RING OF FIRE
What I particularly love about director Barrie Kosky's Ring Cycle so far at the Royal Opera House is how he provides almost as many leitmotifs through his stagecraft as composer Richard Wagner does in his scores. Building on the substantial tapestry of ideas established in 2023’s Rheingold, Kosky effectively expands on their significance in the second part of the four-part opera epic. The cumulative effect of their varied use is delivering—psychologically, emotionally, and aesthetically—in a big way.
Take, for example, the omnipresent, octogenarian, non-singing Erda (Illona Linthwaite), who is once again naked (this time for nearly the entire four hours) but clearly represents the stripped-down truth of the entire piece in her frail presence. She shadows, on Earth, the hubristic Wotan (Christopher Maltman), who resides above the clouds in Valhalla. In this Die Walküre, it seems as if the fate of the Wälsungs, Siegmund (Stanislas de Barbeyrac) and Sieglinde (Natalya Romaniw), is being equally manipulated by these two contrasting gods as they pull the strings of destiny in a subtle tug-of-war.
Sometimes merely sitting in the hollowed-out ash tree like a wrinkled female Buddha, Erda transmits a sort of invisible persuasive power in direct contrast to the more action-led Wotan, who is desperately trying to hold onto his power but clearly fears he’s fast losing his grip on the events at play, including his rule over his fearless teenage daughter, Brünnhilde (Elisabet Strid).
Speaking of which, I can’t recall a more human and relatable Brünnhilde in all my years of enjoying this opera, and certainly not one as physically robust, practically throwing herself around the stage while singing some of the most demanding music ever written for the female voice. It’s a seriously impressive performance by Strid, who perfectly complements Maltman’s Wotan, which is probably the best I’ve seen in terms of delivering both on a character level through physical acting and vocally with expert musical intelligence, supported by the ever-brilliant conductor Antonio Pappano with the Orchestra of the Royal Opera House. The father-daughter scenes in Act 2, but even more so in Act 3, could not be improved upon in terms of wringing every last drop of agonising emotion from their impending estrangement as Wotan prepares to cast his daughter out of Valhalla and send her into exile forever.
In fact, watching Act 3 last night, so much made sense to me about the genius of the music-drama constructed here by Wagner. Even the hoary “Ride of the Valkyries” seemed punchier, edgier, and more obviously designed to contrast with Brünnhilde’s surprise return—not with a warrior on the battlefield but with Sieglinde, pregnant with child. The raging daughters of Wotan, desperate to protect their sister from his condemnation and punishment, were also so much more than just generic battle-axe fodder. However, it was when Father and Daughter were left alone together to debate their respective interventions in the human world that the emotions on stage began to truly escalate between them, in perfect harmony with the momentous score, forcing tears from many of the audience’s watching eyes.
Prone though I am to grandiose statements, I can’t think of another climax to an opera (or indeed all of art) more emotionally powerful than that of Act 3 of Die Walküre, where a unique form of transcendence is achieved in the fallibility of gods behaving like humans. These Gods are not so far beyond our own selves; in fact, they’re a mirror to our own humanity, and it’s because we can see their flaws that we’re so deeply moved by their mistakes and sacrifice.
Only a few others in the history of music and theatre can sit alongside Wagner in the Valhalla of the arts: Handel, Mozart, Verdi, Puccini, and Strauss, but it’s hard not to see him as the Wotan of the form.
Special mention also to the ash tree that now pours Caravaggio blood-red instead of the molten, sparkling gold of Rheingold, as well as the amazing fire tree set ablaze in the final scene, which was beyond any expectation of what I thought it could ever be.