Wagner Society in NSW Inc

Thoughts on Katherina Wagner’s Die Meistersinger Von Nurnberg

I – Robert Lloyd’s ‘Baptism of Fire’ – Remembering Neville Cardus’s Heritage

After viewing the fascinating Documentary, Katherina Wagner's Baptism of Fire’, was asked to contribute my thoughts to our excellent Wagner Society Newsletter. Tempted at first, I declined, feeling it would be unfair to make any value judgment until I had seen her entire Production. Had I done so, my opinion would have been quite un-printable. But time, a little distance and deep reflection, has allowed me to overcome any feeling of guilt or fairness. Ms Wagner's Fire certainly lit my Fuse! Going by ‘All’s Fair in Love, War and Wagner’ principles, I have quashed any qualms of conscience I might have had.

So, who am I to be placed into a position of such responsibility? I'm Wagner Society Number 0795—a Designer with experience in most forms of Theatre, Television and Opera direction. I have also survived working with Advertising Agencies. Born in the year of Cosima and Siegfried's death, I am old—or as I prefer, elderly. I'm also angry and need Schubert Lieder to calm me down. Yes, I confess to being a Music Lover. Music is the glue that holds me together. I also relish being elderly and outraging the young.

In the days when mothers wore gloves and hats to ‘go to the shops’, I came under the guidance and mentoring of (later, Sir) Neville Cardus. Attending many concerts together, he gently steered me through the musical minefield that awaited my future. At the end of an evening concert, and after he had lodged his critique at the Sydney Morning Herald desk, we would repair to Repins Coffee shop for a chat. Our discussions would last until we were thrown out. With an almost paternal protectiveness, Cardus would answer my withering barrage of questions with patience and wicked wit. Disappointed that I didn’t share his passion for cricket he, meeting his Waterloo, accepted defeat. And we had Wagner to talk about. His other secret passion and most private joy was Meistersinger. And, not surprisingly, having attended many productions of this work, particularly in the Festspielhaus, it is mine.

Knowing what an enormous privilege I had enjoyed in knowing him, it wasn't until many years later, when attending a concert conducted by Furtwangler at which Kirsten Flagstad sang the Liebestod, that I realised what an inheritance I'd been given. Her performance had a shattering effect upon me; she also sang the first performance of Strauss’s Four Last Songs. It was a memorable night and the beginning of a never-ending journey. Cardus's broadcasts with the ABC introduced us to Wagner, Mahler, Bruckner and Strauss; he gave my generation our musical vocabulary; his tutelage allowed me to appreciate Elisabeth Schwarzkopf as a meltingly lovely Sophie [in Der Rosenkavalier] at Covent Garden and later, Kathleen Ferrier, accompanied by Benjamin Britten and aided and abetted by Peter Pears, where they performed many of the ruder English Folk Songs. By the way, she burst out laughing, mid song when she saw Winston Churchill sitting in the front row asleep and being thumped in the ribs by a resolute Lady Clementine. Cardus would have loved it.

He had a wicked wit and exaggerated to perfection. In his critiques, never sacrificing the truth, he could decimate a particular performance that fell short of his demanding expectations. Always constructive, particularly with younger performers, he could root out careless or poor musicianship with the tenacity of a sniffer dog. On one occasion, the SMH allocated a full column in anticipation of his Crit. This concert, at the Conservatorium, was a Schubert Lieder recital given by a soprano who I'll tactfully call Miss Smith. At the end, of the performance, I couldn't understand why Cardus didn't write his Crit. Just reading it the next day I understood why. The column was blank except for-’Miss Smith turned Schubert's Trout into a Flounder.’ Of course, at the age of 14, I thought it was lovely.

