This is the second of a three part series within my desultory diary, providing an account of how we are passing our time during the lockdown. We've been watching HD broadcasts from the Met, which that organization has generously been streaming to the public gratis. It's a good public service; it's hard to think of all the tsuris going on while listening to Mozart or Verdi. (this escapism does not apply to Wagner's Parsifal, as we shall see).We all need some relief from time to time to get through another day of lockdown, and listening to some of the greatest music ever written is not a bad way to transcend, albeit briefly, the fact that so many people are suffering and dying alone.
In this blog entry, I will discuss two performances we recently saw, Verdi's Falstaff and Wagner's Parsifal. The subject of the third episode will be Mozart's Così Fan Tutte. Two points I would like to make clear at the outset: first, this is part of a desultory diary, not a scholarly article, and second, I might be an avid music lover and amateur musician who have loved opera for decades, but I am not a scholar of opera. I leave it up to you if any of my impressions have merit.
1. Verdi's Falstaff, a 2013 Met HD Broadcast
April 8, 2020
The proper reaction to this opera is awe. Verdi wrote this, his last opera, at the age of nearly eighty; it is in my opinion, the best music he ever wrote--the only competition for first place, I think, is Otello written a few years before. The music is never dull and pulses with the vigor of youth tempered by the wisdom of age. It is nothing short of breathtaking, and I do not use that word frivolously. Verdi obviously identified with the knight who decided not to go gently into 'that good night'. Falstaff might be old and gray now and not the lover he once was, but he is incapable of seeing himself as the last rose of summer withering on a bush. His egotism is invincible. He might be considered to be an old, fat fool by the ladies he attempts to seduce, yet, after being made a fool of (which consists, among other things, of being dumped into the Thames in a hamper of dirty clothes), Falstaff, much as Shakespeare's Parolles, refuses to give up.
Regarding the music, I used the adjective breathtaking already. Which adjective should I use to apply to the great fugue at the end, in which everyone participates? It has to be heard to be believed.
The role of Falstaff was sung by the Italian bass Ambrogio Maestri, who has sung this role many times to great acclaim. He looked the part--he is not thin; he acted well, and also sang very well--what more could one want? The staging was traditional, bright and functional. The conductor was James Levine, who had just returned to conducting after a long illness. (This performance occurred five years before Levine was fired in disgrace for allegedly having sexually abused four men). Levine stated that Falstaff was one of his favorite works; his spirited conducting conveyed his enthusiasm to the listener, at least to this one.
I remember having followed the score, which I had borrowed from the library, while listening to a recording of Falstaff. This was more than forty years ago; I was transfixed. Listening to a piece of music with the same enthusiasm as I did as a young man as I do now as an old man is, well, amazing. At least one thing hasn't changed.
2. Wagner's Parsifal, a 2013 Met HD broadcast
April 9, 2020
Auden wrote that Byron was not his favorite poet, but when he was in the "Byron mood" nothing else would do. It's been a long time since I was in a mood for Parsifal; part of me was willing to dip into its undulating waters once again, another part of me was already drowning in anticipation of its nearly five-hour swim. That part of me refused to be manipulated once again by those chromatic harmonies and unrelenting solemnities; another part of me said let the music begin. And begin it did.
When the first act began, I tried to swim; I soon was struggling. I began to go under. By the end of the opera, however, I was ecstatically moving with the current; I had become, as it were, the sea. (There he goes again, says my rational core.)
The music was in the able hands of an Italian conductor, Daniele Gatti. He conducted without a score, in other words, he had four and a half hours of complex music memorized. He must really love this music; he must have wrestled with it for countless hours. It showed.
I have always loved the overture, Wagner's music, especially this score, is extremely inward; for those who lack this inwardness, the music might seem too lugubrious, and, eventually, boring. I remember the first time I heard it. I was awestruck when I heard the main melody--which I call the Amfortas-wound leitmotif; it was like being stabbed in the heart; transfixed, I stared silently into space. Listening to the overture again and again, I kept waiting for this theme to return; Wagner wasn't always accommodating. I felt at the time that there were not enough new elements in the overture; Wagner was about 70 at the time, and inspiration might not have come as fast as it did when he was younger. Now, after hearing it again after many years, I consider it an Alterswerk in the best meaning of that word. Perfection!
