Videos of Bartoli singing the arie antiche I studied in the my voice lessons led me to Netrebko serenading Scorsese at the Kennedy Center, then to the promotional clips The Metropolitan Opera posted weekly, and then to older clips: Bumbry as Carmen, Corelli in Il trovatore, and more. There were soaring voices aplenty, matched by Cecile B. DeMille-style sets and many an ill-judged caftan. These clips were my daily dose of the glamorous and grand. They were a fantastical escape from the drudgery of being a middle schooler in suburban New Jersey.
It was not until I stumbled upon the Bayerische Staatsoper and its channels, however, that I discovered that opera could be interesting.
The productions they previewed in sleek trailers were dark, weird, and entrancing. Industrial wastelands and midcentury modern interiors with moody lighting replaced castles and pagodas. Supernumeraries stalked about the stage in animal heads like the characters in Times Square. The diva did not swan about; she took a drag from her cigarette. I found regietheater. Even if I did not fully get it or agree with what I saw, it sustained my interest in the artform alongside those vintage clips. What I discovered on that channel made opera feel not only fantastical but vital and evolving. (Take that, Against Modern Opera Productions!) So, when my friend and fellow critic Emery Kerekes suggested I join him at the Munich Opera Festival, I jumped at the opportunity. It felt only right that I should move beyond my laptop and see the genuine article in person.
I have already written about two performances I saw at the festival, but my visit began with Richard Strauss’s Elektra. Despite struggling with jet lag before the performance, the exceptional quality of the Bayerisches Staatsorchester under the direction of Generalmusikdirektor Vladimir Jurowski kept me engaged. Their playing was unified throughout, capturing both the grand sweep and the intense detail of the score. Jurowski skillfully shaped each of Strauss’s motifs to drive the dramatic momentum toward its blood-spattered climax. His interpretation maintained the tension of the score without overshadowing the voices or descending into excessive grandeur. Certain music directors could take note.
Herbert Wernicke’s production, a fixture of the Staatsoper since its 1997 debut, skillfully merges classicism with minimalism. The set featured a single raised platform at stage right and a large staircase representing the palace, obscured behind a formidable black scrim. This scrim, which confined much of the action to the stage’s apron, rotated diagonally, creating a stark contrast against the deep crimson realm of the palace.
The staging was equally pared down. Elektra spent much of the performance spotlighted on the platform, holding her axe as a symbol of her ironic lack of control in a story named for her; she relies entirely on her siblings to carry out her revenge. The costuming highlighted the opera’s gender politics: the passive female characters wore vaguely Grecian garments, while the more proactive Orest and his tutor donned dark suits. There were also metatheatrical elements, such as Klytaemnestra draping herself in a replica of the National Theatre’s red velvet curtains and Orest making his entrance from a box close to the stage. The production was both elegant and effective, with its central directorial concepts remaining clear.
Likely due to the constraints of the production, Elena Pankratova was not the most dynamic Elektra, but her soprano was powerful and consistent throughout her range. She delivered several impressive high notes, although she was most effective in the more teasing segments of her scenes with Klytaemnestra and Aegisth, where she imbued her tone with a sardonic, youthful quality. Vida Miknevičiūtė was a particularly compelling Chrysothemis, with her silvery, tightly controlled vibrato cutting through the orchestra effortlessly. Her intense cry of “Orest ist tot!” was a highlight of the evening. As Klytaemnestra, Violetta Urmana, who appeared to be the festival’s go-to for portraying such roles, was a commanding presence, delivering her insults with a sneering subtlety rather than overt aggression. Her portrayal of the dream narration was delicate, revealing the frightened woman behind the regal facade. Bass-baritone Károly Szemerédy portrayed a steely Orest, while tenor John Daszak provided ample bluster as Aegisth. Yajie Zhang distinguished herself from the chorus of maids with a mezzo-soprano that carried a resonant, fervent quality.
To celebrate the centennial of Hungarian innovator György Ligeti, the Staatsoper premiered his only opera, Le Grande Macabre, a surreal exploration of an impending apocalypse and operatic traditions, with a playful twist. The score flits from a car horn homage to Monteverdi to direct references to Offenbach and Stravinsky, and it parodies bel canto, particularly in its treatment of coloratura. Former Generalmusikdirektor Kent Nagano adeptly navigated Ligeti’s intricate rhythmic patterns and shifting tonalities, drawing out considerable dramatic depth and menace from the score’s seemingly playful surface.
Krzysztof Warlikowski’s production mirrored Nagano’s approach in the pit: his Breugelland was thoroughly immersed in an apocalyptic setting, as if it had long resided there. The set, designed by frequent Warlikowski collaborator Malgorzata Szczęsniak, combined elements of an Eastern European train station waiting room with a Soviet gymnasium, complete with a pommel horse. Barbed wire-topped fencing shifted to denote location changes and contained the chorus as the situation grew more dire. Supernumeraries, clad in demon bunny balaclavas and flesh-toned prosthetics that transformed them into eerie cat-rodent hybrids, moved through smoke billowing from the wings—an unmistakable feature on my Bayerische Staatsoper bingo card.