Without doubt, the best and most revealing lesson learned at Cardus's knee was after attending a Chopin recital given by the celebrated pianist Ignaz Friedman. In mid flight, the now elderly musician had made some appalling mistakes. He stopped, looked dismayed, smiled and started again. In trying to impress Cardus with my profound knowledge-aged 13-I targeted Friedman's lapse. My Mentor firmly berated me saying, ‘Robert, a pianist of his international renown never make mistakes, only interesting errors’. I learned that it is the human factor that sometimes makes our attendance in the Concert Hall or Opera Theatre such a privilege-so memorable. A pinch of salt added to an interesting meal.

These days, with our superb sound systems, we have become used to perfection. Records and CDs carefully engineered and dare I say, digitally corrected performances, have changed our expectations when we attend the Concert Hall and Opera House. We forget how physical making music can be. We condemn a Soprano who may have developed an unfortunate Vibrato or fails to deliver her famous top A when it could be due to a throbbing bunion. Birgit Nilsson, giving a masterclass was asked by a future Brunnhilde what was the secret of success-what sage advice could she offer: ‘Wear comfortable shoes.’ Says it all really.

We expect our Divas to be thin and beautiful, to act with the intensity of a Sarah Bernhardt, dance with the grace of Pavlova and sing like angels. Our demands are cruel. Directors expect the singers to perform on hazardous surfaces that would terrify the mast intrepid mountain goat, clinging to moving scenery often defying Gravity. And they are expected to sing. we have seen Salomes trying to seductively divest themselves of Seven Veils being wheeled about the stage on a Tea trolley, looking as though they are about to have emergency heart surgery. Singers are usually a generous and compliant Breed enduring these demands with superhuman strength—all in the name of Art. All they want to do is sing and please their audience. Too many Directors and Designers take this good will for granted and abuse their privileged responsibility.

With Neville Cardus, it was his admiration and deep respect for musicians that illuminated his life. His Critiques and Articles were passionate statements—testaments to his abiding faith in the essential goodness of humanity. Ernest Newman once flippantly said to him, ‘The trouble with you, Cardus, is that you actually LIKE music.’ Praise indeed from a man who knew more about Richard Wagner than Wagner himself!

A bit about the Conservatorium. I have to admit to missing the old Conservatorium; uncomfortable, draughty and a maze of Studios—the cacophony of noise, appalling. It was like visiting an embarrassing aged relative in a seedy nursing home - receiving no thanks for the flowers, just rude comments about one’s appearance or being late-and not bringing chocolates. Her way of expressing deep affection and gratitude that one cared. There was something comforting in the lack of pretension and so it was with Cardus. To this day, I miss them both.

So what is it about Meistersinger that touches us so deeply and makes a great performance such a life affirming experience? Is it its pride and respect for past tradition, embracing change and acceptance of the new? Of course, it is all these things, but above all it breathes the simplicity of truth; its immediate impact, its innate honesty. With the Mastersinger's roll-call in Act I—one member is missing: ‘He's sick,’ the reply —one is gripped and immediately captive. Even with new and different interpretations, these qualities shine through the score. Could any of us present ever forget the opening scenes of Act 3 conducted by Christian Thielemann and directed by Wolfgang Wagner?

So with the ghost of Cardus still breathing down my neck, I was dismayed at what the documentary on Katherina Wagner’s production revealed. Not only has she inherited an illustrious name, together with the weight of expectation in bringing Bayreuth productions into the 21st century. This is a huge responsibility. In her dramaturgically mauled offering, she has obviously also had a fixed concept—always dangerous. Without wishing to damn with faint praise, her directorial skill are obvious; clear and decisive, delivered with drive and good humour. But it was what she was directing that troubled me. The glimpses we had of her father attending her rehearsals puzzled me. He was smiling—that in itself is a cause for concern—but I put this down to his being tranquilized.

Of particular interest to me, as a designer were the extraordinary and sophisticated facilities the Festspielhaus stage offers. The superb technicians employed there are quite amazing—in all departments. With their ‘no problems, only solutions’ energy and approach, this something that Ms Wagner has also inherited, with seemingly, no restriction or limitation placed before her. This is not to even second guess a budget that must rival Germany's National Debt. What an opportunity to excel.

