Out of an increasing sense of frustration at not being able to access the WSJ’s website sans subscription, I’m posting my article of August  23, 2006 on Bertolt Brecht.  (http://online.wsj.com/article/SB115628846460042784-search.html?KEYWORDS=Echt+Brecht%3A+A+Festival+in+Berlin&COLLECTION=wsjie/6month)

By A.J. GOLDMANN
August 23, 2006; Page D10
 

Berlin

Visiting this city in the early 1920s, Bertolt Brecht observed:  “The swindle of Berlin distinguishes itself from all other swindles through its breathtaking  shamelessness.” Sprawling, chaotic and artistically charged, Berlin was Brecht’s  kind of town and exerted such an influence on the young playwright that his  name practically became synonymous with the German capital. It was an  association that would last Brecht’s whole life.

It was here that he experienced his most staggering prewar successes  before fleeing Hitler in 1933, and to which he returned 15 years later at the  invitation of the East German government. It was here that he died 50 years  ago this month. Little surprise, then, that Berlin should be the center of this year’s  Brecht celebrations. In this atmosphere of adulation, it’s easy to forget the  controversies that continue to surround Brecht’s life and work, including his  politics and the disputed authorship of his plays.
 Although it’s a conventional staging of “The  Threepenny Opera,” the production at the Admiralspalast is packing  them in thanks to punk rocker Campino (left), who plays Mack the Knife.

A disappointingly conventional staging of “The Three-penny Opera” directed by Klaus Maria Brandauer, the Austrian actor best known  for the films “Mephisto” and “Out of Africa,” is lacking  in dramatic momentum. But the production, at the lush Admiralspalast, is  packing them in thanks to an all-star cast headed by the German punk rocker  Campino as Mack the Knife. In a bizarre promotional tie-in, the production  has teamed up with Strassenfeger (Street Sweeper), a newspaper sold by  beggars throughout the city. The paper devoted an entire issue to the production; it also serves as the de facto playbill.

The bulk of the festivities of the “Brecht Summer” are  being supplied by the Berliner Ensemble, which Brecht founded in 1949, at the  Theater am Schiffbauerdamm — the site of “Three-penny’s” 1928  premiere. The “Brecht-Fest” (until Sept. 3) offers a marathon of 76  plays, readings, lectures, film screenings and concerts, including all of  Brecht’s major works.

One of the high points is a shattering production of “Mother Courage and Her Children,” Brecht’s chronicle play about a war profiteer  who pays for her success with the lives of her children. Directed by the  Berliner Ensemble’s artistic director, Claus Peymann, it stars the riveting Carmen-Maja Antoni in the title role. Other highlights include guest  performances from Barcelona, Nice, Tokyo and Florence.

In an interview with the Berlin  daily BZ, Mr. Peymann called Brecht Germany’s “dramatic Himalaya”: “He is  possibly the only German playwright who truly has enjoyed world-wide  success.” He feels Brecht’s popularity is linked to his critique of a corrupt society, which continues to reverberate in today’s world.  “People are afraid, looking for meaning. Back then Germany was  also plagued by unemployment and economic uncertainty; politics were corrupt  and the banks were for sale.”

Brecht’s themes help make him, along with Chekhov, one of the most  frequently performed 20th-century playwrights. The first Paris  production of “Mother Courage” in 1954 gained immediacy in light of  the French defeat at Dien Bien Phu. Those  viewing “Mother Courage” today can find parallels to the war in Iraq.

But debate surrounds Brecht the artist and the man. Over the years,  scholars have pointed to other writers who had a hand in many of Brecht’s  best-known works. John Fuegi, a professor at the University of Maryland  and founder of the International Brecht Society, argued in his 1994  “Brecht & Co.” that a series of remarkable women who worked  with Brecht should be given their due.

Citing Brecht’s own admission that he had a “fundamental laxity  in questions of intellectual property,” Prof. Fuegi said that Brecht  marketed himself aggressively and negotiated lucrative publishing deals,  often at the expense of his collaborators. His book makes the claim, for  instance, that 80% of “The Threepenny Opera” was actually written by Brecht’s lover and frequent collaborator Elisabeth Hauptmann.  Unexpectedly, an article in Strassenfeger details her contribution to  “Threepenny” and suggests that her name be listed alongside those  of Brecht and Weill.

Carl Weber, a professor of drama at Stanford University  and a directing assistant with Brecht in the 1950s, dismisses Prof. Fuegi’s  conclusions. He says that while Brecht did believe in a sort of  “collective authorship,” the key ideas were Brecht’s. Prof. Weber praises the “brilliant women” who worked on many Brecht plays as  strong and loyal, rather than as the victims Prof. Fuegi portrays.

