Wahn, Wahn, überall Wahn

My first exposure to Wagner's Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg was particularly memorable. In fact, it became a yardstick by which we measured most subsequent operas at the Lyric. No matter how cheap and tatty the production, it was "still no Astroturf Meistersinger". That's a reference to the staging of the final act, which actually did feature Astroturf. It provided a bristly bed for a miniature village set similar to the one at the end of Hot Fuzz. (In fact, had that movie been released at the time, it probably would've furnished the moniker.)

It wasn't simply that the minimal sets were ugly to look at, they also made hash of the libretto. There's a scene in Act 3 where Beckmesser, the villain of the piece, rummages through a fellow Meistersinger's workshop until he comes across one of his compositions, which he pockets. In this case, however, the set consisted in its entirety of a painted backdrop a few feet behind the proscenium and a desk with a handful of papers on it. With nothing to rifle through, the poor performer was left with nothing to do but fidget onstage for several minutes, giving the impression of a Beckmesser that is not just frustrated and desperate but completely balls-out insane.

Clearly the management learned from their mistake. If their goal was to wipe all memory of that fiasco from our minds, then they very nearly succeeded. As you can see, the finale on the village green is a far from what I've described above as it's possible to imagine. Same goes for the workshop scene, which is so full of props that the director is able to use those several minutes of instrumental music as inspiration for some entertaining physical comedy.

Given these advantages, it is a shame about the cast. We finally had some big names for once, but as any major league sports fan knows, big name does not equate to top rate. I have the fondest regard for James Morris, who will always be my one true Wotan, so it costs me to say he should retire from singing. But it was painfully obvious in the Met Boccanegra we saw a couple years back that he's losing his voice. At Lyric, he was still able to rise above the orchestra better than almost anyone else in the cast, but he doesn't have his high notes any more.

That wasn't a problem for Heldentenor Johan Botha. No, the trouble with him is...well, just look at them. Remember, this is the dashing young knight that Eva takes one look at and decides "him or no one". And the picture doesn't tell even half the story. "He can't act," Nuphy warned me. "Who cares as long as he sounds good?" I replied. Well, it turns out that I care. I might've been able to squint my eyes and ignore his shortcomings if not for the fact that--in addition to how much I was enjoying the sets--everyone else was running rings around him. It's not so obvious that all you can do is walk around and occasionally gesture if the other singers are in the same boat. But when everyone else has the chops, the contrast is simply painful.

Not that the others' performances were flawless. I found Bo Skovhus too broad as Beckmesser, but I suspect he was just listening to the director. He sang well though not especially memorably, as did female leads Amanda Majeski and Jamie Barton. As Pogner, Dimitry Ivashchenko was disappointingly weak. In fact, the one really standout voice was a walk-on cameo. We were astounded by the power in Nachtwächter's bass; it sent us scurrying to the programme during the first intermission, where we discovered it was returning favourite Andrea Silvestrelli, keeping his hand in between performances of Bohème. A real treat, but it had the opposite effect as Botha's acting: namely, making the rest of the cast's vocal talents suffer by comparison.

So, with all these shortcomings, why was I so thrilled with the opera that I was ready to declare it the best of our subscription? Probably some combination of the fantastic production (kudos to Glyndebourne), relief that the conducting and Morris' singing were better than we'd feared, and the company. I firmly believe Wagner brings out the best audiences. For instance, the chatty Russian woman with clinky bangles? Gone. Instead, we were joined not only by our usual opera mate but his jolly colleague, his colleague's wry partner, and a good-natured visiting scholar from Oslo. Every break became an opportunity to trade aperçus and bons mots, to tease each other about bad patron behaviour, and I even got some chocolate out of it.

Wie duftet doch der Flieder?

On a linguistic note: Between acts and after the opera, there was some discussion of the proper translation of Flieder in Wagner's libretto. The word is old--so old that the first element is obscure, though the -der is considered cognate with English tree. Originally it designated the elder (Sambucus nigra). But in the mid-16th century, the common lilac[*] (Syringa vulgaris) was introduced to Central Europe, probably via a Hapsburg ambassador to the Ottomans of Flemish origin.

On account of the similarities between the species, the name Flieder became applied to both, albeit with some qualifier for the upstart such as "Spanish", "Turkish", or welscher. (Nothing to do with Wales; this was an adjective applied indiscriminately by the mediaeval Germans to all non-Germanic, non-Slavic peoples they came into contact with.) The standard language has dispensed with this, taking advantage of its ability to borrow from multiple dialects by reserving the synonymous Holunder (formerly subject to the same ambiguity) for elders.

The mid-16th century also happens to be the time the opera is set. So I think two facts speak against a lilac: First, that seems a bit soon for the trees to have made it out of the gardens of the rich and well-connected and into the yard of a simple cobbler like Hans Sachs. Second--and more importantly--the action takes place on the eve and the day of Midsummer, i.e. the 23rd and 24th of June. At that latitude, lilacs blossom in April and May; it would be damn unusual for one to still be in bloom that late. (Although perhaps this would've been much less unusual during the Little Ice Age.) But elders flower from May into July. So, on the whole, it was most likely correct of the Lyric to use "elder" in the supertitles.

(The actual phrase is "the scent of elder", which made me titter. At the next intermission, I told Nuphy, "They must've meant Old Spice.")

[*] In case you're wondering, the common English name comes from Arabic ليلك līlak via Romance intermediation. Cf. French lilas, Italian lillà.