In her headlong rush to be contemporary, meaningful and worse ‘relevant,’ Ms Wagner has marshalled the worst aspects of our present ‘Entertainment Industry’: Disneyland, video games and too easily accessed Internet pornography. With Taste no restriction either, we are subjected to the now obligatory Nude Scene-a naked chap, full frontal doing something questionable with a blow up sex doll. If this is not enough, he is joined in this escapade with a friend-who I hope is not Walter. If it were, I suggest Eva would have wisely run a mile. Dressed with all the allure of a determined Corsetry Consultant, I suspect she elopes with the desperate Sixtus Beckmesser, the obvious hero of this production.

The superb standards, particularly in staging and lighting techniques, generated in the Festspielhaus eventually filter down to the wider operatic world. Is this collision of Big Brother meets Puppetry of the Penis a sign of things to come? I don't really think so. But the sooner Ms Wagner leaves the kindergarten, puts coloured paints and finger-painting behind her, the better. Time and experience are the greatest teachers. With youth on her side, an enviab1e advantage, she has the opportunity to make a major contribution. A too fixed concept and using shock tactics aren't the answer. Adherence to the Libretto and trusting the integrity of the Score, particularly the orchestration, usually gives a sensitive Director all the guidelines needed to present a performance of merit.

I do have a favourite moment in Ms Wagner’s production—the resolute Army of Bayreuth Housewives, armed with buckets and mops, descending on the stage and cleaning the mess! Until I see the entire production—and hoping it has a happy ending—I remain, yours sincerely, Outraged of Elizabeth Bay.

II - Maintaining the Rave: Translating Opera from the Stage to the Screen - Katie French

There has been a remarkable response to the recent innovation of screening in local cinemas films of live performances of opera at major international opera houses such as the Met and La Scala. Queues for tickets outside the Chauvel in Paddington, and ‘repeat performance’ screenings at the Cremorne Orpheum have resulted in a get-there-early-to-get-a-good-seat mentality, which has rarely been associated with opera performances, especially live performances.

However, the Wagner Society’s ‘mini-screening’ of Act 1 of Katharina Wagner’s controversial production of Die Meistersinger von Nuremberg provided a timely reminder not only of the impact a director’s interpretation can have on an opera, but also how a film director can literally dictate how a production is ‘seen’. Opera, live in a theatre, can have quite a different impact to filmed opera in a cinema. This particular production was seen by members of the Wagner Society who visited Bayreuth in 2008, and when one considers the overwhelmingly negative responses there have been to the production, Ms Wagner would seem to need to have everything going in her favour. Sadly, the film of her production is not.

Obviously, when opera-goers watch a performance in a theatre, to a large extent they are in charge of what they see. They can view the stage as a whole, can focus on particular details with which they either empathise or query, can look back at something they can’t quite see or understand, and they can watch secondary characters’ responses while others are the centre of focus. Most significantly, the lighting on the stage is set for the live performance.

By contrast, when a live performance is filmed, the film’s Director takes charge of the ‘seeing’. (S)he takes over so much of the interpretation by defining the angles of the shots, whether close-up or a long shot is used to include the whole stage or just a singer’s face and its expressions. Even the juxtapositions of shots can virtually define or delete a character or design feature. Additionally, because of the ‘irresistible continuity’ of film, for the audience members it’s a case of ‘no going back’ if you’ve missed something. The Director’s caravan moves inexorably onwards. However, to the film Director’s disadvantage, the stage lighting during a live performance may not be adequate for film. And in the case of Act 1 of Die Meistersinger , the ‘live performance’ lighting seems to have been used, and is so dim, particularly towards the rear of the stage (especially with its dark timbered furnishings and dark curtains) that it is nigh on impossible to see who was doing what to whom, or with what!

To what extent does all this matter? To all intents and purposes, Die Meistersinger is Wagner’s parable about the Arts: a love story filled with charming humour and human foibles, which is nevertheless a protest against narrow-minded critics and prejudiced audiences. Ms Wagner’s Act 1 is filled with delightful touches of humour and enough satire to give it a delicious edge, but the film’s audience is unable to see these touches, and as such the film of the Act fails.