Questions of authorship aside, the impact that Brecht has had on  theater, film and literature is undisputed. The director Peter Brook once  said, “Brecht is the key figure of our time, and all theater work today  at some point starts or returns to his statements and achievements.”  Brecht’s dismantling of classical dramatic form is seen overtly in the work  of Tony Kushner, whose “‘Angels in America’ has a very Brechtian  structure,” Prof. Weber says.

Although Brecht himself shied away from it in later years, his  technique of “Verfremdung”  (alienation) continues to inspire and provoke. It is a tool to make an audience think critically about what it is watching on stage, but not to the  exclusion of emotional attachment. “The audience of a Brecht play is  emotionally connected” before that connection is severed through ironic  means, Prof. Weber says. Strategies such as hanging explanatory placards onstage  and leaving stage machinery visible have inspired artists as varied as Trevor  Nunn, Jean-Luc Godard, Robert Wilson, Peter Handke and, more recently, the  Danish filmmaker Lars von Trier.

Despite this influence, Brecht’s reputation in the West was for a  long time tainted by his commitment to communism. Prof. Weber is glad for the  greater embrace of Brecht’s varied body of work since the end of the Cold  War. “His plays have been liberated,” he says.

Mr. Goldmann  writes on culture from Berlin and New York.
 

Now that the World Cup’s over, one can finally enjoy some culture without feeling like one’s betraying a national pastime. This past week, I admit, I haven’t had much time to spare. I did manage to find 5 free hours in which to enjoy Frank Castorf’s visceral and lurid production of “Berlin Alexanderplatz” at the Volkbühne. I also finally made it to the movies to see “Das Leben der Anderen,” an effective though problematic drama about the Stasi.. I did try, try my hardest, to score a ticket to the Staatsoper’s final opera of the season, Carmen, conducted by Barenboim with Domashenko and Villazon singing the leads. Needless to say, it was hopelessly ausverkauft (sold out). In the art department, I managed to get to the Neue Nationalgalerie for its Berlin-Tokyo, Tokyo-Berlin show.

Let me begin with Berlin Alexanderplatz, which I lived on Monday evening from 7pm till midnight. There are two film versions of the novel by Alfred Döblin; the first, from 1931 with a script co-authored by Döblin runs at 88minutes; the second, from 1982 by R.W. Fassbinder runs at a whopping 15 ½ hours. Frank Castorf’s stage adaptation, which returned to the Volksbühne am Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz last week for four performances, falls somewhere in the middle of these two extremes at 5 hours. In the novel(which remains half-unread by me) Franz Biberkopf, freshly released from prison suffers alienation and estrangement in the new Berlin. Suffer he does. And in Frank Castorf’s stage adaptation, so does the audience, through hours of murder, violence, nudity, sex, shouted German, reckless driving and barbequing. Quite a combination, no? The Volksbühne is undergoing a seemingly eternal renovation. It was difficult to tell where exactly in the auditorium the production was being held. The stage itself was long and narrow, consisting of 4 different locales and utilizing the actual theater’s stairs. (Bikes were thrown down the stairs, as were women and like objects). The audience sat elevated above a rather wet floor that the actors constantly skidded across, splashing water this way and that. Not all of the three sets, two prefab homes and an imbiss, were visible to the audience at any given time. To correct this problem, a video feed was projected onto a screen at the far end of the theater. Now, none of my German teachers here or in the States have ever shouted at me in German, so my comprehension of shouted-German remains rather shaky. I’d estimate that 50 – 60% of this production was shouted (close to 3 hours that is). I’d say that I half understood the remaining, spoken 40%; which is to say, that all told I understood about 1/5th of the performance or 1 hour out of 5. The rest I was left to puzzle out on my own and try and make sense of from the chaotic goings-on onstage. If nothing else, the sheer physicality of the performances was reason alone to see this production. Every member of this smallish cast gave their all, resulting in harsh, gutsy and impassioned performances that in a sense transcended all linguistic barriers. The onstage violence was rather pervasive and it hardly came as a surprise to see so many black-and-blue marks developing on the actress’ legs as the evening wore on.

