A special promotion for June allows me (and anyone else in Berlin and under 30) to buy tickets to the Staatsoper for less than the price of a movie ticket!!! For four of the five performances I’ve attended to thus far, my 7 Euro have gotten me a full-view orchestra seat. The other time (for La Boheme), it got me pair of seats in the first ring, partial view but close to the stage. Seeing that there’s little authentic German fair being offered on the operatic stage these days, I’m trying to broaden my horizons and submerge myself into the Italian repertoire: and no, that doesn’t mean I’m seeing Traviata anytime soon, not even in German!
As mentioned in a pervious post, I managed to catch two Verdis in my first week here. A rather lopsided Rigoletto at the Komischer Oper (a tab bit pricier: 13.50 Euro) and a riveting if a little warped and mind-boggling La Forza del Destino. Accounting for much of the strangeness of the Rigoletto was the fact that the Komischer Oper only performs German works or works in translation; however, the Norwegian tenor who was supposed to sing the Duke that evening fell ill and had to be replaced with an energetic American who could only sing the role in Italian. The bilingual aspect of the performance made for much confusion, especially during choruses and duets. However, at least we got to hear “La Donna e Mobile” as Verdi intended. As for Martin Schüler’s production, it was an enthusiastic, playful updating – in a very German way: which is to say that there were tongue-and-cheek Eurotrash touches here and there and a ever-present threat of violence ready to explode (the Germans like their opera bloody!). To my chagrin - or perhaps to my relief - there was no senseless bloodletting.

The beautiful sets were also a tad confusing. The first act occurred on board a celebrity cruise-ship, complete with hoards of paparazzi and rock ‘n rollin’ tenors. Then for the second act, the scene shifted to Rigoletto’s landlocked house and garden. It isn’t until the Hopper-esque third act set that the audience realizes that the Duke’s ship is only docked. Among the cleverer touches were a juke-box playing a tinny recording of “La Donna e Mobile” before the actual aria and a creepy American-style diner with multi-colored fluorescent lights for the final acts. The singing was also pretty solid, with Bruno Balmelli and Valentina Farcas turning out accurate and powerful accounts of Rigoletto and his daughter. On the other hand, the “Italian” Duke, tended to ham things up, making for a crowd-pleasing but less-than-optimal performance.

What do rape, incest, half-naked children and a dismembered Pegasus have in common. Any guesses? They’re all elements of the Staatsopera’s recent revival of “La Forza del Destino.” Director Stefan Herheim has taken the fairly straightforward libretto and remade it into a horrifying fantasy picture book that takes place somewhere between dream and reality. It was a chilling, perplexing evening of extraordinary singing from…In what was perhaps a nod to Bunuel, Herheim has two different singers portray Leonore (only one, the capable Norma Fantini, sings the role). In other roles, Frank Porretta was a commanding and headstrong Don Alvaro, even if his belly was occasionally exposed to unintended comic effect. Alexander Vinogradov was dually-cast as the Marchese and the Padre, an interesting artistic choice which Herheim milked for all its twisted sexual possibilities. The sensual and coquettish Ekaterina Semenchuk also inhabited two roles: Preziosilla and Curra. As Leonore’s vengeful brother Don Carlo, Anthony Michaels-Moore was seething and in top form. In an inspired bit of meta-headiness, he engaged in some creative dueling with Porretta on a stage designed as the entrance to the Staatsoper. All in all, seeing such a straightforward and harmless opera turned completely on its head was a revelation. It was more than a reinterpretation, it was a reinvention, and a marvelous one at that.

OK, I admit that I’m a complete sap because ending of a recent performance of La Boheme at the Staatsoper had me in tears. Still, it’s pretty impossible not to be moved by Puccini’s stirringly romantic score: which is, by the by, much more through composed and modern than is often acknowledged. The production, by…did more than deliver the goods. It was a dynamic show that made inventive and unexpected use of the stage, especially during Act Two at Momus. As for the Bohemians themselves, their lifestyles seemed more representative of modern-day artists in East Berlin than their starving late 19th-century Parisians counterparts. Still, this did nothing to diminish the full melodramatic impact of the fairly plotless yet nonetheless captivating intrigue. Before the show, an announcement was made that the soprano Mary Mills, who was singing Mimi, was genuinely ill and begged the audience’s understanding. She did a superb job; if anything, the added effort it took to sing the role made her performance all the more convincing, the Rodolfo of Massimo Giordano was likewise terrific, although he often took a few bars to warm up at the beginning of an aria. In what was perhaps the production’s most effective touch, the opera was cast as the elderly Rodolfo’s memory. Before the orchestra sounds it’s first note, an elderly man walks on stage and shakes a snow-glode (apologies to Orson Welles). The silent man is forever lingering in the background. In the final scene, his presence becomes almost unbearably sad: he hovers in the corner, like the audience an unseen observer who knows all too well that all will end in tragedy, but can’t help but hope that Mimi might be saved.