At the beginning of Act 1 she subsumes the end of the service in St Catherine’s church in Nuremberg into the inordinately more pompous and self-focussed preparations for the meeting of the town’s Mastersingers. Humorously, satirically, she superimposes a pseudo-religious ritualism onto these preparations, highlighting both the pretentious and slavish adherence to tradition of this tight-knit little group of self-satisfied burghers in its tightly traditional corner of the world. It is very sly and very amusing.

Into this dark-timbered inner-sanctum, two groups of identically uniformed ‘religious acolytes’ begin to process. Ceremonially, with ritual formality, unsmilingly, these platinum-blond, bobbed, cloned Bavarian youths carry oddly brown ‘sacramental candles’ forward to what appears to be an altar, where they are formally arrayed, before the attendants genuflect and depart.

A large, colourful but indecipherable altarpiece is positioned above the display. Also, in the spirit of religious imagery, several artists hover in the rafters painting what appear to be frescoes. Surely this is the grand chapel of some abstruse order. Then two long, wooden rectangles are equally ceremoniously carried in, one from each side of the stage, and laid to rest on the floor, with equal ceremony. The wooden ‘candles’ are raised from the ‘altar’, carried down each side of the rectangles … and then screwed equidistantly into the base.

It is a jaw-droppingly hilarious moment. The audience has just been beguiled into believing we have watched a portentous ceremony. What we have seen, performed with such slavish devotion, has been the apprentices constructing the tables, chairs and marker’s box for a meeting of the Mastersingers!

Now, when we look closely at that frescoed ceiling, we can see that there is no ‘Heavenly Host’ being portrayed, but significantly, portraits of portly, self-reverential burghers of Nuremberg and their Fraus. The dimly lit ‘altarpiece’ when focused on can be seen to be a still life of a rather large picnic feast with a very large German wurst as its focus of devotion. The entire scene so far has been a wonderfully funny, tightly constructed metaphor that needs to be seen by the camera if the audience is to get the joke and laugh. Laughter is allowed, even in Bayreuth! And this is a comedy.

It is really a shame, as many in the Australian contingent enjoyed this first Act. We had been filled with foreboding, influenced by reviews which ranted about ‘vulgarity’, and ‘infantilism resulting in disgust.’ Even the 2007 Annual Report of the Bayreuth Friends had highlighted ‘the deep chasm between the educated public and intellectuals’ concerning the production! Perhaps most telling was the sign at each entry door to the performances of Meistersinger only, which read: ‘Due to the unusual staging [sic] of the production there will be no curtain calls after Acts 1 and 2.’ (Evidently the audience in 2007 had made the cast the focus of their contempt, and there was to be no opportunity for ‘expressions of interest’ in 2008!)

It is only in Acts 2 and 3 of Ms Wagner’s production where things truly fall apart chaotically so that there is a cacophony of unintelligible and inconsistent images, and where the lemmings head for the cliff, accompanied by most of the audience. Ms Wagner does continue the ‘religious’ metaphor through the rest of the Act during the arrival of, and the pretentious performances of, the Masters, but as they are centre stage and on the fore stage there are few difficulties seeing who they are and what they are doing. There are some lovely little moments as they all (except Hans Sachs, the Cobbler who is significantly ‘barefoot’), take secret little white cloths from their vestments and, simultaneously polish their shoes. Equally delightful is their stacking before themselves on the table, sky-high towers of what appear to be catechisms of some sort (which turn out to be copies of all the German Classics, much like our orange and white Penguin Classics.) However, as pointed out, all this can clearly be seen: the humour is not lost, nor does it simply commence on their arrival. It has been incorporated subtly (and not so subtly) from the beginning. And good for her. It works superbly… as long as it can be ‘seen’ by the camera and relayed to the audience.

So this is a little parable about going to the opera in a cinema: what you ‘see’ is not always what you should get!

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