I was sick with nerves 'audience fright' as the curtain opened, half of me so looking forward to this, the other half absolutely petrified that I had built my hopes and expectations so high that I would be so sorely disappointed. Almost certainly the last time we will hear Plácido sing Siegmund in London.
This opera has become so infused in my bloodstream over the past couple of weeks that I now have to say it is my favourite. Over and again I keep playing it, almost to the point of obsession. I would actually have to try very hard (or get a score or something...) to make Act I any more familiar.
This was my fourth time seeing this production of Die Walküre in the Royal Opera House, and having seen it little over a week ago, there were no surprises. A lot of people have criticised it, and, I suppose if your preference is for literal naturalistic productions, I can see why it is irksome. Act I is set in Hunding's house,where Sieglinde, Hunding's wife (and property) also lives. As you look at the stage, this consists of a chaise longue on the left, and a long table on the right with - I think -two chairs next to it, one either side. At the rear of the stage is a box, suspended above the stage and slightly at an angle. Entwined around this is a giant double helix from floor to ceiling.
The first scene focuses on a stranger stumbling into this house and encountering the woman of the house. Tentatively, shyly, they converse, introducing themselves to each other, each telling a part of their recent history - how he has fled, his spear and sword smashed, from his enemies. Refreshed by the mead she offers him, he says he must be on his way and not let his bad luck spread to her house. She says stay, you can't bring any more bad luck to this house, he says, I call myself 'Woeful', which as conversations go isn't exactly going to feature in 100 Best Chat-Up Lines...But you can tell they are drawn to each other in a mysterious magical rapport.
Then Hunding arrives, and makes sure we know who is Boss by throwing his axe into the kitchen table. Sieglinde explains how this stranger stumbled in; Hunding offers hospitality, and begins to quiz the stranger abut who is. This prompts a surtitle which isn't supposed to, but, invariably makes me giggle (inwardly), translating 'Friedmund darf ich nicht heissen with 'I can't call myself "Peaceful"' (I wonder how this translates in Spanish opera houses...). He goes on to tell his life story which is really quite moving - heartbreaking, indeed. Slowly it emerges that the stranger and Hunding are enemies, and Hunding is obliged to challenge him to a fight, but in the morning, so as not to break the laws of hospitality.
I think what I find engaging about this scene is that because so very little actually happens, it is all just tale telling, filling in of back history, the director might be tempted to fill it with extraneous actions and superfluous props, get the singers to over-act. This did not happen here, with the music being allowed to speak for itself, to set the atmosphere, to highlight key milestones, such as the arrival of Hunding (his hunting horn sounds). The singers are liberated to interact with each other in spare movements, reflecting their hesitancy and shyness.
Scene 3 is possibly the greatest scene in the whole operatic repertoire and it opens with remarkable staging. The stranger is alone on a barely lit stage, left to ponder and soliloquise on his situation and his fate, how he has stumbled into the house of his enemy and has been challenged to a fight. He remembers the sword that his father promised he would find in his deepest distress; in distress the ringing call of Walse! Walse!" accompanied by an increasingly agitated orchestra signals the start of twenty minutes or so that pass in the blink of an eye, the acme of perfect opera writing.
He ponders on the feelings that he has for this woman, the realisation that he is love. It think it is at this point that he hits out at the ladder, which is lit in bright colours. I am puzzled about the ladder; it is the same place as the ladder that allowed Wotan and Loge to descend to Nibelheim, is this breaking of the ladder symbolic of his breaking with his father, who, although he doesn't know it, is Wotan in disguise. But, officially, we don't know that yet, either, so maybe it merely emphasises that he is different from the world of the self-centred gods and those that believe in them, such as Hunding.
The stranger, who calls himself Woeful, because he cannot be called Peaceful retires to the chaise longue to settle down for the night under his cloak with a real dead animal round the neckline (which I hope in this day and age is a fake real dead animal). Sieglinde tiptoes in, saying she has drugged Hunding's drink. she offers to show him a sword and recounts how this sword was left by an old man who had crept into her wedding - her Forced Marriage to Hunding - and had left the sword embedded in the tree. At this point we hear the Wotan leitmotif, telling us what the characters are ignorant of - the identity of the mysterious figure with his hat pulled down over his eye. She hints that she knew who the stranger was and for whom he left the sword, which none of the guests could pull out of the tree. She longs for that stranger today, and if she could find the 'friend' for whom he left the sword, she would embrace him as a hero. The stranger responds that he is the friend, and wishes to make her his wife, in what must count as one of the better Chat-Up Lines of the evening.