Which brings me up to the present day. Tonight marked my first pseudo-German Opera-going experience (if you discount the concert perf of Rheingold at the Philharmonie); on a whim, I decided to catch a 7;30 of the Merry Widow. I’d actually tried desperately to see it last week, only to arrive 5 minutes late and have the usher whisper in my ear “Don’t worry, it’s a shitty opera anyway.” Well, it IS a shitty opera, or more accurately put, a shitty operetta. Still, this shitty operetta boasted a first-class class, featuring – among others - Germanic titans Siegfried Jerusalem and Peter-Jürgen Schmidt. The new production by Peter Mussbach, the artistic director of the Staatsoper, also piqued my interest. Well, I’m glad I decided to check it out, not because I can’t get that silly sentimental waltz out of my head, but rather because this was C-rate music sung by A-rate singers. The distinguished and elderly gentlemen that crowd around the wealthy widow, were all in top form: Mr. Jerusalem, Mr. Schmidt, Bernd Zettisch and Reiner Goldberg. Mr. Jerusalem was especially impressive as Danilo Danilovitch. His glory days as Siegfried may be gone, but he still has plenty of sweetness and brazen force in him yet. As the eponymous widow, the mezzo-soprano Nadja Michael was both vocally and physically radiant. She obviously had a lot of fun in this free-spirited production (somewhat inexplicably set in an airport) as she parachuted around, tiptoed on the wing of an airplane and went crowd-surfing with the airline-staff / chorus. All in all, the greatest thing about this production – aside from the wonderful singing – was that no one involved seemed to take it at all seriously. For the final scene, Mussbach even had the chorus dress up in penguin suits.

Das Rheingold

June 23, 2006 at 7:00pm
Berlin Philharmonic

Conductor:

    You don’t hear much from the Philharmonic these days in Berlin. For whatever reason, Sir Simon seems to be taking his orchestra elsewhere during the Weltmeisterschaft. However, both Sir Simon and the Phil were back with a vengeance on Friday night for a superlative concert performance of the first installment of Wagner’s Ring Cycle, “Das Rheingold.” For those craving some genuine Teutonic fare, the concert was a dream come true, especially this time of year, when the only other German opera being performed in Berlin is the Merry Widow!
    In a decision to which that Wagner would have given his approval, Sir Simon conducted the entire 2 1⁄2 hour work without intermission, and lent a new dimension to the concept of “Gesamtkunstwerk.” The setting, the intimate and expressionistic interior of the Philharmonic, was the perfect place to concentrate on the music alone. And the acoustics! Wow! Imagine hearing live opera in Dolby Digital Surround Sound.
    The moody prologue was taken ever so slowly, with soft, pulsating horns. Building deliberately and richly, the orchestra produced deep, ambient tones during the opening three minutes of unmodulating music. All was shimmering, and the roaming strings sounded extra-clear amid the gentle roaring of the rising horns.
The orchestra followed Sir Simon’s staid yet expressive directions expertly, responding with agility and well-calculated abandon. Sir Simon was dynamic yet steadfast. Nothing he did seemed accidental. There were many rich musical moments to an evening spent among the shimmering gold of the Rhine. Speaking of which, the gold theme materialized out of thin air. Sir Simon made every seamless thematic transition a magical transformation.
    The full and lush orchestra (no less than six harps and eight double-basses) was well supported by the powerful and well-cast singers. The first bold impressions were made by the Rhinemaidens. Sopranos Sarah Fox and Victoria Simmons were both smooth and candied, with especially nice texture from Simmons. Mezzo Katerina Gubanova rounded out the trio with added increased richness and heft. Dale Duesing sang Alberich with equal shares of sympathy and villainy. Though the orchestra could overpower him, his deep yet soft bass held him in good stead.
    The mezzo Lilli Paasiviki sang Fricka with old-fashioned flourishes and classical grace. Her sharp and forceful account was full of determination. Far from the nagging wife, her voice quivered with righteous anger during her fierce soliloquy as soulful cellos supported her. The booming bass of the exceptional Willard D. White was well heard over the massive orchestra, even while seated. His stern and bitter account was a far cry from the more endearing and paternal Wotan of James Morris. Singing in the first act with voices full of sadness and defeat, the gods made a melancholy pair. This in contrast to Mireille Delunsch’s wild, impassioned Freia. The French (check) soprano made a stirring impact as her impossibly powerful voice filled the hall.
    The orchestra mustered a harsh and chilling entrance for the giants Fasolt (Evgeny Nikitin) and Fafner (Alfred Reiter), a menacing and booming pair. The cunning Loge of Robert Gambill was a welcome counterbalance to their ire. Wearing tails, Mr. Gambill nearly stole the show as a jovial, dandyish Loge. His forceful tenor grew soft and pleasant in his more diplomatic moments. Later he grew increasingly fiery, threatening even.
During orchestral interludes, Sir Simon let the orchestra play unhinged, playing at a volume that would be illegal in New York. The deafening roar of the orchestra was only outdone by the forging of the ring, a clanging of timpani and chimes from no less than 5 persussionists. It took a minute for one’s ears to adjust to Albricht, empowered by the ring and back with a vengeance. As Mime, tenor Buckhard Ulrich played Mime with pathos and tenderness. In their scenes together, Duesing grew a trifle raspy while beating Mime and in an otherwise superbly powerful and crazed megalomaniacal monologue. Ulrich in turn whimpered quite pathetically and mellifluously.
    In the final act, Anna Larsson lent her caressing voice to her role as Erde, the prophetess of doom. She was impressively at home in her lower range. Rounding out the cast of Gods were Donner (Detlef Roth) and Froh (Joseph Kaiser), both of whom made strong impressions with their closing monologues.

