Letter From Bavaria (3)

Dear Andrew,

I always find coffee problematic in foreign parts - milchkafee should be coffee with milk but for some reason my efforts to order coffee often result in unexpected beverages. My advice is to stick to the beer.  Beer is a bit of a lottery when it comes to size.  “Ein bier”  can produce a genteel sip or a vessel that puts me in mind of the scene where hobbits discover it comes in pints.  I like both - the tiny ones mean you can indulge in an endless procession of  fresh cold beers and the big ones are, well, big. Make sure you try a dark beer tomorrow if you haven’t already and don‘t forget to have a plate of small sausages in the dining car on the train.

Will you put roses on the grave?  Do you remember last time we were deciding between a final beer and a return visit to the Wagner house to lay flowers?  We came down in favour of the house.  We didn’t have long and  I tried to buy the flowers off the table in the tea shop only to be directed by the nice owner to a nearby  florist.  The lady in the flower shop was obviously used to this as she asked me if they were “for laying”. Considering how ostentatious Wagner could be the grave is very plain.

Tristan often seems to bring on production ideas that don’t go anywhere, perhaps because it is almost purely about feelings and emotions. I remember a production in London where they spent the whole of the first Act alternating between striking stiff poses against the sides of the stage and throwing themselves around on the floor, presumably to suggest strong and confused emotions, as if the music wasn‘t already doing so rather better.  Maybe the sight of so much dialogue with no inherent activity engenders a state of panic resulting in an urge to fill the stage with action. Or maybe it is an urge to illuminate some perceived hidden meaning or just use the work to make a comment on whatever the director’s current enthusiasm happens to be.

Act three of the same production opened with Tristan and his loyal retainer together on  a bare stage, lit to suggest the sea off to the back.  They hardly moved during the whole of the “waiting” scene and when Isolde arrived, aside from a brief flurry of activity, there was very little action.  It was one of the most moving performances of anything I have sever seen.

It is midnight here so an hour later for you.  I hope you have enjoyed tonight and are even now sitting in the bar dissecting/enthusing over/ranting about tonight’s offering.

Love Opera-Buddy

P.S. have you visited the smoking materials museum yet?  

 Dear Opera-Buddy

 No, I haven't been to the smoking materials museum. Or the typewriter museum. If it stops raining, I will go and have a look at the Other Opera House, the one that wasn't grand enough for Wagner.

The inside of the Festspielhaus is less plain than I remembered it, by the way, a certain amount of gold foliage painted on the ceiling, lots of doric, or possibly ionic, columns. But still very plain and big and awesome; it really is more like watching live cinema than being in a theatre. In general the orchestra does not come out on stage in order to take the applause; that seemed to be a specific idea by the Lohengrin producer.

I have to say that Lohengrin must, at some level, have been a very good production: tonight in the bar the discussion was still running – "Tristan and Isolde...very interesting, a bit 1950s. Tannhäuser – very spectacular, not sure what it meant... Now, about those rats...")

 Producers really ought to take into account the unintentional connections which audiences are going to make with what is going on on the stage? There was a point in Lohengrin when Elsa was walking around in one of those long, floor length ball gowns (doubtless intended to be swan like) and every English person – me, at any rate – thought "it's a dalek." And obviously the rats seemed as if they were going to start singing "Here's a pin and here's a pingle" at any moment. Tonight, Elizabeth was at one point in sparkly dress, front stage, gesticulating wildly and everyone thought "Don't cry for me, Argentina."

 Had a walk round Wagner's garden yesterday. It must have been a very interesting street to live on; Lizt's house was next door, and there was also a famous artist called John-Paul Museum.

I think that, with lots off "Ifs" and "Buts" and possibly even some caveats, Tannhäuser was the best show of the week so far. It did raise lots of difficult questions, the main one being, who is this stuff aimed at? The programme notes include a long, long essay about Wagner's theory of the art of the future and gesamkunstwerk (bless you). In the olden days, when art was sacred, people worshipped it even if they didn't like it very much; and Wagner's scheme involved whole communities presenting mixed media art which would be in some sense sacred; the purpose of which would be to create and transform those communities. Which seems a rather long way of saying that if you are here with any notion that you are going to enjoy the opera, then you've missed the point.

