Wagner Without Fear
Page 1
William Berger
WAGNER WITHOUT FEAR
William Berger was born in California and studied Romance languages and music at the University of California at Santa Cruz. He worked for five years at the San Francisco Opera Company, where he acquired for the company’s recorded music collection and translated for visiting performers. He has taught language at Baruch College in New York City. He contributed to James Skofield’s libretto for The Dracula Diaries, an opera with music by Robert Moran, and has just completed the libretto for The Wolf of Gubbio, with the composer Patrick Barnes. Mr. Berger currently lives in New York and is at work on a performance piece, Karajan’s Wake.
To the memory of
Chris DeBlasio
(1959–1993),
whose solo reading of Das Rheingold at the piano—including all
vocal parts—remains the best performance I’ve ever attended
CONTENTS
Preface
PART ONE: APPROACHING WAGNER
Welcome to the Art of Richard Wagner
The Strange Life and Career of Richard Wagner
Richard Wagner, Superstar
Map of Places in Wagner’s Life
Map of Places in Wagner’s Operas
PART TWO: THE OPERAS
The Flying Dutchman
Tannhäuser und der Sängerkrieg auf Wartburg
Lohengrin
Tristan und Isolde
Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg
Der Ring des Nibelungen
Das Rheingold
Die Walküre
Siegfried
Götterdämmerung
Facets of the Ring
Parsifal
PART THREE: EXPLORING WAGNER
Wagner Issues: Vegetarianism, Antivivisectionism, and Anti-Semitism
Wagner on CD
Wagner in Print
Wagner-Oriented Films
Wagner Soundtracks
Making the Hadj: An Insider’s Guide to Bayreuth
Glossary
PREFACE
This book has been brewing for years. I have always loved sharing my enthusiasm for opera in general and Wagner in particular with anyone who didn’t run away fast enough.
The house where I grew up was musical in that records held pride of place, and Saturday mornings and afternoons were reserved for radio broadcasts from the Met. Opera was available, and my parents were only too happy to answer questions, but no one was forced to take music lessons, and Verdi and Wagner were right beside the Beatles and the Stones on the record shelf. You weren’t allowed to talk while music was playing, but discussion afterward was encouraged. Requests for records as presents were promptly and cheerfully granted. Other than this excellent environment, there’s no particular reason why I should be devoted to this stuff. I’m not a musicologist. I have no particular devotion to German culture. And I am from Los Angeles, which is not famous for its devotion to the classics….
Growing up in L.A. was actually an advantage in nurturing my love for the present subject. Although it was perceived as a cultural wasteland a generation ago (and not without reason), the “do your own thing” ethic was all-pervasive and even extended to such antisocial perversions as opera. The overall Zeitgeist among my peers was along the lines of “Dude! This Brünnhilde babe is totally awesome, but can we listen to some rock now?” Nor was my partiality to hard rock entirely separate in my mind from my budding interest in opera. I learned to appreciate intensity in music, that there’s a difference between “pure music” and music as theater, that each genre of art comes with its own norms and clichés, and that there is endless pleasure in debating the meaning of obscure lyrics in difficult music. (This last bit of knowledge served me well in later years. Even considering the problems presented by the German language, the libretto of Tristan is simplicity itself compared to the lyrics of Led Zeppelin.) I was greatly aided by the absence of cultural traditions and institutions telling me that an appreciation for opera meant I was expected to cease associating with my cohorts and commence taking tea every afternoon at precisely four o’clock. Some of my friends, amazed to discover that dragons and flying horses did not originate in early 1970s album cover art, asked questions, listened with me, and became fellow travelers down this unique road.
The moment of truth came when I was seventeen. For a variety of reasons, I found myself living in Vienna for a few months that winter. With nary a beach nor a palm tree to be found, I went to the Opera, which seemed like the only thing to do there. I knew some Wagner, but did not know Tristan beyond the Prelude and Liebestod, and my German was firmly in the “mit Schlag, bitte” stage. I could not even read the synopsis. I was, like the protagonists in Act I, at sea. Was this a problem? On the contrary—I was blown away. The process of making it make sense had thrills of its own.
