Showing posts with label opera. Show all posts
Showing posts with label opera. Show all posts
Sunday, 28 June 2020
Monday, 25 May 2020
"Wagner's Parsifal: The Music of Redemption" by Roger Scruton
Wagner's Parsifal:
The Music of Redemption
by Roger Scruton
An illustrated review
Saturday, 9 March 2019
Venice by night: Friedrich Schiller's "The Ghost-Seer" (translated by Andrew Brown)
Venice by Night... "The Ghost-Seer" by Friedrich Schiller
(Alma Classics edition, translated with an introduction by Andrew Brown)
The rise of Gothic fiction in the second half
of the 18th Century, also referred to as “first wave Gothic”, is generally
portrayed as a peculiarly English phenomenon.
This is hardly surprising, considering that the novel widely (if not
uncontroversially) considered to be the first Gothic novel is Horace Walpole’s The
Castle of Otranto (1764). It
set the blueprint for a dark literary genre, obsessed with terror, death and
the otherworldly, and was soon followed by works in the same vein by other
English authors such Ann Radcliffe, William Beckford and Matthew “Monk”
Lewis. It would be a mistake, however,
to consider this movement in ‘splendid isolation’ from what was happening in
the rest of Europe. Indeed, some of the
defining elements of the Gothic are shared with Continental literature of the
period, shaped by the ideals of Early Romanticism and the proto-Romantic Sturm
und Drang movement. German readers,
in particular, had a particular appetite for horror novels, some of which were
translated into English or adapted by English authors. In writing “The Monk”, Lewis drew upon
homegrown Gothic, but also upon German ‘horrid novels’.
One of the seminal works in the Continental
canon is Der Geisterseher – Aus den Papieren des Grafen von O** (generally rendered in English as “The Ghost-Seer” or “The Apparitionist”), a strange novel by the poet, dramatist, novelist and philosopher Friedrich Schiller (1759-1805). It first appeared in instalments in the
journal Thalia between 1787 and 1789, only to be abandoned and left unfinished
by Schiller who, apparently, developed a great antipathy to his own creation. It has just been published on the
Alma Classics imprint, in a translation by Andrew Brown who also provides an
introduction, placing the novel in the philosophical and cultural context of
its period.
The protagonist of the novel is the Prince of
------------------ who, we are given understand, is the third in line to the
throne of Protestant state. On a sojourn
in Venice, the Prince becomes involved in a secret society known as the
“Bucentauro”, a group of debauched members of high society, amongst whom count
several influential prelates. He also
falls in love with a mysterious “Greek” woman.
All of this, however, could well be a front for an even shadowier
Catholic group intent on converting the Prince to “the only Church outside
of which there is no salvation”, fleecing him of his family’s riches in the
process. The Prince is, in fact, being
stalked by an elusive figure he refers to as “the Armenian” who is, according
to some accounts, a protean spy for the Inquisition and, according to others, a
Faust or Melmoth-like figure who has achieved immortality through devilish
means.
 |
| Arthur von Ramberg (1819-1875), Der Prinz (illustration for Schiller's The Ghost-Seer) |
It all sounds very convoluted, and it is. On his part, Schiller purposely adds to the
confusion through the narrative devices he opts for. The first part of the story is recounted in
the first person by the Count of O***, a friend and companion of the Prince. After the Count leaves Venice to attend to
personal business, the story continues in epistolary form, through letters sent
by Baron von F_________ , a member of the Prince’s retinue, to the Count,
updating him on the latest developments in connection with the Prince. Both narrators are, by their own admission,
unreliable narrators, who do not always understand the strange goings-on in
which they find themselves. The
narrators cannot trust their senses – we, as readers, cannot take them at their
word. This is truly a novel where, to
quote the Bard, “nothing is, but what is not”.
The work’s fragmentary nature is compounded by the fact that it was left
unfinished. Reaching the last page
of book feels like stepping out of a
dream or hallucination, whose details and meaning lie tantalisingly out of
reach.
The philosophy behind “The Ghost-Seer” is also
curiously ambivalent. It is often held
up as an example of Schiller’s Enlightenment ideals – to me, this is not that
obvious. Take the author’s approach
towards the supernatural. On the one
hand, much of the novel’s atmosphere (and its title) is drawn from the
otherworldly aspects of the plot, with one of its key scenes a seance-like
occult ceremony presided by a shady character based on the Count of
Cagliostro. Subsequently,
Radcliffe-like, Schiller has his Prince unravel the supernatural elements,
revealing them to be mere smoke and mirrors.