MITTE - BERLIN

    What city other than Berlin has three full time opera houses going strong until mid-July? Admittedly, this year the World Cup has taken a toll on the city’s operatic landscape, tempting the Deutsche Oper (the sole opera house in the West: a hideous and clinical edifice more the size of the Met that a traditional European opera house) to close down until mid-July for renovations. The city’s other two houses, The Staatsoper Unter den Linden and the Komischer Oper are sticking it through and presenting ambitious end of season offerings.

    Of the two opera houses in the East, the Staatsoper is by far the more formal and refined. It is also the home of the Staatsballett and the Staatskapelle, which is by Daniel Barenboim. In what looks like a WM-inspired promotion, the Staatsoper is offering 7 Euro tickets for all its July performances. The tickets are orchestra prime and  can be purchased by anyone under 30. Summer highlights at the Staatsoper include a new production of “The Merry Widow” (which premiered last night) and an exceptional “Carmen”, with Barenboim conducting Rolando Villazon and Marina Domashenko, in early July.

   The Komische Oper, right around the corner from the Staatsoper, is known for its edgier and more daring productions. It also exclusively presents works in German or German translation. Currently, they seem to be going for a Russian flavor, with productions of Shostakovich’s “Lady Macbeth of Mizensk,” Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Coq D’Or” and Prokofiev’s “Love of Three Oranges.” The highlight of the summer is mini-Mozart 250 festival in July that includes “Cosi fan Tutte,” “The Marriage of Figaro” and Peter Konwitschny’s notorious productions of “Don Giovanni.” Conspicuously – though understandably - absent from this selection is Calixto Bieito’s vile, offense and sold-out production of “The Abduction from the Seraglio” which is perhaps the first NC-17 rated opera (an asterisk on the calendar denotes that no one under 18 will be allowed in). For that, you’ll need to come back next June.

    My one unpleasant surprise on finding myself in this land of opera-mania is the regrettable dearth of genuine German fair. The only two bona fide German works at either house are the “Merry Widow” and “Der Freischütz.” Still, when Berlin does Italian opera, it does so with a German accent that can - at times - be a trifle hard to comprehend. In the two weeks I’ve been here, I’ve managed to make my way twice to the Staatsoper, for “L’elisir d’amore” and “La forza del destino,” and once to the Komische Oper (last night as a matter of fact!) for “Rigoletto.”

Let’s go chronologically, starting with Donizetti and then working our way up to early and middle Verdi.

“L’elisir d’amore” is a fast and witty helium-filled opera best known for the riveting act three aria, “Una Furtiva Lagrima” the aching and somber tone of which inhabits a different dramatic universe than the rest of the work. The ironic little plot concerns a young builder, Nemorino, hopelessly in love with the beautiful Adina, who is playfully engaged to the soldier Belcore. A charlatan, Dulcamara, comes to town peddling various elixirs and magical potions. Desperate, Nemorino spends his last dime of the love-elixir. When Adina announces her marriage to Belcore, he suckers Nemorino into joining the army in order to afford a second bottle of the elixir. When Adina learns of Belcore’s cruelty, she calls off the wedding. Nemorino thinks his sudden luck is the work of Dulcamara’s love potion. Not surprisingly, Nemerino and Adina live happily every after.