It's a funny thing, isn't it: you have people from all over the world dressed in tuxedos drinking champagne and eating bratwurst and staying in nice hotels; and you have a producer quoting Marx and Brecht and Deirrida and coming up with productions which are, frankly, impenetrable

Mind you, I am always torn between two kinds of ambivalence at these events: on the one hand – "All these people didn't have the experience of watching the Ring on BBC 2 when we did, they probably don't really like Wagner but have just come for the sake of it" / "I'm an imposter, I can't remember who I heard singing Parsifal at Covent Garden and don't know what an unresolved chord is, among all these music reading Wagner experts." I feel the same at folk festivals.

I reckon that in fact most of us really do think of Tannhäuser as a romantic opera with a religious twinge – about a medieval knight caught up in a world of sensuous pleasure who has to go on a pilgrimage to purify himself; and I think that Wagner really did intend his operas to be serious political philosophical statements, so that those of us hoping for a pretty swan and a holy grail that looks like a holy grail are probably in the wrong. (I also think that a lot of producers have the idea that the operas are pure symphonies that work quite separately from the plot and the libretto, and that therefore you can have any old rubbish going on on the stage, which is quite simply wrong.)

 OK: so Tannhäuser appears to be happening in an oil rig. There are big tanks and cannisters on the stage, which is on three levels, with lots of balconies and beams. The curtains are already open when we arrive, and various characters are operating the machines and generally doing Stuff. (The actions carries on after each act finishes, apparently, in the second intermission, there was a full scale religious ceremony performed to a virtually empty hall.) Oh, and part of the audience is on the stage, watching the action: I assume member of the Friends of Bayreuth, but for all I know they were the German equivalent of equity members who had work-shopped fidgeting and applauding and programming waving very realistically. During the overture, a lot of x-ray pictures are projected on the back of the stage. One bit was definitely of someone drinking a glass of water. There were also quite a lot of things which I guess were sperms, but could have been sea-monkeys for all I knew. Then a big cage is raised up from the middle of the stage, with much smoke and red light, representing the Venusberg. (Can I translate that "Sex-City"?) Tannhäuser is being embraced by lots of rather bestial people of both sexes, and Venus is pregnant. Actually, I think the thing I said yesterday about the opening of Act III of Tristan is probably wrong: the first 20 minutes of Tannhäuser – overture and Venusberg scene – may be the best music Wagner ever wrote.

Is it very wicked of me to positively look forward to some poor person passing a very quiet comment to his neighbour (I am pretty sure I now know the German for "what the hell is going on"?) and getting aggressively shushed.

So, in the first interval I ordered cappuccino, which turns out to be the German for "flat white" (very small, very strong, just the way I like it) and a mango ice cream and actually read the programme. It turns out that I had been completely misunderstanding it. It was not supposed to be an oil rig: it was, and I quote:

"A vision of the transhumanist trajectory veering very near to the post human negative extreme as the societal transformation process approaches completion as per novelist Aldous Huxley's futuristic world state of the controllers or the direst predictions of the socialist philosopher Francis Fukuyama."

 Which, I must say made everything much clearer. It was supposed to be a future world where everyone is drugged, everything is regulated and everything is recycled: what we saw on the stage was supposed to be a model representing the whole of that world. The Venusberg is an experiment in producing clones animal human hybrids. The pilgrims are not going to Rome, they are going off to a social conditioning centre to be brain washed. Tannhäuser and Elizabeth are resisting this oppressive world. The song competition isn't about love, it's about the meaning of human existence. I must admit that having read this, Act II did make a lot more sense. There was certainly a lot of striking imagery in it. The lady sitting next to me couldn't understand why Tannhäuser was being chased around the set by turtles. I had to explain that they were – obviously – giant spermatozoa.

Actually this is the worst thing about these kinds of productions: you get "symbols" which mean something to the producer, but don't actually make sense even in terms of the world that he's built on the stage. Drugged underworld in which the individualist is having sex with savage human-animal hybrids; yes. Giant sperm? Giant sperm?