One of the most talked-about German films of the year is “Das Leben Der Anderen,” a drama about the Stasi that is a heavy dose of anti-Ostalgie. Set in the waning days of the DDR, it tells of a famous East German playwright whose potentially subversive artistic collaborations and activities becomes a source of interest to the Stasi. What makes the film so interesting is that it’s main character is not the playwright, but rather the Stasi officer who spends years overhearing his every conversation from the attic above the playwright’s apartment. Though initially an incorruptible civil servant, the Stasi officer begins to take an interest in the playwright’s affairs. We see how lonely and pathetic the Stasti’s life is (the one thing that brings him a little pleasure is fucking a giant Russian prostitute) and understand his motives for intervening to save the playwright (and a work-in-progress) from the state’s wrath. As intriguing a premise as this is, the film lags heavily in places and has an absurd deus ex machina denouement that feels horribly out-of-place in such a quiet and plausible film. It would surprise me greatly if the film made it to the U.S. anytime soon. While the subject matter is certainly on interest, the pacing would surely bore even the most sophisticated of New Yorkers to tears.

The Neue Nationalgalerie’s current exhibit “Berlin – Tokyo, Tokyo – Berlin” reveals a century long artistic exchange between the two cities. Unfortunately for the museum, much of this exchange seems a tad one-sided, with Tokyo importing much in the way of style and technology from Berlin. The most compelling evidence for genuine influence from Tokyo to Berlin came at the beginning of the exhibit, with a display of German artists (including members of the Blaue Reiter) taking an interest in oriental patterns and themes. But then again, this was the case throughout much of fin-du-siècle Europe, with artists as diverse as Puccini, Gilber and Sullivan and Aubrey Beardsley imitating and importing styles from the far-east in ways that often strike the 21st century viewer as less-than-political-correct. Some of the most interesting material included comparisons between the Japanese and German “Modern Woman” of the 20s and seeing how the style of the flapper made it over rather sexily to Japan. Also on display were models of Japanese-style palaces by leading members of the Bauhaus. And of course, strangeness abounded on the video displays of Josef Bouys’ collaborations with Nam Jun Paik. Indeed, what would an art show in Berlin be without a bit of Bouysian eccentricity?

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.

The Gladiators (New Yorker Films, $29.95)

The Kubrickian premise of Peter Watkins’ futuristic film concerns the International Peace Games, military games modeled after the gladiatorial matches of ancient Rome and broadcast on television. The purpose is to subvert mankind’s naturally destructive impulse and channel it into a highly controlled environment where both sides, the Western Team and the Communist Team, will get their share of blood. However, this fascinating premise doesn’t ever deliver. The quasi-love story that develops between members of the opposing teams is treated far too superficially. The film is in a smattering of Swedish, English, French, and Chinese, and Watkins tries his hardest to disconcert by hurling surreal and grizzly surprises at the viewer. Viewed alongside Watkins’ other works, this earlier attempt from the socially conscious mockumentarian is surprisingly naive and even incoherent. While no doubt jolting and unnerving, the film lacks the incendiary and immediate tone of Punishment Park and the pensive, meditative quality of Edvard Munch.

Werckmeister Harmonies (Facets, $29.95)

Bela Tarr’s 2000 feature film, Werckmeister Harmonies, is an incredibly stylized work that feels both ancient and timeless and has a uniquely meditative pace and dreamlike quality. The loose narrative concerns an isolated town somewhere in Hungary and a traveling circus that arrives with a dead whale and a mysterious figure known simply as “the prince,” who incites the townsfolk to violence. We see the film mostly through the lens of a central character, Valuska, a poetic simpleton who is fascinated with the orbiting of the heavenly bodies. As the film develops at its own unhurried pace, violence of an apocalyptic order erupts on the screen: here are many scenes of extraordinary power, captured in wide and luminous black and white. The cinematography, coupled with Tarr’s delicate application of light and music, is especially effective. The result is the type of heightened aesthetic experience that Tarr so consciously denies the viewer in his film Family Nest. While decidedly not light entertainment, Werckmeister Harmonies is an indelible film that rewards close viewing.

Kind Hearts and Coronets (Criterion, $39.95)

This tale of an amoral would-be aristocrat who kills off the members of his distant family to inherit a dukedom is the most savage comedy to come out of Britain’s Ealing Studios. It also ranks with The Ruling Class as one of the most wicked attacks on the British aristocracy. Dennis Price stars as the charming rogue, and Alec Guinness as the eight members of the D’Ascoyne family who stand in the way of Price’s fortune. Despite superlative performances from the two leading men and an infinitely clever script, the supporting performances are rather wooden and laughable. But this hardly factors in calculating the film’s diabolical fun. The film’s acid bite doesn’t wear off easily, and the irony is so pervasive that one positively shudders to think it was made in 1949. Criterion’s two-disc set presents the film in a stunning new transfer. Extra features include the alternative American ending that was added to comply with production code regulations that crime shouldn’t be seen to pay off. The history of Ealing Studios is entertainingly chronicled in a BBC program on the second disc.

