Making its third consecutive appearance as part of the Staatsoper’s Festtage, Dmitri Tcherniakov’s remarkable Parsifal looks ever more destined to become a staple of the Berlin Easter calendar. Its return next year to Unter den Linden, with slightly modified cast from this year’s, has just been announced. This means, too, that this was the chance to have the rare luxury of hearing the piece, with that world-beating Wagnerian team of Daniel Barenboim and the Staatskapelle in the pit, in the relatively intimate space of the 1,060-seat Schillertheater.
And it’s Barenboim’s conducting that provided the foundations here for one of the most musically and dramatically powerful performances of Wagner’s great Bühnenweihfestspiel I’ve witnessed. In every bar the conductor’s rapport with his remarkable orchestra could be heard, his players making a sound that was limpid and lucid one moment then granitic and overwhelming in its intensity the next, alternately flexible and implacable. Through it all, and even during a first act that was often on the slow side, there was never a sense that the dramatic or musical thread being lost, of anything but a conductor and his musicians concentrating on their own quest to seek out the truth(s) to be found in Wagner’s notes on the page.
Of course, those truths can never be separated from those that might be found in drama more broadly, and Tcherniakov’s inimitably Russian, profoundly serious, unflinchingly pessimistic and fiercely concentrated and questing production finds its own. He emphasises the deep vein of tragedy that Wagner’s score, where heroism and happiness often seem but mere long-forgotten traces, perhaps hints at more eloquently than does the libretto.
The single set is some sort of run-down temple that has been taken over for meeting of a cultish religious group. What lies beyond its walls is unclear; one imagines, judging by the old overcoats and moth-eaten woolly hats of Elena Zaytseva’s costumes, that it could be some sort of post apocalyptic desolation. René Pape’s Gurnemanz – gloriously sung in big, generously rolling phrases – is tetchy, impatient with his Grail Knights and Squires. His narration is bolstered by a slide show of old Parsifalian images, hinting, one feels, at the how far removed they all are from this pre-history to their now joyless, automatic rituals.
The grail ceremony itself is a viscerally shocking piece of theatre: Amfortas is forcibly held up in a Christ-like pose, the blood squeezed from his wound passed around to the desperate chorus who then – whether through genuine religious experience or simply through habit and the persuasive power of repetition – are sent into spasms and twitches. Titurel, in leather trench coat, plays his own bizarre role by climbing into a coffin and being covered in the sheet.