 In Act III, Elizabeth dies by throwing herself into one of the big chemical tanks, which is supposed to suggest that her essence is going to be recycled and absorbed by Tannhäuser, and also call to mind gas chambers and suggest that these regulated scientific societies always become awful in the end....but unfortunately, most of what was going on was obscured (from the point of view of everyone on the right of the theatre) by one of the superfluous beams. Quite a lot of text was projected on screens, as well, explaining obscurities in the production, possibly, but you couldn't actually read them either. There may be something in the idea that the production was designed to be watched by the people on the stage, and those of us in the auditorium were superfluous.

Which would be very Wagnerian, wouldn't it – "What difference do fifty or sixty more schwienhund make?"

It does seem awfully precious that Bayreuth is happy to fill the stage with screens and text, and run productions which are borderline deranged but refuses point blank to have surtitles because it would be different from Wagner's intentions. (This seems to annoy the native German speakers as well: even you have fluent German, you can't always follow the words that are being sung by an English or Korean singer.) One bit which definitely did work, by the way, was the overture to Act III, in which what we could see on the back of the stage was film of a spermatozoa impregnating an egg, and the egg splitting into multiple cells just as the music goes all triumphant. (At least I assume that was what I was looking at.) Oh, yeah, and the opera ends, not with the staff flowering, but with Venus giving birth to her child, and the baby being passed around the cast. I think the idea was that the baby is a new chance for the society to get things right, because it is so far unaffected by all the conditioning.

So, all very clear.

Literally five minutes from the hotel, my I-Phone ran out of batteries, and I realised that I didn't actually know where I was; I spent 20 minutes walking round in circles trying to spot a land mark. (I think the problem was that I was on a different plaza to the one I thought I was one, so even by going down each road systematically I wasn't going to find the right one.) In the end I walked back to the main road with the station on it and started again.

The multi-lingual Wagner debating society was still in progress in the bar when I got there. A new Canadian man was crazy about the production – "what a show! What a show!" Enthusiastic German man said that if he had to choose one way or the other, he didn't like it. The American lady (who seems to have seen absolutely everything) was quite cross; she thought (not unreasonably) that the opera ought to have at least something to do with the libretto

. …..Decided I would venture out of the hotel (not actually raining hard) and went to have a look at the Markgrafliches Opernhaus. I spent about ten minutes looking at all the angels, carvings of musicians, crowns, coats of arms, etc which is almost exactly the right amount of time to spend looking at an old building, whereupon a lady came and shut all the doors and talked to us in German for half and hour. 

....I am back in the coffee shop and the Americans have joined me, and are still talking about how angry the production made them. I think if you went to Bayreuth and weren't angry you'd probably feel short changed. The programme notes keep talking about the "Bayreuth workshop" and the "Bayreuth laboratory" as if the producer and the cast are doing an experiment and the audience is almost not there.

 Another advantage of a hat is that it keeps the rain off your head. Who knew?

Love

Andrew

Letter From Bavaria (2)

Dear Andrew, 

 I really did mean it when I said I wanted to hear from you. When I was learning Latin at school we read Pliny’s letters. There was one where he said he took pleasure in seeing his friends enjoying the good things in life he could no longer partake of. I thought he sounded rather sanctimonious. Now it comes to it I find I do want to know what you are doing.Anyway, I have been to Bayreuth twice without you. 

The first time was when I was 15. I had become obsessively keen on Wagner about a year before. I first saw it on television, the Chereau Ring, you saw it too. Funny to think we both watched it. I always had toast and marmite while watching, what did you have? 

 I loved Wagner in an uncomplicated way. I didn’t know the ending of the Ring and watched it like an adventure story. I remember telling someone I met at a conference part way through the Cycle that I thought Wotan would sort it out somehow. I was wholly unaware of the politics - I remember telling Granny I liked Wagner and she said she did not. I assumed because it was too loud and too long but I guess there may have been other reasons. 

 My parents were more accommodating. They took me to Bayreuth on our summer caravan holiday. We stayed on a site outside the town and there were people going to the festival. They stepped out of their caravans in evening dress. I went on a tour of the theatre and bought postcards. In the evening I sat in the caravan laying them out in a scrapbook. I found it yesterday while clearing the cellar to make way for the law books. I remember waiting outside the doors for the tour. We ate in McDonalds to save time. 

