The start of the evening’s première was spectacular, with a giant steel construction coming into view in the auditorium. The skeletal tunnel in the background created an imposing frame for an extravagant staging. This production of Mefistofele is Roland Schwab’s début at the Munich opera house, and he made full use of Germany’s largest stage by filling it with infernal special effects. Disappointingly, this pushed Arrigo Boito’s actual opera very much into the background.
Without question, I have rarely seen in Munich a set so overwhelming as the one in this Mefistofele. So on the Witches’ Sabbath in Act II, the whole stage was transformed into a giant purgatory in which the chorus, armed with a hundred torches, billowed in waves that took the breath away. These were images that you would only expect from the stunt shows in Hollywood or in the Bregenz Festival.
But the richness of the experience reached the point of overload, in places becoming nearly compulsive. Why is a gramophone on stage for the entire opera? Why has Arcadia been placed in a geriatric care home, where the chorus is playing catch with the carers? And why does one of the Devil’s sidekicks paint the letters “REUE” [remorse] in blood on Faust’s shirt? Ideas which are actually quite deep – such as the projection of light from the auditorium onto a single central screen – are submerged in the overall spectacle. Mefistofele's “Son lo Spirito che nega sempre” at its diabolical best could not change that.
As well as the début for Roland Schwab, this was the first performance in Munich for conductor Omer Meir Wellber, who seemed accordingly nervous, continually casting glances high up at the director’s box. But Wellber was genuinely impressive in holding together the opera’s many different voices. He led the orchestra to infernal climaxes with wonderful variety and detail in the sound, while always maintaining togetherness with the enormous chorus. There even was space for a small experiment: the overture was accompanied by a noticeable clicking, supposedly coming from the gramophone record.
As expected, Joseph Calleja was the star of the show in the role of Faust. He sang everything with lightness, sometimes even frailty, but always with lovely strength, just as Boito’s opera requires. As the whole chorus, clad in Dirndl and Lederhosen, danced on the tables and, in the background, the stage machinery brought in a glittering merry-go-round, the sensitive beauty of Calleja’s timbre led the audience with magical phrasing cutting through the pandemonium. In sum, there was not a single moment when Calleja was anything other than fully involved on the stage.