An incident that night confirmed my devotion. After the second act, a music student in standing room was deriding the performance at full voice to the shuffling audience. An elderly Viennese lady took exception to this critique and whacked him over the head with her tastefully beaded purse. A Soviet officer, attempting to restore decorum, made the mistake of laying hands on the lady, and a riot erupted: punches flew and socialites cast programs and debris from their boxes. The police arrived and within minutes all was forgotten among the heel-clicking and hand-kissing in the magnificent foyer.
I asked a stately lady for an explanation of what had occurred. After translating the student’s tirade and explaining the people’s lingering resentment at post-occupation Soviet officers in Austria, she added, “You must understand the nature of Tristan und Isolde. It is a drug. It can open your eyes, ease your pain, even save your life. But if you keep indulging in it, it will make you insane.” I was hooked.
And so it continued, in San Francisco, in Seattle, in Mexico City, in Berlin, but mostly in New York, where I learned that people have … opinions. Sometimes I worked in the opera world, sometimes not, but that’s where I went in the evenings no matter what, and that’s where I found answers and antidotes to our strange world. For me, the information presented on the operatic stage is a combination of psychological handbook and scriptural revelation. Since I am constitutionally incapable of keeping exciting discoveries to myself, I have been apt to talk about this stuff a lot, and that eventually led to this book.
You see, I don’t believe that opera, even Wagner, need be marginalized as a peculiar taste. One day, as I was writing this book, my Walkman died and I persuaded the excellent managers of the Gym at the Pines (Fire Island, N.Y.) to let me play Siegfried on their sound system. They were intrigued, but the gym emptied faster than the Met’s matinee audience at intermission. That little experiment was not repeated, but I remain convinced that the Forging Song, with its relentless 9/8 beats, has a future in the discos. Nor is this to be filed under that heinous term “crossover,” since, as I see it, there’s neither a “there” nor a “here” to be bridged. Opera, thank God, is a popular art form, available to anybody, with only a few pointers necessary.
Which is not to denigrate expertise. The research necessary even for a relentlessly nonacademic work like this is astounding, and I have been greatly helped by musicians, musicologists, opera people, and specialists in such varied fields as psychoanalysis and the German language. In addition to these experts, I must also thank the many friends and family who have contributed input and tolerated me for the last two years. Among these people, experts, opera lovers, and friends, I must name the following: First and foremost are Frances Berger of the Metropolitan Opera and Rich Lynn, the two most perfect Wagnerites I know. Others, listed alphabetically, are Marty Asher (of Vintage Books), Ramón Berger, Anthony Tirado Chase, Connie Coddington (Metropolitan Opera), Scott Curry (Hoch
schule für Musik, Berlin), Ed De Bonis, Julie Doughty, Arthur Fox, André Gauthier (BMG Records), David Groff, Walter Havighurst, William Hoffmann, Audrey Kunstler, Dr. Lawrence Mass, Vinnie Maniscalco, Stephen J. Miller, Aronnora Morgan, Maya Nikolic (Writers House), Rose Rescigno, Anthony Roncalli, Esq., Lou Rufalo, Tina Ryker (Seattle Opera), Thom Saporita, Tom Spain, Judy Zecher (Metropolitan Opera), and Al Zuckerman (Writers House).
PART ONE
APPROACHING
WAGNER
Welcome to the Art
of Richard Wagner
Richard Wagner (1813–83) was the most controversial artist who ever lived. To make matters even more interesting, the medium he worked in was opera, which is probably the most bizarre art form ever to achieve wide popularity. But the extreme reactions to the mention of Wagner, from swoons of approval to grunts of disgust, are not limited to opera people. His impact on modern thought has been tremendous. Devotees of history, politics, psychology, and literature, as well as artists and musicians of all kinds, all have a great deal to say about him. Eventually, anyone with an interest in the modern world must come to terms with Wagner.