 The next time I went to Bayreuth I was inter-railing with R & J. We were somewhere on a station and I looked up and saw a train going to Bayreuth - we jumped on and arrived in the evening. There was nowhere to stay. We drank chocolate in the station hotel until past midnight. Then we went to the park at the festspielhaus and slept on the benches under Wagner’s statue. We woke up at about 5am and went back to the station to get a train to Munich. I liked the idea of not staying to see it in the day. 

 The third time was with you so you know all about that. We lay on the lawn and I told you how I had slept on the bench. 

 I have spent my day setting put my belongings in the downstairs study. I have made it look as much like my old chambers as I can. I went to chambers for a few minutes to collect what I needed to bring home. It’s funny to think of the room and chambers going on without me. It’s like hotels - you spend a week in a place on holiday experiencing it rather intensely and when you leave it all goes on without you. My flat in London is like that now - even though it is all still there. 

Right now you are sitting in the Festspielhaus. I remember it in every detail. It’s something I do - I remember buildings perfectly but cannot remember faces. I also remember the hotel, we had breakfast in the garden and drank Sekt. There was a bottle of Sekt in the hall - is there one in your hotel? If so I hope you have had some. 

 I can’t even begin to suggest what the production might have been about. Remember the program for the Dutchman where the producer said he wanted his production idea to be easy to grasp so had set it in a disused space shuttle factory in Khurgizstan? Last time we saw Lohengrin it was at the Coliseum and the knights were wearing blue knitted Chan mail and clustering round a large red cigar. Maybe I am destined never to know what Lohengrin is “about”. I am off to bed soon. Have fun and write again tomorrow. Love Opera Buddy.

Dear Opera-Buddy

I always thought Pliny was doing the Jewish mother thing: "Oh, you go an have a nice time, don't worry about me." I say "I always thought" in the spirit of one who owns a translation of Pliny's letters and can probably find the one which contains the one definite no-kidding reference to T.H.J outside of the Bible.

Yes, I thought that coming on our trip by myself was going to be like that scene in Doctor Who when Donna has been kidnapped by aliens and her family go ahead and have her wedding party without her. In fact of course I am having a quite different trip; there are things I wouldn't think of doing my myself, like going out to dinner (although there isn't really very much time, or need for that) and doing other things, like talking about rats to strangers in the bar which I wouldn't have done if I had a companion.

The barman in the hotel is totally a barman. He appeared to have my beer poured out before I arrived. When I asked for a half, he explained that I had been drinking halves (half litres) and that what I probably wanted was a baby one.

You remember the old joke about country churches always being at the top of steep hills, to ensure that customers say "oh...my....god" before crossing the threshold. (Possibly not, because I think I made it up.) I believe the French really did bury Napoleon at the bottom of a deep hole so that no-one could look at his mausoleum without bowing. I think that this may be the neglected secret of Wagner's design of the Festspielhaus: all those standing ovations are caused by people who've been sitting down for 90 minutes and desperately need to stretch their legs; and all that stamping is being done by people who are trying to get some circulation back in their feet before staggering to the official bratwurst stand.

QUESTION: Is "Milkcoffee" coffee which is suitable for adding milk to, or coffee which has already had milk added to it? Or possibly "milch" means decaffeinated?

Today, in addition to the pretty six seater mini bus a full sized bus came to the hotel. It claimed to cost 3.50, but no-one seemed interested in charging us. A nice Australian man thought that the rats represented a corruption in the body politic that was cured by the coming of the new generation; the enthusiastic German in the bar (let's call him "Steffan" because that's his name) thinks that they represented the masses who are going to enthusiastically follow their leaders wherever they are sent because they don't have a choice. Possibly the nice American lady was nearer to the mark when she said that the producers were just trying to be different.

NOTE TO SELF, 1: Do not use Phylida Lloyd's re imagining of Brunhilde as a suicide bomber as an example of a modern interpretation which worked well: people always reply "Oh, how awful!". I had already undermined my credentials with American Lady by remarking that I saw Parsifal at Covent Garden last year. "Oh, wonderful, who sang it?" "Er...I don't have the faintest idea." We were able to bond over Bryn Terfel, though.