All four leads made strong impressions and helped to make up for the ridiculous and clumsy production by filmmaker Percy Adlon (“Baghdad Café”). The soprano Anna Samuil was a feisty and agile Adina and provided most of the evening’s vocal fireworks. Pavol Breslik made a weak impression early on as Nemorino but warmed up quickly. A youthful yet robust singer, he may have been saving himself for “Una Furtiva Lagrima,” which he carried beautifully. As the criminal yet lovable Dulcamara, the baritone Natale de Carolis was powerful and energetic, both vocally and physically. A notch or two below his compatriots was Alfredo Daza as Belcore. He did respectable work especially in his ostentatious wooing, but was often upstaged by the other cast members.

The chorus sang decently, at least as decently as can be expected given the haphazard and chaotic nature of this production, which was a grab bag of mix-matched props and costumes. Still, there were a few effective touches, such as a “Tristan und Isolde” comic book that Adina read during the opening scene and a heart-shaped trailer for Dulcamara’s medicine cabinet.

In the pit, Vello Pähn led the Staatskapelle in a clear and sober account the tuneful score. If only Percy Adlon had shown similar respect and restraint.

PRENZLAUER BERG, BERLIN

I’ve come down with a bad case of Fußballfieber. It’s hard not to in a city where excitement over the World Cup (Weltmeiterschaft) is so charged. The ubiquity of soccer mania can at times be overwhelming, from the sport-related exhibits in the city’s most famous museums - including the Pergamon, the German Historical Museum and the Jewish Museum – to the German flags that hang from every balcony and storefront, to the busloads and busloads of tourists that arrive here everyday and march around piss-ass drunk in the U-Bahn chanting various victory songs at all hours of the night. Surrounded by all this, it’s not surprising that I’ve developed a dilettantish yet eager fascination with the progress of Team USA.

Here’s my first WM experience. I walked with a couple friends to the maximum security zone by the Brandenburg Gate (rechristened the Brandenburger Tooooooooooooooor!!!!) where a ginormous screen was set up for the opening game: Germany vs. Costa Rica. We came a little after half time and Germany scored 2 goals as I weaseled around capturing the enthusiastic crowd with my Leica. The sheer mass of people all cheering in unison was overwhelming. The effect, however, was somewhat dampened by fight that erupted nearby between a spotty-faced teen and a skinhead type draped in a German flag that ended with the police intervening and arresting the culprit. But despite the arrest, Germany was victorious. We walked back towards Friedrichsstraße amid cheers of “Deutschland!! Deutschland!!” and firecrackers that exploded without warning in the middle of the street (including one right by the American Embassy). All this aggressive Teutonic fervor – as apolitical as it was - left me feeling a tad apprehensive.   
 
The following week, I nearly wept with embarrassment as I watched the US get ass-raped by the Czech Republic from a quaint pizzeria in Mitte. I didn’t bother staying for the final minutes, as a rather heated fight, complete with colorful German curses and even a bit of strangling, broke out by the counter.
I kept tabs on the WM, peering into a restaurant near the Goethe Institut every day during our recess to chart the teams’ progress. The only other game I really can claim to have been truly invested in was the Togo – South Korea match of which I could only catch a few moments little during class. I soon learnt that America was next facing off again Italy, which pretty meant America could give up any and all hope of advancing past the first round.

Then, last night as I rode back to Prenzlauer Berg from the Komischer Oper (where I saw Rigoletto in a sloppy mix of German and Italian), I peered into a Kneipe (bar) on the Kastanienallee and saw that the American game was on and well into it’s second half. I also noticed something that astounded me: the score was 1:1. I sped to a bar / restaurant on the Helmholtzplatz called Houdini and watched the final 20 minutes over a tall glass of Hefeweizen and a few cigarettes.

Now I’m hardly the type to get emotional and teary about sports, but my heart started beating out of my chest whenever it looked like Italy was going to score a goal. Thank God for American Goalie, Kasey Keller, who made two amazing saves in the last 15 minutes. Admittedly, the Italians had much better form than us, but we managed pretty damn consistently to repel the ball.  Finally, the tense and anguishing game ended with neither side having scored a second goal and what I felt was more relief than jubilation.

After the game, I finally got to see the sole goal that the US scored, or rather the goal that Italy’s Cristian Zaccardo made for the Americans (boy, I’d hate to be him tonight!). It was amusing all right, but not nearly as amusing as the antics that ensured on the after-game commentary, broadcast from Potsdamer Platz, which culminated in the commentators trying to kick Adidas’ ultra-round soccer balls through cardboard-cutout goals.