The music wasn't simply beautiful; it hurt.
For this reason, I didn't want to return to the romatantischer Rausch that made me too solemn, too "spaced out". I had enough of that! I resisted the Wagner magic for most of the first act, which I still thing is overly long--about two hours, about the length of many operas in their entirety!
The direction was set in modern times; it worked. The Knights of the Grail were all dressed in white unbuttoned shirts, without ties; they were all barefoot, which indicated that they were penitent seekers. One of their leaders, Gurnemanz, whom the libretto dscribes as rüstig greisenhaft, (old yet vigorous) was sung by the formidable bass, René Pape, who owns this role. Much of it in the first act has an expository function; he informs us that Amfortas, seduced by illusion, lost the spear, a symbol of cosmic order, which pierced Jesus on the cross. Klingsor, the evil sorcerer, wounded Amfortas with it, giving him the wound that never heals.
One of most important insights for those who wish to dig deep into the meaning of this opera, is to realize that the Christian symbolism is not an essential aspect. What Amfortas--and Kundry--have are psychological wounds; they are suffering form illusions that are so consuming that they can't extricate themselves from them. Parsifal will be the catalyst of their redemption; at the end, he restores a deeply satisfying order to all.
The resolution is more Buddhist than Christian--Wagner was very fond of Buddhism--illusion, maya, is destroyed in the end, restoring all to their true nature, peace, serenity, and enlightenment.
By the second act, I was firmly under Wagner's spell, from which I haven't really recovered. Under his spell--happily? Mostly. In any case, non può resistere più.
Gurnemanz gives us the background to Klingsor's fall into the "dark side". He wanted to be a Knight of the Grail, but lacked the inner strength to become one. Failing to resist sexual temptation, required of novice knights, he castrated himself. For this, he was expelled forever. One can imagine how his hasty decision tormented, even devastated him. (There was apparently no "Papageno option" in the world he inhabited). He had an overwhelming desire to be accepted, and tried to cheat, rather than to transcend temptation. For those familiar with Buddhism, he failed to understand and accept the Four Noble Truths--With this failure, he became the very epitome of illusion.
A very moving stage direction occurred in the second act. Kundry, the central female character in the opera, and one of the weirdest and most fascinating women in all opera, has been cursed for mocking Jesus on the cross. She is doomed to wander the earth, which she has been doing for over a thousand years, trying to do good, but incapable of doing so. Although she has the full range of inner emotions, outwardly she is only able to laugh shrilly and mockingly at times where it would be best to show compassion. She is in despair, in a hell of her making from which she cannot extricate herself. Kundry is also under Klingsor's spell; he wants to use her to seduce and ruin Parsifal. He will do that with her help, along with the illusory but beautiful flower maidens. He mentions in passing that he alone is not susceptible to their charms. Kundry, aware of what he has done to himself, cries out, "Are you chaste?'-- a cry which she accompanies with a horribly mocking laugh. As she does this, in the production we saw, the sorcerer points to his genital area. His face reveals immense suffering. (Wagner calls for this reaction, but not for Klingsor's unconscious gesture, a touch of genius by the director, François Girard). Yes, Klingsor, the original Darth Vadar, was once a human being before he turned to evil We are supposed to show compassion to all. (Wagner, who loved the works of Schopenhauer, knew well that that philosopher thought compassion to be the highest virtue). This show of mockery by Kundry to a "bad" man is the mirror image of her mocking of a good man, Jesus. The laugh thus gives her no satisfaction; it only deepens her despair.
Parsifal is becoming wise through compassion, in true Buddhist/Schopenhauer fashion; he learns from Kundry that his mother died of a broken heart after Parsifal left her to begin his adventures. His eyes have been opened by this and his contact with Amfortas and the knights of the Grail. He is now wracked with guilt and suffering as well. His great compassion enables him to resist Kundry's spell, and is thus able to wrest the holy spear from Klingsor. The sorcerer thereupon falls into darkness forever, like the Queen of the Night.