Australian Man was rather put out by the new regime (in which Wagner societies no longer get an allocation of tickets). Although the Australian Wagner Society only gets a small number of tickets, there are an even smaller number of people in Australia willing to travel to Germany, so he had been able to come fairly often. Back in the same cafe drinking iced mocha. Didn't queue for Lohengrin autograph in the end because I found I hadn't brought my copy of the programme. (The programme's by the way, contain the usual rubbish you get in E.N.O programmes – quotes from Karl Marx and Brecht and what have you --- but everything is printed in three languages, there loads of photos of the production, which is what you actually want, and no advertisements for private schools.)

I must admit to finding Tristan the most challenging of Wagner's operas. This is probably because it is the most purely musical of them. I do not for one moment deny that it has some of the best music Wagner ever wrote in it, which is to say, some of the best music ever written. But there really is an awful lot of it. King Marks aria in Act II, when he finds Tristan and Isolde together ("I'm not angry. I just feel that you've let yourself down. If you find your best friend in the arms of your sweetheart, brother, that's when your heartaches begin...")...right up to the point where he says "If Tristan --- Tristan – is untrue" is one of the most dramatic things I've ever heard; but it then goes on for another twenty minutes. And when Tristan and Isolde recover from their suicide pact in Act I, and look into each others eyes and sing each others names....fantastic. But he's made us wait a long time to get there. And obviously the beginning of the duet in Act II, which is basically the dirtiest music ever written, but did we really need an hour and half of it. Chap playing Tristan (Robert Dean Smith, I have my programme with me today) did a fantastic job of the mad scenes in Act III. I'd forgotten how much I like the long prelude, in fact, with the horn (poss. Cor Anglais, but don't write in); the ranting madness in the bed, and the shepherd playing his horn to indicate that Isolde still hasn't arrived. But Wagner does it three times. (I guess that's why Sam Beckett hovers around productions....waiting for someone who doesn't come, "nothing happens, twice" and so on. And Isolde's love death (which is German for "Love-death"), of course, which is the really what the opera is there for. But for those of us who are not quite clear which is the Tristan chord and what it would mean to have resolved it, there isn't a great deal of action compared with the Ring. I seem to think that one of the baby Wagner's (Wolfgang, possibly) said in a TV interview that Tristan is the best because it is the one where Wagner abandoned all the political bull sheet.

I think the flautist outside the bookshop is trying to do a medley of themes from Tristan.

The production is the one that they showed as part of the live cinema series in the multiplex last year; people at the bar who know about these things felt that the new cast did not have quite the passion and physicality of last year. The production was far more penetrable than last night. Very brown. Act 1 is in a frumpy room, possibly meant to be the cafe on a cruise ship, full of chairs. Isolde spend a lot of the first minutes knocking them over, and then systematically knocks the last few down during her big scene with Tristan. Act two is in another big 1950s room, possibly the foyer of a hotel. (There is a life jacket outside one of the doors, so possibly we are in a port, or even still on a ship.) There are lots of light switches, all of which are turned off during the assignation, and dramatically turned on when Mark discovers the lovers together (a very nice effect, from dark to light quick enough to actually dazzle the audience.) Act three seemed to be in the same room, but a long time later – tiles taken off walls to reveal bare plaster. Tristan spent the act on an adjustable bed that tilted him to every possible angle. Isolde, after doing her big death song, simply lies one the bed (Tristan being conveniently on the floor by this point) and pulls the sheet over her face, which was very dramatic.

Everyone clapped exactly the right amount of time: footstamping for Tristan, footstamping for Isolde, rapturous footstamping for both of them together. Everyone then got up to leave, whereupon the whole company came out arm in arm and we had to go through the whole thing all over again. "The Germans are a terrible people Baldric: they have no word for "fluffy" and their operas last for several weeks." And it appears they also have no word for "leave them begging for more."

 No-one at the bar agree with me, but the more I think about it the more sure I am that the embryo in Lohengrin was meant to be the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Space Baby = Thus Sprach Zarathrustra = Nietzsche = Wagner. Makes sense to me.

 How did we ever visit foreign countries before we had I-Phones? I asked Mr Google Map to draw me a line from the hotel to Wagner's house, and here I am. I have put my waistcoat and tie in my bag, and will probably head directly to the theatre without going back to the hotel. I will, however, where my tux tomorrow (for Parsifal: I believe it is obligatory to fast before the production as well) and get some pictures taken.

