Herbert Wernicke’s production of Die Frau ohne Schatten returned to the Metropolitan Opera’s repertory last week after an eleven-year absence, now staged by J Knighten Smit. The late auteur’s aesthetic interpretation of Richard Strauss’ fairy tale remains visually arresting, casting the spectral realm of the Emperor and Empress as an austere hall of mirrors and the earthly digs of Barak and his wife as an industrial hovel. Overall, though, this performance bore the hallmarks of a slapdash revival – fine for a routine Bohème or Traviata, but inadequate for a work that requires a supreme level of vocal, musical and dramatic commitment.
Strauss and Hugo von Hofmannsthal crafted the ultimate portrait of humanity, where denizens of the spiritual and mortal worlds learn to see beyond their selfish individual desires and gain empathy for others. Traces of that perspective were fleeting here, as bland spectacle and generalized characterization more often won the day. Orchestral interludes and monologues suffered from an overlay of stage business, like having a manifestation of the Emperor’s Falcon in bright-red plumage tumbling about the stage. The spirits of the unborn attacked the Empress in zebra stripes. The human characters seemed oafish and cartoon-like, the demi-gods ornate and impenetrable. Like many artists before them, Strauss and Hofmannsthal used the device of fantasy to comment on reality, but this assumption regularly felt like a storybook divorced from its serious context.
Elza van den Heever brought a placidity to the Empress that seemed appropriate in the opera’s first act, where she essentially functions as a pawn for the Nurse’s machinations and has yet to acquire the genuine emotions that ultimately save the day. Her performance remained frustratingly cool throughout, though, and her cry of “Ich will nicht!” lacked the anguished depths that come from a sense of moral standing. The South African soprano’s large, penetrating voice sounded most secure and exciting in its upper extension, but extended passages in the middle and lower registers hollowed out, and her glassy tone did not offer enough of a contrast from Lise Lindstrom as the Dyer’s Wife.
Lindstrom acted with commitment as the Empress’ human Doppelgӓnger – even at her most petty, she still offered flecks of the character’s essential goodness – though she was not immune to occasional over-the-top posturing. Her steely sound easily sailed above the orchestra throughout the night, though she seemed to tire in the third act, and tended to slide off pitch on sustained high notes. Nina Stemme portrayed the Nurse as a malevolent Mrs Danvers, all smirks and side-eye, and the long role taxed the remaining facility of her voice, leading to much wobbling.
The men fared better generally. Despite a somewhat stiff stage presence and an outlandish bejewelled costume, Russell Thomas dispatched the Emperor’s brief music with a ringing, clarion tenor. Michael Volle brought linguistic sovereignty and an actor's craft to Barak, moving the character from an initial resignation to a renewed vigor for life. Ryan Speedo Green was a superbly menacing Messenger, his every appearance telegraphing trouble ahead.
In his second Strauss outing at the Met, Yannick Nézet-Séguin led a variable reading of the score. The most memorable contributions were individual ones: David Chan's ecstatic violin solo in the first act and Rafael Figueroa's baleful cello in the second. Imposing passages anchored by vibrant brass thundered forth, though regularly at a deafening expense to the musical narrative and the singers on stage. The total performance largely lacked the signature Straussian shimmer in the strings and woodwinds, and each scene held a kind of piecemeal quality rather than a sense of dramatic forward momentum. The Met Orchestra achieved the right sense of expansiveness in the third act, from “Doch weich ich nicht” onward, but noticeable flubs suggested exhaustion toward the end of a long night. The audience could relate.