The door bangs, and rose petals float down on a joyful Sieglinde; those familiar descending arpeggios begin, the stage is bathed in light, the Stranger climbs the short ladder to the box and sings Winterstürme, such a beautiful piece of music. As I let the music soak into my consciousness, I used to ears to focus on the gorgeous tone of the singer, on whom my binoculars were focused and I watched him intently. A single rose petal fell and he caught it in his hand; I was not sure whether this was an instinctive reaction to a minor - very minor - technical hitch or whether it was carefully choreographed; either way, it worked. He delivered much of the aria standing against the wall of the box, his body in the stance of an awkward teenager overcome by the power of first love. Sadly I had one of those 'misread surtitle moments' where I mistakenly misread 'Springfield' instead of 'Springtime', which is what happens as a consequence of a certain Wagnerian tenor guest starring on the Simpsons...
The scenes moves on relentlessly increasingly climatically, with the characters having realised that they are twin brother and sister, with her naming him Siegmund, and proclaiming the sword to be his, the sword he pullsout of the tree in a semi-climax, but we are not finished yet, the climax is yet to come, with the most amazing music creating an erotic and joyful atmosphere, and Siegmund offering Sieglinde the sword as a wedding gift, and declaring that she will be his sister and wife, and that the Walsung bloodline will increase (which is a startling but persuasive Chat-Up Line).
Why am I writing all this, when the synopsis is so readily available on-line? Because I want to relive and remember for ever the strong emotions I experienced whilst enjoying this act. Strong emotions brought on by the opera as written and as performed?
No review is ever fully complete without a run through of singers' performances. Stephen Milling was thoroughly scary as Hunding, his voice resonant and dramatic. A rather two-dimensional character which presents opportunities for acting the 'baddie'. An yet it is important to be restrained, not to over-act. Stephen got over to me that Hunding was not an evil baddie. He was master in his own home, he treated his wife as a chattel, and he sought revenge in tribal (or 'Postcode', as we call in it in Inner City London) conflict. The only overtly religious character, he's a simple product of his environment and lives according to his code of right and wrong - which is quite different from Siegmund's.
I enjoyed Eva Maria Westbroek's performance as Sieglinde. I didn't detect any major problems in singing and I would be more than happy to hear her again in this role or in others. But I did find her voice without much interest, I detected no inherent beauty. And whilst her interpretation of the role was more than satisfactory, I didn't find her stage presence to be especially convincing. Good, but not great.
As for Plácido, I have to say that I have heard him perform this role better than this, on several occasions. He really was not at his best. But Plácido Domingo performing at below his best is still something very special. I have to single out the finishing 'Wälsungen-Blut!' as being underpowered and cut short, especially in relation to the amazing climax if last week. But, as was pointed out to me, it's the overall performance that matters more than any particular note - and I certainly don't want to turn into one of those freakish-idiotic high-note obsessives who appear to ignore 99.99% of what an opera is about in order to focus on a point-scoring contest.
And the overall performance vocally and dramatically was splendid. Like last week,I went through a variety of emotions/thoughts. I do not see there thinking 'ooh, it's Plácido, he's my hero' - absorbed in the opera, I view him as Siegmund. Then I hear a beautiful note or phrase, that familiar way he has of caressing his throat around the notes, astounding low notes, the feeling and expressiveness he puts into how the notes sound, sometimes riding the orchestra like steel, sometimes softly caressing my ears, and I gulp with pleasure. I love the way he throws himself into the character. I can peer at him through my binoculars and reflect on how gorgeous he looks, a handsome man with a fine physique. I can marvel at the way he flings himself lithely round stage. I can even note when he seems to be walking with some stiffness in his left knee (which I suppose is the price one pays for falling to the ground so frequently in a performance). But most of all I see a lonely unhappy young man who has faced many adversities in life, I can see the joy as he tastes the happiness of real love. And I am moved.
And then it's time to go blinking out of the auditorium, emotionally in shock, not fully able to process thoughts, heartbroken that once again it was over so quickly, unaware of any physical discomfort I might be suffering. And a little bit of the magic fades, as one has to negotiate narrow corridors of people who feel it is their duty to block the passage of others. I overhear snippets of conversations, some reflecting my own inability to articulate, some fulsome in praise. Others, who have somewhat missed the point...including one woman saying to her companion "so, the brother, that was Domingo...?" How I wanted to say "So, you've just spent the last 65 minutes listening to the Greatest Singer that has ever been on an operatic stage..." and the 58th Greatest Living Genius "...and you didn't realise...?" But one doesn't, does one...!
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