Love,

Andrew

P.S

 I am very sorry to say that I couldn't sell last night's spare ticket. All the others have been sold, so just imagine that the box over took them back for a 20% cover charge. There were four or five people outside the ticket office trying to buy and sell tickets – there was at least one other person with a single for Tristan, and one man with several to sell. (I did not know the German for "make me an offer", though I did resort to "Come on, I have a ticket for Wagner, I heard he was quite popular round here.") I may get "The man who couldn't give a ticket to the opera away at Bayreuth" printed on a tee shirt As a result of this, I spent both intervals being approached by people who thought I had tickets for Tannhäuser and Parsifal for sale. It probably helped that I was the mad Englishman in the waistcoat and orange tie. Considering that I am never likely to start smoking a pipe, I really wish I had bought a hat years ago. I am quite aware that it makes me look like an idiot, but it is brilliant to have something to put on and take off and even occasionally wave around, and people are so astonished by the hat that they don't notice the tie or waistcoat or the fact that I don't speak German. I think it communicates "I am the sort of fellow who cares enough about his appearance to have bought a hat, but cares so little about his appearance that he bought a hat."

If this is Bavaria, you must be the Illuminati.

Letter From Bavaria

Dear Opera-Buddy

So I said I'd give you a running commentary on what is going on in Bavaria. (I hope this is really what you want. If I had had to sell my golden tickets, I think I would have refused to even think about Wagner for a year – like the athletes who just missed out in being in "team GB" and went off to Las Vegas to pretend the Olympics weren't happening. Did you tape the closing ceremony, by the way? The German Lady in the bar last night said that the Opening Ceremony was so good she could hardly believe that the English had done it... I mentioned Paul McCartney and she said that his song was the best thing about it, so I was probably wrong about that.)

I realise that it is pathetic that I should have reached the age of very nearly 35 and still be as terrified of flying as I still am. Its not the flying bit. I entirely trust that the wings are not going to drop off the planes, but I spend the entire 24 hours worrying about things which are going to go wrong, as, will they refuse to let me on the plane wearing jeans, is my pass port out of date despite saying 2015, how on earth am I going to get to a hotel in a foreign country in the middle of the night. (I have decided to make no attempt to speak German to anyone: much safer to grin and point and, if they turn out to speak English, which lets face it they do, to complain about the awfulness of language teaching in English schools and say that it you understand that it is much improved nowadays.) Travel in fact went without a hitch: Taxi from Munich to airport hotel, shuttle from hotel back to airport, metro from airport to station. Since we were last here, German stations have become much more like English stations, with lots of different kinds of coffee and sandwiches.

(I am writing this in the breakfast buffet on Tuesday morning. It sounds as if Kundry is telling Percival that there is too much peril on the big TV in the front lobby, which is a nice touch.)

Obviously resorting to national stereotypes of any kind is very cruel, so I shall merely say that all the German people I have met are wildly eccentric, drink copious amounts of Guinness and kiss the blarney stone. Oh, and that all the trains run on time.

Any way you don't want to hear about this, you want to hear about the opera. I got to Bayreuth by about 1PM as planned, and by 2PM people in the hotel were wearing tuxes and or dinner jackets (possible even la smokings) eating very small sandwiches at the free buffet, and waiting for the shuttle to take them to the Festspeilhaus. (The shuttle was designed to look like and old fashioned vintage car, but it would have been better if it has been an ordinary minibus but bigger.) Reception set me up with a German lady who wanted to buy the spare ticket. We didn't manage much conversation. "It is beautiful, on top of the hill, yes? Very singular." "Yes, Covent Garden is really not quite the same." (There seemed, in fact, to be very few English people around: quite a large number of spectacularly over dressed Japanese people, though.) I opted for best waistcoat tie and hat rather than tux, although you will be glad to know that as a result of weightwatchers I can get into the smart suit if needs be. Probably for Parsifal. (I bought a pair of cufflinks on the station. That was quite fun: no, I do not want something with union jacks on them, or gold plated, or with diamonds. I want something costing about five pounds to keep my shirt on.)