This can be quite intimidating to the nonexpert who just wants to know what all the fuss is about. The opera fanatic, the musicologist, and the philosopher, for example, each have their own way of understanding Wagner, with specific vocabularies and clichés. The language employed quickly becomes so arcane that the rest of us feel left out. After reading some of the extravagant tracts written about Wagner, what sensible person could be blamed for judging the whole subject better left untouched? But this is a great loss, and entirely unnecessary. With a little preparation, anyone can enjoy the great pleasures of Wagner’s operas. His ultimate genius was as a master of the theater, and truly great theater is never intended solely for a select few.
The fact of the matter is that Wagner’s operas are extremely popular, and, contrary to many predictions a generation ago, their popularity is growing. Recordings, broadcasts, and simultaneous translations in the opera house have all played a role in this growth. Even The Ring of the Nibelung, Wagner’s four-day-long epic once performed only at his private festival in Germany, is receiving quality, sold-out performances in mid-sized North American cities barely large enough to support major league sports franchises.
There are many good reasons for wanting to know something about Wagner’s operas. Perhaps you attended a performance, and were bewildered. Is it possible that those few thousand other people in the house applauding wildly at the end were really interested, or were they all just trying to look as if they were? Conversely, maybe you heard a bit of the music in a concert, on the radio, or even on a movie soundtrack, and were intrigued. You may be attending a performance in spite of yourself—a blind date, or a social or business commitment, perhaps—and you want to give it a chance, since you’ll be stuck there for several hours anyway. Or it may, initially, have nothing to do with a live performance. Maybe your shrink keeps referring to “Isolde’s love-death” or your mate mentions your “Tannhäuser complex,” and you want more insight. Whatever your motives (more on that word later), the pleasures of Wagner are accessible to anybody.
It will, however, take a bit of groundwork. Why shouldn’t it? Imagine this: You take a person from a faraway country off his first plane flight to America directly to a baseball game. You tell him to enjoy it, but he is not allowed to ask any questions, or even speak, during the whole game. You say you’ll be glad to answer any questions after the game. By then, the befuddled guest will most likely be so bored and alienated he’d be just as happy never to hear the subject of baseball mentioned again. If, in addition, the announcements and the scoreboard were in German, the situation would be perfectly analogous to attending a performance of Wagner with no advance preparation. Absurd as this sounds, this is roughly how many people have first been exposed to Wagner.
How, then, does one approach these giants of the stage? There is already a vast literature on the subject of Wagner. In fact, more books are listed in the Library of Congress catalog under his name than any other besides Jesus Christ. The great majority of these volumes, however, assume a prior knowledge of his work. The supposed “Introductions” to Wagner’s operas tend to be involved musical analyses—interesting, for sure, but greatly slanted to musicians and other experts. There are also literally thousands of books concerning tangential aspects of Wagner: the political, the cultural, the psychological, and so on, ad infinitum. This is not accidental. Wagner himself wrote extensively about music in general and his own works in particular. Much of what he wrote is now accepted as standard, especially about performance ideals, while much of it is so hateful and revolting it cannot be approached without disgust. The ink has poured ever since. These volumes are worthy of attention, but they do not provide access to the works themselves. The many excellent “Introduction to Opera” books available all cop out on the subject of Wagner. After providing the reader with the stories of the operas and little more, they tend to refer the unfortunate newcomer into the existing Wagnerian literature snake pit.
The library books and the lecture halls confuse the subject, while only the operas themselves make perfect, gut-level sense. This, then, is a guide to comprehending and enjoying the operas of Richard Wagner. It is a sort of road map through a delightful but very foreign country. Once you are comfortable getting around in the world of Wagner’s operas, you will find that the journey never needs to end, as “wonder upon wonder appears.” Many people who do not even care for opera in general find themselves appreciating Wagner. At the very least, Wagner provides you with some of the most exhilarating and satisfying musical and theatrical experiences available. At most, his art is key to understanding the world we live in.
