Schlingensief does Lost Braunfels Opera Few Favors
Originally Published at Operanews.com
Walter Braunfels (1882–1954), a German composer labeled "degenerate" by the Nazis, is receiving a belated rehabilitation at the hands of Deutsche Oper Berlin, which pulled out all the stops for the world stage premiere of the composer's 1942 opera Jeanne d'Arc — Szenen aus dem Leben der Heiligen Johanna (Joan of Arc — Scenes from the Life of St. Joan). There might be better news to report, however, had Deutsche Oper not decided to recruit one of the most controversial figures in opera today, Christoph Schlingensief, to stage this production (seen May 2).
Schlingensief gained the opera world's attention in 2004 with a staging of Parsifal at Bayreuth that included time-lapse footage of decomposing rabbits. Schlingensief's preparations for Johanna brought him to Nepal, where he took copious video of corpses being ceremoniously burned along the Ganges. That footage, projected across the entire stage for the better part of the evening, was but one element of a crude, chaotic and baffling production that made it exceedingly difficult to enjoy Braunfels's fascinating score.
Braunfels was a popular opera composer in 1920s Germany. After World War II, he enjoyed a successful career as an academic, but his predominantly tonal musical style was considered old-fashioned. Braunfels never again found success as a composer.
In the last fifteen years, there has been a slight renaissance of interest in Braunfels. Johanna, which Braunfels worked on from 1938 to 1942, was first heard in Stockholm in 2001, in a concert performance conducted by Manfred Honeck. Even without Schlingensief's overreaching production, this remains a fairly ambitious opera, with more than twenty singing roles and extensive choral writing. There was some unimpeachable singing to be heard at DOB, especially from Lenus Carlson as Trémouille and Paul McNamara as St. Michael. Daniel Kirsch was a sympathetic and slightly pathetic Dauphin, especially in his opening aria, an introspective number worthy of Verdi. Morten Frank Larsen was in fine form as well, as Gilles de Rais, Joan's staunchest supporter. As the Maid of Orleans herself, Mary Mills played her role to a fever pitch, with a raw, exposed sound that was always honest if not always accurate. She was brazen and fearless, even if her high notes were somewhat strident.
However, the fine voices were visually overwhelmed by the frequently rotating sets of hospital rooms and funeral pyres, onto which were projected multiple images of burning corpses. This production suffered from an acute case of ADD: nothing was allowed to stay still, not even for a moment. Cows, goats and sheep were paraded across the stage. A row of young boys was ritually circumcised, or possibly castrated. An epileptic, emaciated mime twitched across the stage, smearing himself with blood. A midget wearing a red raincoat (à la Nicholas Roeg's Don't Look Now) accompanied the English soldiers who apprehend Joan.
A tight, eight-scene structure makes Johanna feel at times like an oratorio — in particular, a Passion — with its frequent alternation between clearly demarcated arias, arioso-like outpouring and extensive choruses. Dramatically speaking, the scenes are disjointed and often take on the character of chamber operas strung together by virtue of musical cues and motifs. This is music that is deeply scarred and fragmented, even if it does aspire to Wagnerian totality. The score serves a graphically illustrative purpose to Braunfel's own libretto (based on the trial transcripts from 1431), which was hopelessly blurred by Schlingensief's mess of a production.
All in all, it is wildly diverse music that evokes many different epochs. One surely hears the influence of Wagner and Verdi, but Weill and Hindemith poke through as well. There are jazzy horns and jaunty clarinets. The trumpet call that awakens Joan to her mission brings to mind Ives's "Unanswered Question." Bach and Telemann also echo in the devout and liturgical phrases. In the more rapturous moments, one feels the sweep of Berlioz, and in the expansive orchestral interludes, one finds hints of Richard Strauss.
In the pit, Ulf Schirmer conducted with a great deal of muscle and zest. The chorus of the DOB and the Staats- und Domchor Berlin (a renowned boy's choir that dates from 1465) were well coordinated and effective, despite the strange configurations in which they were placed.
Schlingensief gained the opera world's attention in 2004 with a staging of Parsifal at Bayreuth that included time-lapse footage of decomposing rabbits. Schlingensief's preparations for Johanna brought him to Nepal, where he took copious video of corpses being ceremoniously burned along the Ganges. That footage, projected across the entire stage for the better part of the evening, was but one element of a crude, chaotic and baffling production that made it exceedingly difficult to enjoy Braunfels's fascinating score.
Braunfels was a popular opera composer in 1920s Germany. After World War II, he enjoyed a successful career as an academic, but his predominantly tonal musical style was considered old-fashioned. Braunfels never again found success as a composer.
In the last fifteen years, there has been a slight renaissance of interest in Braunfels. Johanna, which Braunfels worked on from 1938 to 1942, was first heard in Stockholm in 2001, in a concert performance conducted by Manfred Honeck. Even without Schlingensief's overreaching production, this remains a fairly ambitious opera, with more than twenty singing roles and extensive choral writing. There was some unimpeachable singing to be heard at DOB, especially from Lenus Carlson as Trémouille and Paul McNamara as St. Michael. Daniel Kirsch was a sympathetic and slightly pathetic Dauphin, especially in his opening aria, an introspective number worthy of Verdi. Morten Frank Larsen was in fine form as well, as Gilles de Rais, Joan's staunchest supporter. As the Maid of Orleans herself, Mary Mills played her role to a fever pitch, with a raw, exposed sound that was always honest if not always accurate. She was brazen and fearless, even if her high notes were somewhat strident.
However, the fine voices were visually overwhelmed by the frequently rotating sets of hospital rooms and funeral pyres, onto which were projected multiple images of burning corpses. This production suffered from an acute case of ADD: nothing was allowed to stay still, not even for a moment. Cows, goats and sheep were paraded across the stage. A row of young boys was ritually circumcised, or possibly castrated. An epileptic, emaciated mime twitched across the stage, smearing himself with blood. A midget wearing a red raincoat (à la Nicholas Roeg's Don't Look Now) accompanied the English soldiers who apprehend Joan.
A tight, eight-scene structure makes Johanna feel at times like an oratorio — in particular, a Passion — with its frequent alternation between clearly demarcated arias, arioso-like outpouring and extensive choruses. Dramatically speaking, the scenes are disjointed and often take on the character of chamber operas strung together by virtue of musical cues and motifs. This is music that is deeply scarred and fragmented, even if it does aspire to Wagnerian totality. The score serves a graphically illustrative purpose to Braunfel's own libretto (based on the trial transcripts from 1431), which was hopelessly blurred by Schlingensief's mess of a production.
All in all, it is wildly diverse music that evokes many different epochs. One surely hears the influence of Wagner and Verdi, but Weill and Hindemith poke through as well. There are jazzy horns and jaunty clarinets. The trumpet call that awakens Joan to her mission brings to mind Ives's "Unanswered Question." Bach and Telemann also echo in the devout and liturgical phrases. In the more rapturous moments, one feels the sweep of Berlioz, and in the expansive orchestral interludes, one finds hints of Richard Strauss.
In the pit, Ulf Schirmer conducted with a great deal of muscle and zest. The chorus of the DOB and the Staats- und Domchor Berlin (a renowned boy's choir that dates from 1465) were well coordinated and effective, despite the strange configurations in which they were placed.