In the last act, Parsifal returns the spear to the knights, thus restoring order to a broken world. Amfortas's wound is healed as the grail is revealed. (This reminds me of the Rheingold; the gold of the natural order is stolen by greedy Aberich, thus destorying the cosmic order; the order is restored when the gold is given back at the end of Götterdammerung); Kundry, redeemed, finds release in death. The world is made whole again through compassion--a triumphant though solemn ending.
Wagner has clearly shown us how to live.
Some people are annoyed by the Christian symbolism. But it is just that, symbolism. Let us now quote Wagner in this regard: "When religion becomes artificial, art has a duty to rescue it. Art can show us that what religions would have us believe literally true, are actually figurative. Art can idealize those symbols and so reveal the profound truths they contain." Powerful words! Much more in the Buddhist tradition, rather than Christian.
This opera is not for everybody. If one approaches the opera with a sit-back attitude of "let the entertainment begin" one can only be disappointed. This opera goes much more deep. One needs to study the opera; one needs to be open to its message as well.
The opera has long been a favorite of music lovers, especially those with philosophical inclinations. It is the most "inward" opera that was ever composed.
The singers were excellent: Jonas Kaufmann was Parsifal; the Swedish soprano Katarina Delayman was Kundry; Peter Mattei incorporated the role of Amfortas; Evgeny Nikitin was Klingsor. Everyone acted as well as they sang--that is, excellently--a fine performance!
Many musicians consider this to be their favorite Wagner opera. I quote one of them, Sibelius, a reaction reinforced by many composers: "Nothing in the world has made such an overwhelming impression on me... I cannot begin to tell you how Parsifal has transported me. Everything I do seems so cold and feeble by its side. That is really something." (There have been detractors as well, especially among members of the general public. This ain't
La Traviata, which, by the way, has, inexplicably, its detractors as well).
Parsifal really is something. I don't want to come under its spell too often, however; with repeated hearings, excerpts from the opera keep repeating in my mind, driving me to distraction. It can sometimes devolve into gloominess. Emphasis should be on the path that redeems all at the end of the opera, for, once the wisdom of Buddhism is obtained, the vehicle can be discarded.
Let me repeat Auden's verdict on Byron, which I now paraphrase: I am not in the mood for Byron often, but when I am, nothing else will do--There is nothing like it.
There is nothing like Parsifal in the entire repertoire. I am still under its spell.
In this blog entry, I will discuss two performances we recently saw, Verdi's Falstaff and Wagner's Parsifal. The subject of the third episode will be Mozart's Così Fan Tutte. Two points I would like to make clear at the outset: first, this is part of a desultory diary, not a scholarly article, and second, I might be an avid music lover and amateur musician who have loved opera for decades, but I am not a scholar of opera. I leave it up to you if any of my impressions have merit.
1. Verdi's Falstaff, a 2013 Met HD Broadcast
April 8, 2020
The proper reaction to this opera is awe. Verdi wrote this, his last opera, at the age of nearly eighty; it is in my opinion, the best music he ever wrote--the only competition for first place, I think, is Otello written a few years before. The music is never dull and pulses with the vigor of youth tempered by the wisdom of age. It is nothing short of breathtaking, and I do not use that word frivolously. Verdi obviously identified with the knight who decided not to go gently into 'that good night'. Falstaff might be old and gray now and not the lover he once was, but he is incapable of seeing himself as the last rose of summer withering on a bush. His egotism is invincible. He might be considered to be an old, fat fool by the ladies he attempts to seduce, yet, after being made a fool of (which consists, among other things, of being dumped into the Thames in a hamper of dirty clothes), Falstaff, much as Shakespeare's Parolles, refuses to give up.
Regarding the music, I used the adjective breathtaking already. Which adjective should I use to apply to the great fugue at the end, in which everyone participates? It has to be heard to be believed.
The role of Falstaff was sung by the Italian bass Ambrogio Maestri, who has sung this role many times to great acclaim. He looked the part--he is not thin; he acted well, and also sang very well--what more could one want? The staging was traditional, bright and functional. The conductor was James Levine, who had just returned to conducting after a long illness. (This performance occurred five years before Levine was fired in disgrace for allegedly having sexually abused four men). Levine stated that Falstaff was one of his favorite works; his spirited conducting conveyed his enthusiasm to the listener, at least to this one.