There is much you will not find in this volume. There are no musical analyses here. The comments, interspersed throughout the synopses of the operas, sometimes take a look at the music in terms of drama, but the reader who has the ability and the inclination to study the scores is encouraged to do so elsewhere. Likewise, psychological reflections are restricted to personal observations or references to other books written by people who are qualified to make such analyses. The same is true for the political implications of the works. The subsequent history of Wagner’s art in our world is only outlined to the extent that it directly affects our initial contact with Wagner.
In general, this book only looks obliquely at the great singers of Wagnerian opera. There are anecdotes concerning some, but I have avoided the colossal temptation to include rhapsodic digressions on the artistry of Nilsson, Vinay, and many others. Even the brief discography toward the end of the book addresses conductors and recording quality more than the qualities of individual singers. There are exceptions when it was crucial to compare one singer’s conception of a role to another’s, but anyone who has debated voices with opera fans will no doubt agree that I have been reserved on this volatile and highly individual subject. My aim has been to interest people more in the operas themselves rather than to control people’s experience of them.
What you will find here is a basic summary of the life of Wagner, a look at each of his mature operas as a guide to comprehending them in performance (live or otherwise), a summary of issues stemming from these works, a guide to the diverse writings available for deeper study of the subject, and a personal selection of instances of Wagner’s influence in our everyday culture. This book is intended for use by people to penetrate the difficulties and impediments presumed to surround these great works, which are as entirely imaginary as the magic fire surrounding the Valkyries’ rock.
OPERA AND MUSIC DRAMA—WEIRD AND WEIRDER
Opera is a charged word, implying a phenomenon belonging to social no less than musical history. In Wagner’s day as well as our own, the word conjured images of a bejeweled and affected audience with questionable musical acumen and a taste for glitz. Wagner fought against the typical opera audience of his day like a crusader, and many of the reforms that we take for gr
anted in the modern theater were his innovations.
Ultimately, though, we must regard his mission in this respect as a failure, since opera as an experience has not changed all that much in the last hundred years, Wagnerian reforms notwithstanding. Composers of today can be heard bemoaning the fact that their genius must be laid out for people incapable of appreciating it, just as they griped a hundred, two hundred, and probably five thousand years ago. And yet they keep writing operas.
So did Wagner. For all his battles with opera companies in Dresden, Paris, Vienna, and Munich, did he ever seriously consider expressing himself in other musical forms? For all his carping, one must wonder why he didn’t chuck the whole medium. He might have written oratorios, which are unstaged vocal concert pieces for orchestra, chorus, and soloists, usually of a sacred nature. Händel’s Messiah is the definitive example. Berlioz, that influential giant of nineteenth-century music, did this. When his opera The Damnation of Faust proved unstageable, he simply dispensed with the operatic trimmings and announced that the work was an oratorio.
Wagner did actually write one oratorio, Das Liebesmahl der Apostolen (“The Love Feast of the Apostles”), which was performed with success in Dresden in 1845. It calls for a chorus of 1,200, assuring its impossibility in subsequent performance. He tended to regard this work as a study for Parsifal, and never sought to have it performed again.
The fact is that Wagner, for all his supposed superiority, had fallen in love with the magic of opera as a unique art form, just as people continue to do today. When King Ludwig of Bavaria came to Wagner’s rescue, throwing open the State Treasury to finance his operas, the later works still proved all but unproduceable in existing theaters. Their correspondence at this stage is fascinating. Ludwig is always eager to see Wagner’s works, and Wagner is always obsessed with production quality. Strangely, it never seems to have occurred to them to present unstaged concert versions of the new works. This is something we take for granted today, and it was not unknown at that time. Ludwig’s detractors point out that the romantic and delusional king was at least as interested in the sets, costumes, lighting, and special effects as he was in the music, but the point is that Wagner himself was equally adamant about fully staged performances. This is a point that bears repeating, especially to the “pure music” types, for whom the “operatic” aspect of these works is something to be endured for the sake of the Philistines.