DAS RHEINGOLD, DON GIOVANNI & THE BRAND INQUISITORS

"The desire to be loved is the last illusion. Give it up and you will be free." - Margaret Atwood

Watching Royal Opera's new production of Wagner's 'Das Rheingold', kicking off their 2020's Ring Cycle for the House, I couldn't shake off the idea that the Rheingold of our modern age is the internet and whoever has control over that has almost total control over the world just like Alberich, Fafner and Hagen all desperately hope to gain. It's clear to see that Mark Zuckerberg, Bill Gates and Tim Cook are all vying for ultimate domination and man-child Trump is the Orange Siegfried who they must destroy at any cost as he once toothlessly threatened to break up their technocratic oligarchy. Not that any illusion to my unsubtle contemporary analogy played out in this new production at ROH but it was a thought that came to mind which reminded me just how timeless Wagner's fourteen-hour epic remains. Say what you want about Wagner the man, but Wagner the artist knew the secret to unlocking the universal in art just as Shakespeare and the Greeks did before him.

The action on stage began before even a note was played in the orchestra pit as the withered, aged figure of Erda (Rose Knox Peebles) walked naked across the stage until eventually stopping dead still like a Lucian Freud nude and began spinning slowly on a small revolve as the karmic golden thread of the Nibelungen unraveled in front of our eyes. It was a mesmerizing piece of direction by Barrie Kosky that set the tone prior to the famous Eb major emerging out of the ether like some cosmic, musical incantation.

In fact, the omnipresent Erda (Mother Earth) was used to such a startling effect throughout that she even managed to dwarf Wotan and the giants (who ironically weren't giant-sized in this production). Watching her ancient body being drained by Alberich and Mime in a cyberpunk scene where they had long pipes attached to her depleted breasts, acted as both a perfect eco metaphor and continuity motif for the gloopy gold itself; which here seemed to be a composite of both breast milk and vaginal fluid combined. Watching the sexually humiliated Alberich (Christopher Purves) lick the gold from his hand seemed like the closest and only opportunity the Nibelheim incel could get to any action and he took full advantage of his liquid plunder.

As for the Rhinemaidens themselves, they more resembled angels of death with their goth makeup and black lace outfits than mermaids of the deep. Meanwhile, Alberich, chasing them around the hollowed-out ash tree, looked more like a frustrated bank manager on a lunch break until Woglinde, Wellgunde and Flosshilde all encouraged him to strip and step into one of their spider-like dresses, finally attaching a dildo (which visually foreshadowed his sawn-off finger in Scene Four) to complete his sexual humiliation implying he is more a eunuch than a genuine predator.

Speaking of megalomanics and world domination, I find myself invariably drawn to the current newsmaker, Russell Brand. Perhaps if he had renounced love (or sex) like Alberich when he was in thrall to thousands of Rhinemaidens back in the early 00's, he might be allowed a seat at the top table with the same media organizations that now seek to destroy him. It's not easy to forget how much of a poster boy he was for the BBC, The Guardian, The New Statesman (even guest editor for a day) and The Labour Party but since he's turned against his old paymasters he has once again woefully misjudged the political zeitgeist with his personal ambition; the first time was by aligning himself with the left and the second time was by aligning himself with the right. But the truth is, the most destructive drug of his choice was not politics, heroin or gold, but sex, so now he looks to be paying a price for his compulsive promiscuity.

A wise man once said: "you sought promiscuity but lost an emotional universe," and I can't help but feel this applies brilliantly to Brand in his current predicament.

I've never been a fan of Brand personally, always finding his hyper-manic verbosity a little too much to bear. His manoeuvres into politics back in the 2015 general election here in England also left a bad taste in the mouth and was a stark reminder of the hubris of celebrities sacrificing their reputation for a punt on an electoral zeitgeist outcome that rarely ever goes their way - who can forget Bob Geldolf shouting through a tannoy at British fishermen like a mad tramp on his flotilla on the Thames in the build-up to the Brexit Referendum in 2016?

Ah well, the chickens have finally come home to roost for Brand and his 'mockney' polemicist schtick and now he's being un-personed to the point of non-existence which seems a trifle excessive before a court trial has even been confirmed. But heigh ho, what do I care? I'm not Owen Jones or Ed Miliband who saw him as the second coming once upon a time. Now they're clutching their pearls and hand wringing like the good old virtue-signaling Puritans we always knew them to be. It now looks like all those titters have turned to jitters as Russell becomes a toxic brand.

And while I'm in the mood to conjure opera analogies, I could imagine a great modern production of Mozart's 'Don Giovanni' with a spidery debauchee like Brand in the title role. Who would his Leporello be I wonder? Jonathan Ross? Perhaps Andrew Sachs could play the Commandatore seeking revenge on the shame brought upon his granddaughter in that grossly offensive prank telephone call instigated by Brand and his partner in crime, Ross, back when both men worked for the BBC, that old stomping ground of sex pest par excellence, Jimmy Savile.

Of course, Don Giovanni was based on the legendary Spanish lothario, Don Juan, who famously devoted his life to seducing women. I once fantasized about directing my own production of 'Don Giovanni' where in the Act 2 final reckoning the 'Don' faces the ghost of the Commandatore. I imagined the vengeful father of Donna Anna standing at the foot of the prolific womaniser's giant bed before it eventually tips to a ninety-degree angle and the libertine scrabbles frantically onto his bedsheets before being consigned to the fiery flames of Hell.

After all, as the old adage goes: "You've made your bed, now lie in it."