The lovers Amanda and Amando, played by Seonwoo Lee and Avery Amereau, were depicted as two female influencers obsessively photographing their bandaged faces, suggesting recent cosmetic procedures. A screen above the stage streamed their ecstatic declarations of love, directed at themselves rather than each other, as they descended beneath the stage. Prince Go-Go paraded around in stylish English tailoring, reminiscent of many inept, self-serving politicians. The blind decadence and vanity of this world had brought it to the edge, with monsters emerging from its cracks.
Despite its strong atmosphere and striking imagery, the production fell short of capturing the humour of Ligeti and Michael Meschke’s libretto. There were a few playful elements, such as Venus appearing in a Björk-inspired swan dress, but a tone of self-seriousness diminished their impact. Projections of the approaching comet that resembled computer screensavers elicited some unintended laughs. Even the opera’s numerous sexual escapades seemed devoid of humour. Nevertheless, a photo montage projected above the stage during the Passacaglia finale, featuring images of the young Ligeti with his family, most of whom were killed in the Holocaust, served as a poignant tribute to the composer’s resilience and spirit.
The singing was uniformly strong. French-Cypriot soprano and contemporary performance specialist Sarah Aristidou tackled both Venus and Gepopo with fearless precision, maintaining a consistent tone and excellent diction even as she navigated the upper reaches of her vocal range. Benjamin Bruns brought an appealing brightness and a touch of sleaze to the drunken Piet the Pot, executing his mock prayers and hiccupping tirade in the first scene with notable flair. Sam Carl, as the perpetually emasculated Astramadors, managed the role’s frequent leaps into falsetto well, though his bass-baritone lacked distinctive colouring.
As Mescalina, his domineering wife, Lindsay Ammann infused her chestnut-hued mezzo-soprano with a level of off-kilter camp that the evening needed. Her passionate plea to Venus for “one lascivious night” was delivered with sincere fervour. Countertenor John Holiday brought a lively, attractive tone to his portrayal of Prince Go-Go, offering some genuinely lovely singing amidst the chaos. Baritone Michael Nagy, as Nekrotzar, the embodiment of the Macabre, initially sounded somewhat lean but gathered enough power to make his pronouncement of the Day of Judgement at the end of Act II truly striking.
The festival then shifted from one tale of a society facing divine judgement and imminent destruction to another with Mozart’s Idomeneo, which premiered in Munich in 1781. English maestro Ivor Bolton, a leading interpreter of Mozart, conducted the orchestra with a light, bouncy approach, drawing a maritime swell from the score and eliciting focused playing from the ensemble. The concluding ballet music showcased dynamic contrasts and varied moods. However, Bolton did occasionally overshadow the singers.
Videos of Bartoli performing the arie antiche I studied in my voice lessons led me to Netrebko serenading Scorsese at the Kennedy Center, then to the promotional clips The Metropolitan Opera posted weekly, and later to older footage: Bumbry as Carmen, Corelli in Il trovatore, and more. There was no shortage of powerful voices, accompanied by elaborate sets and many an ill-judged caftan. These clips provided my daily dose of glamour and grandeur, offering a fantastical escape from the monotony of being a middle schooler in suburban New Jersey.
It wasn’t until I discovered the Bayerische Staatsoper and its channels that I realised opera could be truly intriguing.
The productions featured in their sleek trailers were dark, peculiar, and captivating. Industrial wastelands and mid-century modern settings with atmospheric lighting replaced traditional castles and pagodas. Supernumeraries roamed the stage in animal masks, reminiscent of Times Square characters. The diva didn’t glide around; she took a drag from her cigarette. I encountered regietheater. Even if I didn’t completely understand or agree with what I saw, it kept my interest in the art form alive alongside those classic clips. What I found on that channel made opera feel not only fantastical but also dynamic and evolving. (Take that, Against Modern Opera Productions!) So, when my friend and fellow critic Emery Kerekes invited me to the Munich Opera Festival, I eagerly accepted. It felt essential to move beyond my laptop and experience the genuine article in person.
Emily D’Angelo returned to this production as Idamante. To my ears, it took a while for her mezzo-soprano to settle; her “Non ho colpa” sounded muffled throughout, and her sound remained subdued until her top notes began to bloom towards the end of “Il padre adorato.” From that point, her voice gradually warmed. Still, her dramatic presence often compensated, and she infused an adolescent anguish into her portrayal of the conflicted prince. She was riveting during the sacrifice scene, where her dramatic and vocal intensity finally aligned.
Olga Kulchynska was a charming Ilia, delivering some luscious, floated lines in “Zeffiretti lusinghieri.” Her voice blended seamlessly with D’Angelo’s during the ethereal duet “S’io non moro a questi accenti.” Hanna-Elisabeth Müller’s crystalline soprano navigated Elettra’s transitions between the viperous coloratura of “Tutte nel cor vi sento” and “D’Oreste, D’Ajace” and the gentler legato passages of “Idol mio” with ease and attentiveness to Mozartian style. Jonas Hacker impressed with his robust tenor as the advisor Arbace—he has the makings of a first-class Idomeneo—while bass Alexander Köpeczi added gravity to the proceedings in his off-stage role as the Oracle of Neptune.
Special mention goes to the Chorus of the Bayerische Staatsoper, under the direction of Christoph Heil, for their strong performances across these three operas, particularly in Idomeneo, where they evoked a range of colours to amplify the score’s shifting dramatic moods.
Photos: Wilfried Hoesl
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