Date: April 2, 2018
Location: Staatsoper Unter den Linden, Berlin.
Amfortas: Lauri Vasar
Gurnemanz: Rene Pape
Parsifal: Andreas Schager
Klingsor: Falk Struckmann
Kundry: Nina Stemme
Titurel: Reinhard Hagen
Konzertchor der Staatsoper Berlin
Daniel Barenboim, conductor
Dmitri Tcherniakov, director
After nearly a decade of renovation, Staatsoper Unter den Linden re-opened its doors last year to the public. The renovation raised the height of the ceiling, resulting in a more imposing proscenium opening and an increase in the house’s cubic volume. The ceiling directly above the orchestra pit, which used to be arched like Philadelphia’s Academy of Music, is now flat. The design change seems deliberate, as if the orchestra is now boxed in its own chamber in contrast to its past, or in contrast to the somewhat reflective, angled opening of Staatsoper in Vienna. The box seems to yield a warm, comfortably reverberated sound that one would typically identify with Musikverein. On either side of the dome are white-colored lattice grills, parametrically designed with classical aesthetics. They are beautiful to look at, unobtrusive, and probably there to hide ventilation systems, acoustic manipulators, and the reverberation chamber that contributes significantly to the house’s warmer sound.
Staatskapelle Berlin on this occasion was nominally staffed, with small strings sections and no obvious doubling of instruments, except harps. Yet when Barenboim’s arms started to flap with resolute vigor, the orchestra responded, and surging sound followed. In the dynamically most intense passages, including the Transformation music and Klingsor’s entrance music, reverberation took hold and gave a golden-hued, blended sound. When Kundry wails in the beginning of Act II, the orchestra soared to the forefront, engulfing almost entirely Nina Stemme’s voice. Here, where wailing was identified as an integral part of the drama, Barenboim deferred to the orchestra, and the grounds of the house shuddered. In more delicate passages, one could easily hear the various delicious timbres of individual instruments. Muted horns sounded deliriously evil and intentionally vulgar, while timpani notes dropped like plump raindrops hitting cold oil drums. Such clarity was revelatory: when Parsifal’s heroic music escalated with urgency, one could hear the ghost of Beethoven’s Hammerklavier arising in the shadows.
Dmitri Tcherniakov’s direction places the drama in contemporary times, with video projections and modern costumes (compare, for example, to his Eugene Onegin for Bolshoi). The Grail knights look after a place of desolation; crumbling walls and frail clothing point perhaps to a post-apocalyptic world. This would be Tcherniakov’s version of our true nature. In plenty other productions, the director would dramatically move stage features and manipulate lighting during the Transformation music. Here, Grail knights stoically file in line and lay out a pile of wooden benches, randomly stacked and visible at one side of the stage, into a communal circle. No other stage movement is visible. No lighting is tampered upon. On the surface of it, the direction seems wanting as it lacks a magical moment to accompany the music that is about to soar to its dramatic (and dynamic) apex. But on deeper thoughts, this makes perfect sense: Wagner never intended the Grail temple to be a part of the natural world; it is man-made, by the brotherhood, to enshrine the Grail. The act whereby the brotherhood moves the benches into a circle not only plays to the notion that the temple is one of human creation, but also highlights some sort of ritualistic formalism innate in the brotherhood. Sure, there is no coup-de-théâtre moment, but Tcherniakov feels, rightly, that such manipulation is unnecessary as he commits to illustrating a deeper meaning – that, if not for any man-made difference, the natural world and our world is really one and the same. This concept is further illustrated in Act II: the physical construct of the production set remains the same, albeit in a shade of perfectly clinical white. Doors, windows, arches and passageways depicted in Act I are still present, albeit now in immaculate condition. Tcherniakov seems to be saying that, in effect, Klingsor’s castle is really the Grail temple, only in a parallel universe, where flower maidens, dressed in primly pressed dresses, are held in captivity. If the natural world is in Act II so bleached as to be discomforting and troubling, Tcherniakov is probably suggesting that the natural world is in Act I so breached by the action of the Grail knights as to be ruinous and destructive. The Grail temple is, in Tcherniakov’s vision, treacherous and damaging to the natural world.
What is there to be redeemed, and by whom? And what is worth redeeming? When Kundry finally dies, by a treachery in this treacherous world (more on that later), Parsifal redeems Kundry simply by bringing her away offstage. The rest onstage is unredeemed. The Grail is love more generally, or Mitleid more specifically. When Parsifal (redeemer) and Kundry (the redeemed) finally leave the treachery behind, the drama suddenly corroborates not only with their final predicament but, crucially, also with the Schopenhauerian instincts innate in Wagner’s work. Here, Tcherniakov’s presentation of Parsifal is unusual yet, at its core, faithful to the design and philosophy driving it.
Andreas Schager, in the title role, set ablaze with a trumpet-like voice with searing penetration. At “Erlöse, rette mich…Händen!”, Schager brought the drama to a swaggering high watermark. Nina Stemme provided lush nourishing lines as Kundry. While Wagner is known to leave Kundry awkwardly on stage for extended periods, Stemme made the best of her stage time by interacting timely with the flow of the drama. The best example is during Gurnemanz’s monologue: as the Grail leader re-tells Amfortas’ plight, she would slowly walk down stage and be revealed to Gurnemanz’s audience just as her name is called. Stemme’s portrayal of Kundry as less of a vamp and more of a natural being capable of Mitleid (e.g. careful folding of Amfortas’ clothes) made her character more human, and perhaps more identifiable as deserving of a final redemption. Lauri Vasar made impact dramatically as Amfortas but his voice carried little gravitas – whether due to vocal limitation or conscious stage direction, his performance is perhaps an alternative way for Tcherniakov to highlight the fallacy of a redeemable Amfortas. Vocally, Rene Pape nurtured his lines with natural beauty and clarity. His character is most revealing in Tcherniakov’s vision: one who longs for a natural world would end up stabbing Kundry; in a way, he has assisted her in finding redemption through death. Amfortas, Gurnemanz and the rest of the Grail knights are left in the status quo – a state of perpetual suffering – the sort of state defining all of us who are incapable to fathom, much less strive towards, the goal of the Schopenhauerian ideal.