacy of Wagner’s music is as robust as ever. Will there ever be a time when his music is NOT a favorite among directors? Probably not. In any case, let’s relax until the Valkyries come in and the ring is given back to the Rhein (PS: You’ll know it has been returned when the world comes crashing down).

Listen

The post Opera Meets Film: A Look at the Many Faces of Wagner in Cinematic Past and Present appeared first on OperaWire.

The announcement follows a semifinal round held on Nov. 23-24, 2024, at National Sawdust in New York City, where 10 semifinalists presented their compositions during live performances.

The finalists were chosen by a distinguished panel of industry professionals, including Beth Morrison, Christopher Koelsch (LA Opera), Peggy Monastra (Schirmer), composer Huang Ruo, and composer Paola Prestini. Steinke and Bhutani will advance to the finals, set for the 2025-26 season.

“We had ten incredible semi-finalists at BMP: NEXTGEN 3, and choosing the two finalists was an incredibly difficult task,” said BMP President and Creative Producer Beth Morrison per an official press release. “Harriet and Anuj have wildly different compositional styles and aesthetics, but both share a special gift for taking the personal and making it universal in a way that is profoundly theatrical. I’m beyond excited to see what they both create with their first BMP commissions.”

Steinke and Bhutani will be tasked with taking on a BMP commission for a 30-minute chamber opera or vocal-theater work, to be created under the mentorship of composer Missy Mazzoli and librettist Royce Vavrek. Their works will be presented in a semi-staged concert during the 2025-26 season, after which one composer will be awarded a commission for an evening-length piece, to be developed and premiered by BMP.

Past BMP: NEXTGEN winners include Emma O’Halloran, whose double-bill “TRADE | MARY MOTORHEAD” debuted at the PROTOTYPE Festival 2023 to critical acclaim and has since toured with LA Opera and Irish National Opera; and Niloufar Nourbakhsh, who is now developing a full-length work with librettist Anahita Ghazvinizadeh for an upcoming BMP season.

The post Beth Morrison Projects Names Finalists for BMP: NEXTGEN 2024 appeared first on OperaWire.

For the purposes of this article only new operatic additions are included.

Vivian Fung’s “Girl From the 905” is a work-in-process song cycle conceived and performed by soprano Andrea Núñez.

Performance Dates: January 21–26, 2025

Sawdust teams with Sparks and Wiry Cries and Vital Opera to present “Meltdown,” a one-act opera considering the intersection of climate denial and sexism in science.

Performance Date: February 8, 2025

“An Evening on the Future of Music” features performances by the Kronos Quartet and Jeffrey Zeigler and a world premiere from Niloufar Nourbakhsh, winner of National Sawdust’s Hildegard Commission.

Performance Date: May 3, 2025

The post National Sawdust Adds New Commissions to 10th Anniversary Season appeared first on OperaWire.