I remember having followed the score, which I had borrowed from the library, while listening to a recording of Falstaff. This was more than forty years ago; I was transfixed. Listening to a piece of music with the same enthusiasm as I did as a young man as I do now as an old man is, well, amazing. At least one thing hasn't changed.
2. Wagner's Parsifal, a 2013 Met HD broadcast
April 9, 2020
Auden wrote that Byron was not his favorite poet, but when he was in the "Byron mood" nothing else would do. It's been a long time since I was in a mood for Parsifal; part of me was willing to dip into its undulating waters once again, another part of me was already drowning in anticipation of its nearly five-hour swim. That part of me refused to be manipulated once again by those chromatic harmonies and unrelenting solemnities; another part of me said let the music begin. And begin it did.
When the first act began, I tried to swim; I soon was struggling. I began to go under. By the end of the opera, however, I was ecstatically moving with the current; I had become, as it were, the sea. (There he goes again, says my rational core.)
The music was in the able hands of an Italian conductor, Daniele Gatti. He conducted without a score, in other words, he had four and a half hours of complex music memorized. He must really love this music; he must have wrestled with it for countless hours. It showed.
I have always loved the overture, Wagner's music, especially this score, is extremely inward; for those who lack this inwardness, the music might seem too lugubrious, and, eventually, boring. I remember the first time I heard it. I was awestruck when I heard the main melody--which I call the Amfortas-wound leitmotif; it was like being stabbed in the heart; transfixed, I stared silently into space. Listening to the overture again and again, I kept waiting for this theme to return; Wagner wasn't always accommodating. I felt at the time that there were not enough new elements in the overture; Wagner was about 70 at the time, and inspiration might not have come as fast as it did when he was younger. Now, after hearing it again after many years, I consider it an Alterswerk in the best meaning of that word. Perfection!
The music wasn't simply beautiful; it hurt.
For this reason, I didn't want to return to the romatantischer Rausch that made me too solemn, too "spaced out". I had enough of that! I resisted the Wagner magic for most of the first act, which I still thing is overly long--about two hours, about the length of many operas in their entirety!
The direction was set in modern times; it worked. The Knights of the Grail were all dressed in white unbuttoned shirts, without ties; they were all barefoot, which indicated that they were penitent seekers. One of their leaders, Gurnemanz, whom the libretto dscribes as rüstig greisenhaft, (old yet vigorous) was sung by the formidable bass, René Pape, who owns this role. Much of it in the first act has an expository function; he informs us that Amfortas, seduced by illusion, lost the spear, a symbol of cosmic order, which pierced Jesus on the cross. Klingsor, the evil sorcerer, wounded Amfortas with it, giving him the wound that never heals.
One of most important insights for those who wish to dig deep into the meaning of this opera, is to realize that the Christian symbolism is not an essential aspect. What Amfortas--and Kundry--have are psychological wounds; they are suffering form illusions that are so consuming that they can't extricate themselves from them. Parsifal will be the catalyst of their redemption; at the end, he restores a deeply satisfying order to all.
The resolution is more Buddhist than Christian--Wagner was very fond of Buddhism--illusion, maya, is destroyed in the end, restoring all to their true nature, peace, serenity, and enlightenment.
By the second act, I was firmly under Wagner's spell, from which I haven't really recovered. Under his spell--happily? Mostly. In any case, non può resistere più.
Gurnemanz gives us the background to Klingsor's fall into the "dark side". He wanted to be a Knight of the Grail, but lacked the inner strength to become one. Failing to resist sexual temptation, required of novice knights, he castrated himself. For this, he was expelled forever. One can imagine how his hasty decision tormented, even devastated him. (There was apparently no "Papageno option" in the world he inhabited). He had an overwhelming desire to be accepted, and tried to cheat, rather than to transcend temptation. For those familiar with Buddhism, he failed to understand and accept the Four Noble Truths--With this failure, he became the very epitome of illusion.
