I’m back from seeing the ENO production of The Rhinegold (sung in English). I should say, before uttering a word of criticism, that I enjoyed myself and wouldn’t disrecommend the experience at all. But, that said, this was a pretty weird staging. The opening scene takes place in a pole-dancing club, with dodgy businessman Alberich being teased by dancers in turquoise pvc mini-dresses. Alberich is sung by an Alexi Sayle lookalike (Andrew Shore) who does an excellent job of portraying the sexually-frustrated dwarf. The scene opens, though, with Alberich being encouraged to enter the club by property-developer Wotan and his PR-man and Mr Fixit, Loge. This addition, needless to say, has no textual warrant and, if taken seriously, would amount to a major distortion of the plot.
Scene two takes place in Wotan’s apartment and opens with Wotan in the bath. The dynamic between Wotan and Fricka may not have been modelled on Tony and Carmela Soprano (or JR and Sue Ellen), but it is hard to think that such comparisons weren’t somewhere in producer Phyllida Lloyd’s mind. The giants are played as construction engineers who brandish their plastic-bound copies of the contract as they demand payment for their work on Valhalla. Donner wears trainers and wields a baseball bat, Loge prefers subtler methods: you get the picture. One of the problems of staging such a modernized production is that it interferes with the suspension of disbelief. If everyone is dressed up in fantasy costumes then it is easier to take seriously the idea of Freia as an object of lust even if she is somewhat hefty. But if everything else looks like Dallas or the Sopranos then a Freia who doesn’t fit with the conventions of those dramas is incongruous.
As every Wagnerian knows, the descent into Nibelheim is accompanied by the repeated sound of hammers which evoke images of a Victorian mill (cf GB Shaw). In this production we have some kind of biotech lab in the basement of Wotan’s apartment block. The hordes of orange-suited slaves subject to Alberich’s arbitrary rule couldn’t help but remind me of Primo Levi’s account of Auschwitz which I’d just finished reading: an unhelpful association and a troubling one in the light Wagner’s extreme anti-semitism (I plan to post on Levi when I have some time). Arbitrary power, labour and cruelty were what made the connection for me, but possibly Phyllida Lloyd was trying to suggest an association with Guantanamo by orange-boiler-suiting the slaves. If that was in her mind, it was a stupid and opportunistic move. Despite the distracting associations, the quasi-Marxian theme of the workers in thrall to a power that they themselves work continuously to recreate, a power hostile to all genuinely human relationships came through. This was, anyway, a scene that worked dramatically. That can’t really be said of the final one.
Back in the Maison Soprano, Wotan and Loge have Alberich in their power and secure his gold and, finally the ring, by hacking off his finger. Unsurprisingly, Alberich, dripping blood and then smearing it on the walls, utters his curse (though surely he should be grateful not to be floating in the Hudson?) The giants return, demanding payment, but Wotan holds out for the ring. Having been warned by Erda (who stood in the middle of the auditorium being videoed by Loge with the image projected back onto the set!) he gives in, the giants fall out etc etc etc. The final innovation is that the gods now hold a self-promoting, self-justifying press conference, no doubt “categorically refuting all allegations” before heading over the rainbow bridge whist Loge hangs back, surreptitiously slipping a cassette tape to one of the press corps. At least this tells us that there is trouble ahead.
Musically, it was OK (no better) and the singing was so-so (Alberich was good). Loge impressed as an actor more than a singer and Wotan didn’t really have sufficient presence. But though this was generally an enjoyable evening and the production did succeed in making Wagner’s theme of the lust for power and its consequences plain, it did so in such a far too obvious and heavy-handed way. Subtle this was not. But it is a difficult opera to ruin and it is hard to beat the anticipation of the opening, the dramatic effect of the renunciation motif, the general beauty of the music. Like I said, I wouldn’t disrecommend and I’m keen to see how this production develops with The Valkyrie in May.
I keep filling out the surveys that my opera has (season ticket holders get customer-satisfaction surveys) in favor of Wagner. One of these days, there will be Wagner. On that day, I sincerely hope that the production involves chicks wearing metal breastplates and horned helmets. If there is Wagner that doesn’t involve chicks wearing metal breastplates and horned helmets, I will feel pretty gypped.
The guy who talked most about it on ‘Saturday Review,’ a great Wagner fan, really hated it.
I was so hoping this was a Brian Eno produced version of the Rhinegold. Well, you’ve seen his cover of “Here comes the Warm Jets.) A pole dancing scene in a Brian Eno production would not be out of the question.
Nevermind.
I’m tempted to say “That’s ENO for you”, but that would be unwarranted. Singing Wagner with English words does tend to put a damper on the vocal talent: all the diphthongs, schwa’s, etc.
Orange boiler suits don’t say Auschwitz to me, but then I haven’t read all of Levi.
What happened when Wotan got out of the bath? Was there a strategically positioned towel? Perhaps we were meant to deduce that the emperor had no clothes.
In a film, a bath scene is treated by cross-cutting; a staged production allows no such luxuries.
Tomd: No, I said it was arbitrary power, labour and cruelty that made me associate with Levi. The orange boiler suits were, I conjectured, supposed to make us think of Guantanamo (an idiotic suggestion if that’s what was intended).
There was a screen to cover W at first (which later got pulled back). He seemed to hang on to the towel very tightly indeed, though - and who can blame him!
Ah, OK. It’s rather difficult to portray Alberich at the head of his cowering, screaming Nibelung workforce without going big on the theme of arbitrary power and cruelty, then; boiler suits or no boiler suits.
The hordes of orange-suited slaves subject to Alberich’s arbitrary rule couldn’t help but remind me of Primo Levi’s account of Auschwitz
Surely the orange boiler suits in a quasi-industrial setting reminds one first and foremost of Oompa Loompas (although their jumpsuits were green and white).
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