Three seasons ago the New York City Opera unveiled a well-cast yet woefully unimaginative and insipid new production of Don Giovanni. Gratitude is in order, then, that City has brought back their classic Harold Prince production in time for Mozart’s big birthday. This is the Don to catch in Mozart’s centenary year, in New York at least. The cast they have assembled is solid and impressive. Perhaps none more so that the Don himself.

It is unusual to find a singer who so completely fits into the Don’s imposing shoes; but Christopher Schaldenbrand was such a Don. He made a devilishly fun-loving Don who swaggered and strutted with the assurance of a man known the world over as a great lover. He had a lovely voice too, even if he could stand to be a bit louder in crucial moments, including the champagne aria.

Making his City Opera debut as Leporello was the energetic and eager Robert Gierlach. His powerful bass and pleasant demeanor made him a stand out, if not the star of the evening. He had his share of weak spots early on, seeming shaky at times, which might have been due to nerves. Returning to city after his success last year in Bizet’s “Pear Fishers” was the affecting lyric tenor Yeghishe Manucharyan as Don Ottavio. For pure vocal beauty, he undoubtedly won first prize. There was no moment more glorious than the slow, luxuriant lullaby of his “Dalla Sua Pace.” Rounding out the male cast was Brian Mulligan as a lovable and bubbling Masetto and the commanding Brian Jauhiainen as a particularly stern Commendantore.       

The women didn’t disappoint either. The Irish soprano Orla Boylan made an impact as a powerful and vindictive Donna Anna. In her debut, Elizabeth Caballero was a suitably tender yet weak-willed Donna Elvira. Both singers reached all their high notes admirably and managed to lend a human warmth and dignity to their characters. Hanan Alattar’s Zerlina, while for the most part solid, seemed to be trying too hard with an overdone vibrato. She came through where it mattered, though, notably in “Là ci darem la mano.”

Hal Prince’s theatrically gloomy sets are a bit shaky but this classic, well-worn production still has a certain timeless charm. In the pit, Steven Mosteller led the musicians in a careful account of the score, highlighting the winds and softening the strings. Solid and assured musicianship rounded out a pleasant and satisfying evening.

Mark Lamos’ schizophrenic production of Handel’s “Acis and Galatea” returned to the New York City Opera on Easter Sunday for four performances only. City has assembled such a delightful cast that its really a pity they’re using this ill-conceived and confusing production. All four leads were making their company debut and their wonderful efforts would really have been better served by a production less silly and more coherent. 

The intrigue of the opera is drawn from an episode in Ovid’s “Metamorphoses.” Lamos’ production updates the myth to a 1950s pool party. The men wear sailor shirts and the women bathing caps as they play with enormous beach balls.  The set consists of a large glittering green rock on which reclines a giant blue statue of Cupid. The backdrop is a tacky fence of blue plastic; trees apparently made from tin foil crowd upper stage left.

The affecting tenor Philippe Castagner portrayed Acis with delicacy and assurance. His voice, while pleasant, lacked power in places, warbling at the top of his range. He was a physically dynamic performer and his brightest moment came during “Love sounds the alarm.” As bright as he was, he was outshone by Nicholas Phan, who played Acis’ boon companion Damon. In this production, the homoeroticism between the two men was played to the hilt (and not that effectively). Of the two, Phan had the bigger and sweeter voice, as well as a touching vibrato. 

At the heart of this sexy production was the pleasant and sensual Sarah Jane McMahon as Galatea. Though her voice rarely faltered, she was guilty of overdoing her sensuality and never missed an opportunity to show off her lovely legs.

Jason Hardy made a thrilling entrance in the second act as the villainous Polyphemus, who kills Acis out of jealousy for Galatea. His voice is one of the main reasons to see this production, yet Lamos provided him the most preposterous of get-ups: Imagine if the Little Prince grew up to become a mad scientist. His Polyphemus also seemed to have taken lessons from both the Ministry of Silly Walks and Michael Jackson. As he began his ridiculous cavorting, the audience was understandably confused. As it became clear that the comedic effect was intentional, the house was in stitches. Hardy sang with complete conviction and accuracy, but his absurd costume and affect certainly made his vocal power all the harder to appreiciate.

In this colorful yet flippant production, the chorus seemed especially poorly direction, both in the unintentionally hilarious “Happy, Happy” and as they shuffled around like a pack of frightened chickens before Polyphemus’ entrance.

The conductor Ransom Wilson, making his City debut, led the players in a brisk and springy account of the important Handel score. While solid overall, some more detail in the winds (especially during the overture) would have been nice. In the second act, Wilson catered to the darker, more somber elements of the score and achieved a requiem-like effect.