A very moving stage direction occurred in the second act. Kundry, the central female character in the opera, and one of the weirdest and most fascinating women in all opera, has been cursed for mocking Jesus on the cross. She is doomed to wander the earth, which she has been doing for over a thousand years, trying to do good, but incapable of doing so. Although she has the full range of inner emotions, outwardly she is only able to laugh shrilly and mockingly at times where it would be best to show compassion. She is in despair, in a hell of her making from which she cannot extricate herself. Kundry is also under Klingsor's spell; he wants to use her to seduce and ruin Parsifal. He will do that with her help, along with the illusory but beautiful flower maidens. He mentions in passing that he alone is not susceptible to their charms. Kundry, aware of what he has done to himself, cries out, "Are you chaste?'-- a cry which she accompanies with a horribly mocking laugh. As she does this, in the production we saw, the sorcerer points to his genital area. His face reveals immense suffering. (Wagner calls for this reaction, but not for Klingsor's unconscious gesture, a touch of genius by the director, François Girard). Yes, Klingsor, the original Darth Vadar, was once a human being before he turned to evil We are supposed to show compassion to all. (Wagner, who loved the works of Schopenhauer, knew well that that philosopher thought compassion to be the highest virtue). This show of mockery by Kundry to a "bad" man is the mirror image of her mocking of a good man, Jesus. The laugh thus gives her no satisfaction; it only deepens her despair.
Parsifal is becoming wise through compassion, in true Buddhist/Schopenhauer fashion; he learns from Kundry that his mother died of a broken heart after Parsifal left her to begin his adventures. His eyes have been opened by this and his contact with Amfortas and the knights of the Grail. He is now wracked with guilt and suffering as well. His great compassion enables him to resist Kundry's spell, and is thus able to wrest the holy spear from Klingsor. The sorcerer thereupon falls into darkness forever, like the Queen of the Night.
In the last act, Parsifal returns the spear to the knights, thus restoring order to a broken world. Amfortas's wound is healed as the grail is revealed. (This reminds me of the Rheingold; the gold of the natural order is stolen by greedy Aberich, thus destorying the cosmic order; the order is restored when the gold is given back at the end of Götterdammerung); Kundry, redeemed, finds release in death. The world is made whole again through compassion--a triumphant though solemn ending.
Wagner has clearly shown us how to live.
Some people are annoyed by the Christian symbolism. But it is just that, symbolism. Let us now quote Wagner in this regard: "When religion becomes artificial, art has a duty to rescue it. Art can show us that what religions would have us believe literally true, are actually figurative. Art can idealize those symbols and so reveal the profound truths they contain." Powerful words! Much more in the Buddhist tradition, rather than Christian.
This opera is not for everybody. If one approaches the opera with a sit-back attitude of "let the entertainment begin" one can only be disappointed. This opera goes much more deep. One needs to study the opera; one needs to be open to its message as well.
The opera has long been a favorite of music lovers, especially those with philosophical inclinations. It is the most "inward" opera that was ever composed.
The singers were excellent: Jonas Kaufmann was Parsifal; the Swedish soprano Katarina Delayman was Kundry; Peter Mattei incorporated the role of Amfortas; Evgeny Nikitin was Klingsor. Everyone acted as well as they sang--that is, excellently--a fine performance!
Many musicians consider this to be their favorite Wagner opera. I quote one of them, Sibelius, a reaction reinforced by many composers: "Nothing in the world has made such an overwhelming impression on me... I cannot begin to tell you how Parsifal has transported me. Everything I do seems so cold and feeble by its side. That is really something." (There have been detractors as well, especially among members of the general public. This ain't
La Traviata, which, by the way, has, inexplicably, its detractors as well).
Parsifal really is something. I don't want to come under its spell too often, however; with repeated hearings, excerpts from the opera keep repeating in my mind, driving me to distraction. It can sometimes devolve into gloominess. Emphasis should be on the path that redeems all at the end of the opera, for, once the wisdom of Buddhism is obtained, the vehicle can be discarded.
Let me repeat Auden's verdict on Byron, which I now paraphrase: I am not in the mood for Byron often, but when I am, nothing else will do--There is nothing like it.
There is nothing like Parsifal in the entire repertoire. I am still under its spell.
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