Yet, the explanation is so complicated, that like the Count, we are
almost tempted to reject it in favour of a belief that something otherworldly
must have been going on. The same could
be said of Schiller’s attitude towards religion. Unsurprisingly for a Gothic novel, Catholics
get quite a lot of bad press. But Schiller seems equally critical both of
the drearier, stricter strains of Protestantism and, at the other extreme, of ‘freethinking’ unbelief.
For an unfinished, slim novel(la), The
Ghost-Seer has proven surprisingly influential, possibly because of the
questions it poses only to leave unanswered.
It gave rise to a particular sub-genre of the Gothic – the “secret
society novel”, variously referred to in German as the Bundesroman or
the Geheimbundroman. It is also one of the first works to exploit
Venice as a backdrop for dark and/or supernatural fiction, a tradition which continued with E.T.A.
Hoffmann, Heinrich Zschokke and in the 20th century, Thomas Mann and Daphne du
Maurier. La Serenissima it may be
called, but its alleys and canals, decaying palaces and hidden campielli
whisper strange secrets, if only one were to listen...
 |
| Friedrich Nerly, View of the Grand Canal |
***
Schiller’s
An die Freude was famously set to music by Ludwig van Beethoven in the
choral finale of his 9th Symphony. Apart
from that, however, there are few famous settings of his poetry, although one
should mention Franz Schubert’s forty-four lieder based on Schiller’s
poems.
On the other hand, the writer’s plays have
proven particularly popular in opera adaptations. Verdi was a particular fan: I Masnadieri is based on The
Robbers, Giovanna d’Arco on The Maid of Orleans, Luisa Miller on Intrigue
and Love, Don Carlos on the eponymous play and La Forza del Destino,
partly, on Wallenstein.
Here’s then, a Schiller musical “dessert”,
First on is a scene from the Third Act of I Masnadieri,
the work which, together with The Robbers, is most often cited as an example
of Schiller’s “Gothic” streak.
Gioacchino Rossini is best known for his comic operas.
However, his last theatrical work, Guillaume Tell based on Schiller’s Wilhelm
Tell, is a grand opera rich in Romantic ideals, including several “nature scenes”
reflecting the concept of the Sublime.
To end, a contemporary
work by composer and cellist Graham Waterhouse. Composed in 2005, Der Handschuh is a melodrama
for cello and speaking voice, composed to mark the 200th anniversary of Schiller’s
death.
Saturday, 9 February 2019
Tuesday, 8 January 2019
Stockholm, 1793 - a review of "The Wolf and the Watchman" by Niklas Natt och Dag
Stockholm, 1793
"The Wolf and the Watchman" by Niklas Natt och Dag
(translated by Ebba Segerberg)
A book review
James Vella-Bardon, Maltese author of “The Sheriff’s Catch”
(which I review here) has publicly declared that he does not like his novel
described as a work of “historical fiction”, despite the fact that it is set in
the 16th Century. According to him, the
term historical fiction could have negative connotations for some readers,
who might be led to expect a soporific period piece, rather than a vibrant and
engaging story. And so, “The Sheriff’s
Catch” should be called a historical thriller, thank you very much.
Whether one agrees with Vella-Bardon or not, it is
certainly true that one of the greatest challenges faced by writers inspired by
the past, is how to give that historical context an immediacy and authenticity
which can grip the imagination of the contemporary reader. “The Sheriff’s Catch” succeeded brilliantly
in this. The same can be said of “The
Wolf and the Watchman”, a wonderful historical mystery which ended my 2018
reading year with a bang.
Originally published in Swedish as “1793”, Niklas Natt
och Dag’s debut novel will soon be available in English in an idiomatic
translation by Ebba Segerberg. And it
has all the makings of a literary bestseller. The story is set in Stockholm in the late
18th Century. Europe is still in awe of
the revolutionary goings-on in France and, following the assassination of
Gustav III, revolutionary fervour in the Swedish city is tempered by a sense of
fear and dread as to what might happen if matters get out of hand. In this incendiary environment, Mickell Cardell, a one-armed ex-soldier and
night watchman, makes a grisly find.
