Silent witness
Michael Tanner
Die Walküre Royal Opera House; the Proms
The first revival of the production of Die Walküre, which was premiered at the Royal Opera in March, was so immense an improvement that it gave me hope that, at least from the musical point of view, this could become a distinguished cycle. Having seen the revival in Covent Garden and heard it at the Proms (on the radio), I was perhaps most struck by the development in Antonio Pappano’s conducting, and the deepening of Bryn Terfel’s portrayal of Wotan. Pappano is still prone to odd flurries of excitement which spoil the long spans of the acts, and he seems more interested in striking sonorities, of which he searches out very many, than in structure. Tempi were sometimes exceptionally fast, but there may have been a specific reason for that: the presence of Placido Domingo as Siegmund.
He has sung the role at Covent Garden before, but as his career nears its end appearances in major roles by him have become events. He must be weary of being told that it’s amazing for a man of 64 to sing such roles, but it is, and all the more so that his voice doesn’t sound old or worn. Melchior was still able to sing Act I when he was 70, but he did sound elderly, even if he also sounded as if he knew what he was singing about better than Domingo does. What I found interesting, though it perhaps should be obvious, is that Domingo is at his most persuasive in Wagner when he is singing declamatory stretches (this is true also of the recording of Tristan which is imminent from EMI). When there is a lyrical effusion such as the Spring Song or his short and tender passage over the unconscious Sieglinde, just before the fight in Act II, Domingo reverts to being an Italianate tenor, elides final consonants or even whole syllables, and the drama is forgotten. Even so, it is a wonderful sound to hear, and his evident devotion to this music is in itself very moving.
Waltraud Meier, another veteran, was odd casting as Sieglinde, with her mezzotinted voice and her confident presence. She was the converse, in singing, of her partner: passages such as the great narration were virtual Sprechgesang, but ecstatic or panicstricken passages came off with thrilling abandon. They were both left to their own devices for acting, and the result in Act I was shameless singing straight over the footlights, and gesturing which came direct from the silent-movie era. By contrast, Eric Halfvarson, the magnificently black-voiced Hunding, was the complete embodiment of the character, menacing but obeying hospitality’s laws, that he was playing.
I can’t add anything to my expressions of misery at the production and the settings from first time round. Seeing the 1976 Bayreuth Ring again recently (it’s just been reissued on DVD), I was struck by how much Chereau’s concepts have not only dominated subsequent productions, but were also in many respects actually in advance of them; and how much better he got singers to act than almost any of his successors, certainly than Keith Warner, who is in charge of the present enterprise. And almost all the singers in this production look in urgent need of direction. Not Halfvarson, and not Rosalind Plowright, whose Fricka brought immense and muchneeded dignity to Act II, after the assproddings that Wotan got up to with his spear while Brünnhilde sang her war cries. Plowright was in all respects authoritative, though the recent idea that Fricka and Wotan still have more than the embers of a love life should be abandoned: the dialectic and the music make clear that they have become deadly foes.
This time Terfel’s Wotan lived up to at least some of the eulogies which were heaped on it last time. He remained in fine voice throughout the evening, and without seeming to need to conserve his powers. He does select key words for sudden drops in volume, and that became tiresome in the Act II monologue. But mainly the sounds he produced were splendid; and his insights into the role are multiplying. With so much on offer, I feel mean in saying, but have to, that I have yet to be convinced that this mighty part suits him. He lacks, both in tone and presence, majesty. Not as acutely as Lisa Gasteen, however, who is really not up to Brünnhilde. She has the will, and is a generous performer, but at the huge climaxes Wagner awards her she shrieks, and at no volume and in no register is her voice pleasing. Several of the other Valkyries suggested more potential for the role.
Yet when all reservations are listed, and with the forlornest hope that the production might be replaced, the two evenings were thrilling occasions. Even by Proms standards, the roar that went up at the end of the first two acts, and even more the sustained silence at the end of the last, were witness to the astonishing effect that this overwhelming piece of musical theatre still has on huge numbers of witnesses. There may be a crisis in Wagner singing, but it seems to coincide with a popularity which may be greater than ever.
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