By Jonathan Ramos
By Juan De Anda
By Mollie McWilliams
By Juan De Anda
By Mollie McWilliams
By Juan De Anda
By Jonathan Curiel
By Alexis Coe
Der Ring Des Nibelungen, a San Francisco Opera summer festival. Music and libretto by Richard Wagner. Conducted by Donald Runnicles. Directed by Andrei Serban. Set revisions by John Coyne. Costume revisions by Bob Ringwood. Cycle 1 starring James Morris, Tom Fox, Jane Eaglen, Wolfgang Schmidt, Marjana Lipovsek, Elena Zaremba, Thomas Sunnegardh, Eric Halfvarson, and others. At the War Memorial Opera House, 301 Van Ness, through July 9. Call 864-3330.
It may surprise people who hate opera to hear that Richard Wagner was a revolutionary. This towering Teutonic giant of high culture, monumental egotist, and legendary anti-Semite, whose operas people nowadays dress up like heads of state to attend -- not a flatterer of power? Hell, even Shakespeare wrote sonnets to the queen. But it's true. After a failed Liberal insurrection in 1849, at Dresden, where he had a comfortable music-director job, Wagner moved to Switzerland because the provincial German government had marked him out as one of three dangerous leaders of the recently quashed revolt. He spent 12 years in exile, and those 12 years made up roughly the first half of the quarter-century he spent writing The Ring of the Nibelungen, his epic fable of worldly power, exploitation, rebellion, and love.
So why was this Liberal such a racist? Partly because he was also an ideologue: Wagner saw Jews as moneyed capitalist pigs. The irony (and this should be a lesson to ideologues everywhere) is that post-1945 you can't sit through the Ring without realizing that Alberich -- evil head Nibelung and vaguely Jewish goldsmith-boss -- is a seamless artistic prophecy of Hitler himself, warning that he plans to one day rise from the shadows and topple the compromised government of gods. Wagner's passionate impersonations of evil were, in the end, profound impersonations of his darkest self, which is one reason the Ring still stands as a work of art and not a 16-hour political screed.
The other reason, of course, is the music. The current production of the Ring at the San Francisco Opera is graced with a nimble orchestra, energetically conducted by Donald Runnicles. Except for a couple of rogue tubas, which to me sounded harsh more often than they needed to, the music under Runnicles' hand has been bracing and well-controlled. He goes for the bright dramatic effects of his mentor, Georg Solti (whose studio version of the Ring is sometimes called "the best thing ever recorded"), and -- short of a few movements where the tempo could have been statelier, or the horns livelier -- Runnicles and his musicians achieve them.
But the staging has been weird. For some reason San Francisco has a mellowing, lightening effect on dark classic productions. This seems to be true in opera as well as in plays. I don't claim to understand it, but Andrei Serban's revision of the Ring for this festival is as strangely lacking in gravitas as ACT's recent versions of Hecuba and Juno and the Paycock. Sometimes a singer, or a set, reaches down to those dark and necessary notes, but without shadows the Ring has no life, and this production misses them often enough to point it out as a trend.
For example: An appearance of the mother of all gods, the slumbering Erda, should have a certain grandeur, but when Wotan asks her opinion on whether to keep the Nibelungs' ring of absolute power, Erda rises from the stage on an enormous egg. It's really a sideways-leaning sculpture of a sleeping woman's face, but I imagine the egg shape is a Concept. The trouble is that eggs by themselves are not very grand. Erda wears a wig that makes her look as if she's just gotten out of bed, and generally comes off as an eccentric wild woman rather than a universal Mother Earth -- not that this kept Elena Zaremba from singing her powerfully on opening night.
In a rare lapse by the orchestra, the gods' descent into Nibelheim also seems milquetoastish, because the anvil leitmotif that represents the forceful, wage-slave hammering of Alberich's goldsmiths tinkles prettily, instead of clanking. Alberich himself looks like a hairless lizard dressed up in a 19th-century burgher's coat and vest, but this is not nearly as bad as it sounds. If Alberich normally resembles a hairy goblin, the bland costume here combines with Tom Fox's authoritative singing to make him a compelling new vision of evil.
Another strong innovation is director Serban's decision to use Wise Fool-style puppets for the giants. Reinhard Hagen and Eric Halfvarson sing Fasolt and Fafner from inside stiff and towering robed figures with massive hands. In theory it's a brilliant idea, because these giants are huge, more than twice the size of the gods. But it still needs work, because Hagen and Halfvarson have trouble projecting from inside the robes, and the puppets don't collapse, so Fafner has to chase Fasolt offstage to kill him, which automatically declaws the effect of Das Rheingold's bleakest scene.
Die WalkYre is technically the strongest opera in the opening cycle. It has solid singing in almost every important role. Jane Eaglen makes a formidable BrYnnhilde, singing with force and ardor, showing enough daughterly adoration in her scenes with Wotan to overcome the fact that she's twice his size. Deborah Voigt turns in a fresh performance as Sieglinde -- well-controlled, with nice bright expression -- but she overpowers Siegmund, her lover and twin, especially in the lusty love-duet just before he pulls the sword from the tree. This is, or can be, one of the strongest passages in the cycle, but Mark Baker as Siegmund can't project well enough to make it interesting. And in Siegfried, two days later, the title hero took after his father: Wolfgang Schmidt sang Siegfried in a dry, uncertain voice that faded behind the orchestra and only sometimes, on very important notes, soared out strong and heroically full. It's true that Schmidt has more presence here than in last fall's now-notorious Tristan and Isolde; it's also true that Schmidt's throat seems to have aged, or been forced, beyond its heldentenor prime.