For future reference, there is a very posh looking restaurant in situ at the festival house, but there are also kiosks selling champagne, coffee, ice cream, pretzels, official Bayreuth bratwurst etc etc etc. Each interval technically lasts an hour, although I think that means "the next act starts exactly 1 hour after the curtain goes down on the previous one". By the time you've applauded and got in and got out again, you don't seem really to have that long. (Better than insane Covent Garden 15 minute breaks half way through Mastersingers, of course. The leisurely pace of Bayreuth makes a real difference to your perception of opera, I think: it feels much more as if you are watching three short opera than that you've enlisted for a five hours of solid music. The end of act 3 in particular felt a lot like the climax of a whole long show.)

Of course, the last time we were here we saw Dutchman / Hollander so we didn't have a chance to get blasé about going in and out of the theatre I guess German fire regulations must be different from ours, or else they don't apply to Wagner. The whole of the main arena ("stalls" is to small a word) is a mass of long rows, without an aisle of gangway in site...everyone has to push past everyone else (efficiently if you are German, politely if you are English). The comfortableness of the seats has been massively exaggerated, especially by me. I almost had enough leg room. The lady in front of me seemed to glare at me because my knees were sticking into the back of her chair, but I explained in perfect English that given my height and Wagner's acoustics, this was probably unavoidable. The man behind be kept sticking is toes into my bottom.

The programme notes say that the question everyone asks about this production, to the exclusion of everything else, is "why are the chorus dressed as rats". I think that if you take a nice romantic fairy tale like Lohengrin and dress the chorus as rats (black rats, mostly, but a few white rats, and some pink rats during the love scenes) that is probably what you can expect audiences to focus on. During some of the exposition scenes, they lowered a big cine screen down from the ceiling and illustrated the action with cartoons of rats running down roads, being cut in half, and having crowns inside their heads. This didn't really help very much. They were, I must admit, very good rats: there was much action of them waving their little hands and a quite funny scene in one of the musical interludes where two of them were chased across the stage by people in green environmental suits, possibly intended to be rat exterminators. This is, apparently supposed to emphasis that Lohengrin is a very human opera about the relationships between two human beings, and not a fairy tale about a man from the land of the Grail and a magic swan at all. I mean, I like crazy productions, I like to be challenged and I don't even mind being annoyed, but I actually didn't understand what this was doing. Act one begins with Lohengrin struggling to open some doors on a blank white wall, possibly (if we agree with the programme) representing Time; but the whole of the rest of the act seemed to be set in some kind of laboratory, with the rat-chorus being poked by the exterminators. About half way through (when Lohengrin arrives and every body cheers up) they take of their rat costumes and spend the rest of the act in bright yellow pimp-suits (the rat masks and tales are suspend above the stage on wires.) This made me think of that scene in the Phylida Lloyd ring when the vassals go from being grey riot police to colourful wedding guests? But it wasn't nearly as well done. Possibly we were supposed to think of them as the Common People be experimented on? Lohengrin himself is done fairly straight, he walks on from the back bathed in light, with a swan in a boat (or possibly a bath) being carried by four of the rats. However, the music – particularly the end of the first act when everyone is singing joyfully about how Lohengrin has exonerated Elsa and is going to lead them into battle against the Hungarians (is it Hungarians? Foreigners, anyway) is quite brilliant: as everyone says the Bayreith chorus is on a different level to anything you've heard anywhere else.

(Getting the impression they'd like to me leave the breakfast room and go somewhere else. Efficiently.)

….Resuming in a coffee shop in Richardwagnerstreet. (Stratford doesn't have William Shakespeare Avenue and Measure for Measure villas, does it. I am not going to start doing that thing that people do in epistolary novels: "I am afraid that my host is...is....I can barely say it.....") But I quite definitely have just ordered dark mocha. I did my usual thing of walking straight out of the hotel and finding myself in the mean back streets of Bayreuth, but eventually worked out where I wanted to be. Since Bayreuth is such a legend for us, its funny to think that for the people who live here, its just a place, with a discount supermarket and a sports centre and a disco describing itself as the Number One Partyspot. I think englishspeakingpeople should sooncopy the Germantalkingmethod of wordstogethersticking.

Coffee arrives slurp slurp.

