Stuck in purgatory: Tannhäuser at Budapest’s Wagner Days

It was a year of light programming for the 19th Budapest Wagner Days. Taking a break from its Ring cycle, the festival cast Meistersinger and Tannhäuser as its main attractions. Between the two Sängerkriege, I opted for the latter. Wagner’s epic of damnation and salvation, with its distinctly Romantic contrasts of courtly and carnal love, had graced Müpa’s stage twice since the 2012 premiere of Matthias Oldag’s production, leaving glorious memories of its 2018 run – a high point that would not be bested this year.

This was, in part, due to a merely adequate cast. In the title role, Marco Jentzsch had the misfortune of having to measure himself against the late Stephen Gould’s titanic performances while battling a mild indisposition. Palpably pacing himself, with his bright tenor at times coarse and his volume challenged, Jentzsch ultimately delivered a commendable if never quite arresting performance – though his Romerzählung was gripping in his emotional unravelling.

Venus and Elisabeth thankfully both outshone their Minnesänger. Dorottya Láng’s sumptuous, velvety mezzo made for a vocally irresistible goddess of Love, though her scenic portrayal showed more Dalila than divinity. Elisabet Strid’s luminous soprano filled the hall with ravishing ease, more than measuring up to her rival in vocal stature. Indeed, Dich, teure Halle was more of a display of vocal power than overflowing joy, in stark contrast with her Elisabeth’s cloying girlishness. Over the course of Act II, though, childishness and naïveté gave way to a poignant mix of devastation and unwavering care. Her defense of Tannhäuser, with a profoundly felt Ich fleh für ihn, and her Allmächt’ge Jungfrau, radiant in her abject despair, were deeply moving.

The rest of the Wartburg court was a mixed bag. Jumping in for Lauri Vasar, Birger Radde brought a dark-hued, mellifluous, resonant baritone to Wolfram’s role, combined with admirable attention to the text. His overall portrayal, however, felt one-dimensional, ruled by a sinewy, increasingly tightly-wound machismo: I gravely missed the warm sensitivity of Markus Eiche and Lauri Vasar. And though Radde’s “Wie Todesahnung” was devastatingly eerie, the beauty of “O du mein holder Abendstern” was diminished by his constantly straying off pitch. Gábor Bretz was ever-reliable as Hermann, warm-toned, generous and intelligent in his delivery. The roles of the knightly poets were compellingly filled by homegrown talent: particularly noteworthy was Miklós Sebestyén's blackshirt Biterolf, suitably gruff and commanding, and Barna Bartos’ Heinrich, his youthful tenor resonant in the ensembles.

This run marked, to my recollection, the first time that a staged production was not conducted by festival founder Ádám Fischer. The honour instead fell to German maestro Michael Güttler, who led a performance that was, by and large acceptable, but hardly inspired. Acts 1 and Act 3 were particularly ruled by an angular sense of correctness, displaying little finesse or dramatic impetus, the music being shaped on a scene-by-scene basis rather than guided by any insightful, overarching reading. (The fact that at times Güttler rushed the orchestra, causing the stage and pit to fall out of sync, did not improve the impression.)

The lack of chemistry between conductor and ensemble did not dim the luxurious shine of the Hungarian Radio Symphony Orchestra, whose blazing brass, rich-toned strings (particular nod again to the cellos) and beguiling clarinet playing drew an ever-impressive, colourful tapestry. Nor did it diminish the outstanding contributions of the Radio Symphony Choir and the Hungarian National Male Choir, uplifting in the pilgrims’ choruses, and thrillingly menacing in the Act 2 finale.

Oldag’s staging moves the action into the present, falling right into the pitfall of having to translate Victorian-era morality and pious rigour to a world (thankfully) beholden to neither. Venus’ identity thus remains a mystery (divinity or mere mortal?), as does the opposing world of Wartburg, their knightly gathering turned into a celebrity contest: it’s anyone’s best guess why one is condemnable, and the other has the power to condemn. Oldag is most successful when he gets to caricature the Sängerkrieg, rendering the chivalric philosophising on love a hilariously fussy, self-important affair. Elsewhere, despite revival director Sylvie Gábor’s presumed best efforts and a straightforward narrative flow, stock gestures and question marks reign. Thomas Gruber’s minimalistic sets do provide striking images – the gauze-covered ‘cage’ of Venusberg, the rows of black coffins in Act 3 among which Elisabeth, Tannhäuser, Venus and Wolfram all perish – and make good use of the concert hall’s space. For a state of grace, though: all too little.