Opera

 

He has his work cut out for him, ruling the whole world. The whole world answers back. There was a time when he thought he was clever. It explains why he’s such a mess. We could even start to feel small sympathy. But he’s a god, he can loose fire on the whole world at a moment’s notice. We don’t have that kind of reach. Just as well this is all happening in a theatre. The red upholstery, ever before us, is a better focus for thought than the grandiose set changes and endless sky backdrops on stage. Masterfully wrought though they be. Sometimes heroes concentrate on the here-and-now. Where to go? What to think? Have they outrun the wolves? The children have brought disgrace on the family and his wife, not happy, has got Wotan to sort it out. Gods are abrasive. Gods raise the heat. Everyone enjoys watching a huge argument, especially sung. We laugh gently at the worst of their exchanges in the surtitles. We note how they drink more than they eat. Marvel at how Wagner never says in five minutes anything that can be said in half an hour. They must have had all the time in the whole world in 1870. We can only imagine. Emotion is far from abrupt. Emotion is languid, running back over the main issues at leisure. Truth takes time to sink in, so sing the truth seriatum. Sink and swim. We watch the conductor, his lifetime supply of emojis drawn by hand in the air their own version of the ruthless events above the pit. The conductor knows all this like the back of his hand. Brother sleeps with sister. Swords and daggers make their point. The program notes leave us in the dark. Instead of a plan then, there’s more singing. Time to spend studying the costumes, elegantly inapposite for the brutal conversations sung in practised emphases down below the dress circle. It’s hard being an eyeball. Even harder being Wotan. Sorting out his children will not end well, for someone very much in need of Bad Dad Therapy. Moments at a time we stare into the pool in the mineral water bottle at our foot, hoping for the best. Are relieved to find Wagner offers an interval. Fortunately hope arises in the form of Brünnhilde. She knows the score. She gives individuation a good name. She speaks the word known to all mortals. As more heroes get pitched somewhere dead and heroic by silvery sirens, she breaks the pattern with Sieglinde’s method of dealing with all this craziness: deep sleep. We wonder at how someone can sleep upright that long. Given the territory though, we can guess first time which hero will broach her ring of fire. Meaning, more music, more gods losing it, more mineral water. There’s a pattern here, right? Still, death is not an option. We release ourselves from the shock of the old in heartfelt applause. Wonder without cease such sounds come from mortals. Then rise with the lights-up from the five-hour matinee, as if from a dream, exiting once more into the whole world. It is the same whole world. The latest heatwave makes an oven of Exhibition Street. Anyone with any sense holds onto their mask and wonders when, not if, Russia will invade Ukraine.