Act Two of Lohengrin is if anything even more grotesque; we start with the baddies (can't be bothered to check spellings of names) plotting in what appears to be the wreakage of a hearse, complete with dead horse. And rats. The producer really likes that trick of moving scenery around the stage on invisible casters. Elsa spends the first half of act 2 in a room within a room, made of mirrors so she is talking to the reflection of herself, and, unfortunately and unintentionally, I assume, the reflection of the conductor. (It really is very strange and special not to be able to see the orchestra or the conductor: you wonder why, when so much else of Wagner's dramaturgy – good word – was copies and taken for granted, I don't think there's anywhere else that hides the orchestra under the floor. The stage is, I think, narrower – certainly more square – than at Covent Garden – but it seems to go back forever.) But the second half of the second act was so pretty that I couldn't really complain about it, even though still don't really follow it. The rats took their costumes off (again) and this time the men rats were in tuxes and the lady rats were in bring pastal coloured lolly pop dresses (they still had tails, though.) The act finishes with Lohengrin and Elsa walking down the aisle to be married in front of a cross. But two of the men in exterminator costumes come and take the cross apart; but Lohengrin takes the pieces and holds them in the air, so you end with Elsa kneeling in front of a cross which Lohengrin is holding.

I had an official festival Bratwurst in the interval.

The enthusiastic man in the bar tells me that Lohengrin (the singer) has been the cause of a controversial argument in the Germany, because his singing is not macho enough for the classic Wagnerian parts; but that if he is too lyrical for Sigmund he makes up for it by being such a good actor. (I didn't get if he was saying that he had actually done straight acting parts, or just that he acted far better than most opera singers too.) Certainly, he had the great otherworldly voice for the big Lohengrin arias, but was very natural and convincing in the love scenes with Elsa. (Although they both suffered from Sad-actor-disease; throwing each other across the stage and at one point Elsa curls up in a fetal ball in the way real people don't.) The chorus actually got rid of their masks altogether; they were wearing military uniforms with swan insignia.

The big question is : how did they do the scene where the swan transforms into Elas's brother? The answer in this case being, they didn't; or rather, he didn't so much transform as, er, hatch. I think everything had been so mad up to this point that all we could do with the ending was to nod and say "aha". When Lohengrin gives his answer to Elsa' question about who he is, there is a large question mark projected on to the back of the stage, which becomes an exclamation mark when he is finished. Subtle. The boat comes back, this time as a large object with a silk covering hanging on it, and a large swan embroidered on the silk. At the last moment, Lohengrin whips the cover off and underneath is, er, an egg. Lohengrin, with I have to say a completely straight face, turns the egg slowly around, and reveals a large male embryo (I take it that it was supposed to be the star-baby from 2001, but by this stage, who knows). The embryo stands up and cuts its own umbilical chord, by which point everyone else on stage, apart from Lohengrin, has dropped dead. I have absolutely no idea.

They really do milk the applause in Europe, don't they. Principles together, principles separately, chorus master, chorus master and chorus....do the orchestra really perform in casual clothes, just because we can't seem them? I somehow assumed they'd be in full evening dress like BBC radio news readers.

There was definite booing from the front rows as the curtain went down, but a proper standing ovation for Lohengrin himself (a few people first off all, and then a few more people, and eventual, everyone, even the England.) I think that's a fair summary, actually, scattered booing for the production, standing ovation for Lohengrin.

The reception just called to say they have a buyer for Tannhäuser, so provided I can find someone for Tristan, you get your money back. It's worth knowing for another year: planning at trip to stay in Bayreuth and look at Ludwig's castles, but with a very good chance of buying tickets on the day. Although if it is true that the festival has loosened up about "the black market" it may be that this won't be as feasible in the future.

There is an exhibition in the grounds of the festspielhaus about Bayreuth and the Jews. Apparently, Wagner himself was quite anti-semitic, Cosima was very anti-Semitic, and Hitler was really not very nice at all. The exhibition is basically photos and biogs of Jewish singers some of whom performed in the early years but were progressively excluded by Cosima and the next generation. Which makes the point quite interestingly.

There is a large queue outside the bookshop opposite the cafe. I am going to go and see if Lohengrin will sign my programme.

Love

Andrew

Long time readers may remember that I said this was my favourite new song of 2011. Today might be a good day to listen to it again.