POV: Der Freischütz | Komische Oper Berlin

It's a unwritten rule: don't badmouth other singers.

You might piss the singer off, and (more importantly) you might piss off their fans. I'm too waspy to feel comfortable incurring the wrath of loyalists. I leave that to much more fabulous people than myself.

And tenor that I am, I'm also (usually fighting to be) too close to the spotlight to be an objective reviewer. I usually like the singing of those I work with or know. It's a blindspot I've come to accept. Heck, without it, I'd go insane.

So, I won't call this post a REVIEW. I'll call it a "Point of View."

(After the page turn, I might write some naughty words. If you don't want to read that, don't push the "read more" button. But for the record, it's called 'artistic license' for a reason.)

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This is where I got my operatic start in my first young artists apprenticeship, singing in gradeschools:  San Diego Opera.

And it's where I suppose I adopted the idea that opera should be compelling visually. Singing to sleepy 10year olds sat on a gymnasium floor required falling down a lot.

My fondest memories of being a young singer were being allowed to 'cut loose' onstage. Consequently, I took that mentality with me to Pittsburgh Opera where I "served" next and was summarily beaten down for some of my choices (one of which, while singing Don Curzio, was trying out a different, far more grandiose stutter on the fly and getting my colleagues laughing way too much onstage. Emperor Titus was not amused. I got a good curtain call singing a bit part. The Emperor can kiss my ass.)

Years later, I took a first stab in the Wagner rep with Calixto Bieito. I think I understand the process --- the decisions made, the demands placed -- better than most. Been there, done that. Might do it again.

Mom, I solemnly swear NEVER to do this.

But when I have to pull out my iphone in a performance, and google "Freishütz Berlin" to understand anything presented in an opera, then I think we've all gone too far. If what I see is so unfocussed that, in a state of tedious boredom, I go internet surfing and email checking, having spent a hundred bucks on tickets, well then … there's trouble in River City.

And when my wife makes up nicknames for the tenor's junk ("In New York they call it a Johnson, but that looks more like a 'Juh…'") then I know I'm not the only one who can't take my eyes off a man's penis, wiggling with every step, bouncing as he hops from log to log.

I wrote during the Parsifal: "Singing high notes causes shrinkage!" And after last night's performance, my perception on that matter hasn't changed. To make matters worse, we sat in our seats feeling a compulsion to "sing along with Mitch."

I need to say I stand by the work of the Parsifal production. It certainly isn't to everyone's taste, but I like to think of it as a golden mean of regie theater. It was also hell to go through but I believe Calixto hit his stride in it. And his production team is to be congratulated. It is a production that may stand the test of time. I disagree with Opernglass's choice of Production of the Year for 2010. I believe it to be the Bieito production of Parsifal. And since I was in the Macbeth as well, I think I have a reasonable right to say that. Forget what I said about my lack of objectivity. I'm right. :-)

Moment of truth: The final 10 minutes of the Parsifal regie were my idea. That means, yes, going naked was my own "fault." I grimaced when Calixto let that be known, not wanting my own mother to hear it, but I stand by that (ahem) ending. In context of all that had come before it, it made dramatic sense. Up until 3 rehearsals before opening, CB seemed stumped with what to do with the last 10 minutes of the opera. That's not particularly surprising. Staging in the best way is collaborative and we all take cues from each other. So I presented the idea of the "uncovering of Grail Parsifal, replaces naked Titurel in Tub, carried off and either eaten or worshipped…you decide" to him and he went berserk. He threw his arms around me and gave me a bear hug. I then remember thinking: "What the hell did I just do?! It was only an idea! Crap. Do I REALLY want to go naked on stage. Just how cold will it be in here anyway?!" I then spent hours with a video camera in my hotel room figuring out how to step into the tub in the most modest way I could find. If I were a tall bass perhaps I wouldn't have been so careful or modest.

Modesty was in short supply in this Freischütz production. And dare I say it, so was dignity.

Which, in and of itself is not a crucial thing. Unless you are, say, an opera singer, and most of your forbears' greatest achievements are built on it. 

You've spent countless years, untold hours, sleepless nights working out how to do your craft; how to sing exquisitely. You work for years, go broke trying to get auditions and/or work. You dream of doing something very few people can do. To scale the heights onstage and attempt to move people emotionally, to change their lives in some small way. To command their attention for a moment. To cause them to think and feel.

All to be undone by one man's penis. By meaningless moments of shock. By direction that supplants acting with "intensity." With "more is more."

(I'm sure I wasn't the only person who struggled thru the entire 3rd Act to not stare at Winking Willy. What? Oh, the soprano is sing…omg, it's looking at me AGAIN! CRAP! The music is playing! What was she singing abou…how much would it hurt if he fell on that log and crashed down on his nuts right now…Ooooo, a high note! Arghhhhhhhh. I just missed my favorite part of the MUSIC!!)

You work, you toil. You save, you sacrifice. You suffer criticism. You get depressed. You pick yourself up and try again. You keep going. You figure out that 'supporting the voice' means you have to breath and move a certain way. Not a pedantic way, but an elevated way. In a grand manner. You realize you are NOT just delivering text, you are also imparting sound which can carry emotional content. How does that happen? Through hard work and deep introspection. Through gain and through loss. You work on your body awareness and alignment. You strive to make your body a resonating instrument. You dig deep to develop as a person so you have something to say as an artist. You seek The Sublime.

All to be undone by bullshit lighting and pedantic costumes.

I, Andrew Richards, can think of no greater effrontery to a singer, than to surround them with such thoughtless dreck. And I'm getting tired of the disrespect.

Let us fucking sing and be heard.