Somebody has disposed of a body in the city’s lake – and it is a body with
excised limbs and gouged eyes, testifying to a slow and painful death. This is the type of crime whose investigation
the Head of the Stockholm Police can only assign to a trusted person – and that’s
Cecil Winge, a lawyer with progressive ideals who is battling the last stages
of consumption. Winge teams up with
Cardell and together they attempt to crack the case. Their fraught journey will take them through
all layers of Stockholm society, from the lowest classes to the supposed elite
of the city, who also have their dark and base secrets.
In a
virtuoso feat of storytelling, Niklas Natt och Dag introduces two further
strands in his tale, which are presented to the reader in reverse chronological
order. First there is the epistolary
account of Kristofer Blix, a handsome young man who moves to Stockholm with the
dream of becoming a doctor. Then there
is the story of Anna-Stina, sent to a dreary workhouse after being wrongly
accused of working as a prostitute. In
the final chapters, these three threads combine to create a satisfying finale. Some plot twists are rather too convenient,
but the momentum is such that one gladly suspends disbelief.
 |
| View of Stockholm, late 18th Century |
So why is The Wolf and the Watchman good “historical
fiction”? First of all, the setting is no mere “appendage”
to the story – the beliefs, ideals and way of life of the period fuel both the
plot and the characters’ motivations and thought processes. Secondly, the historical
context is authentic, not simply in the sense of being well-researched (though
it seems to be that as well), but more importantly in that the novel places us
soundly in the period it is describing. Indeed, the descriptions do not shy away from the
revolting – whether stench, disease or bodily fluids. In this respect, a warning to the fainthearted
is in order – the novel can be very graphic and I must admit to skipping a
couple of paragraphs and reading others whilst peeping between my fingers. It
can be dark, it can be bleak, but it certainly cannot be accused of presenting
the past with nostalgic, rose-tinted hues.
At the same time, I liked the fact that the author plays
around with the genre. The Wolf and the
Watchman presents elements of the “police procedural” and, in its use of an
investigating duo combining brain and brawn, it pays tribute to classic
detective fiction. There is also a
strong noir element – the customers
of smokey nightclubs and striptease joints replaced by the tobacco-chewing
patrons of Stockholm pubs and coffee-houses. And, to the great pleasure of yours truly,
there is more than a whiff of Gothic in some of the darker pages of the text.
1793 was voted best debut novel of 2017 by the
Swedish Academy of Crime Writers. It's a deserved win and, hopefully, its English translation will bring it to the attention of a wider audience.
Expected publication: February 7th 2019 by John Murray
***
Although set in Stockholm, The Wolf and the Watchman is largely by the events of the French
Revolution. Winge upholds the Enlightenment ideals
supposedly reflected in the insurrection but has his reservations about the
bloodbath which followed. In France, the
Revolution had an impact on the arts, not least on music. It was a catalyst in the rise of
revolutionary “street music”, of which the most lasting legacy is La Marseillaise, later adopted as the
French national anthem.
The violence unleashed by the Revolution however cast a
pall over its legacy (although, perhaps, not as much as one would have expected). The guillotine, in particular, became a
potent symbol of the Reign of Terror and seemed to haunt the psyche of the
nation. This is particularly evident
Alexandre Dumas’s relatively little-known collection of supernatural tales – A Thousand
and One Ghosts. Musically, it finds a
parallel in March to the Scaffold the
fourth movement of Hector Berlioz’s Gothic extravaganza Symphonie Fantastique. (about which you can read more here).
The guillotine makes another famous appearance in
classical music in the final scene of Francis Poulenc’s Dialogues des Carmelites which presents a
fictionalised account of the execution by guillotine of the “Martyrs of Compiègne”
during the closing days of the Reign of Terror.
Revolutionary trends were rife in other countries,
leading to the disenchantment with Gustav III of Sweden and his eventual assassination. Whatever faults Gustav had, he is deservedly
lauded as a patron of the arts. The
Royal Theatre was built under his auspices, and his support of opera composers
led to a school of opera still referred to as Gustavian opera. Johann Gottlieb Naumann was one of these
composers – he is known amongst others for his “lyric tragedy” Gustaf Wasa,
written to a libretto by Johan Kellgren based on a concept of Gustav III
himself.
It is therefore ironic that the assassination of Gustav
III should itself become the subject of opera – and more than one at that. Daniel Auber’s Gustave III appeared in 1833. It was followed, more famously, by Giuseppe
Verdi’s Un Ballo in Maschera. Composed in 1859, censorship requirements
in Rome and Naples forced Verdi to change the
setting several times, amidst the censors’ fears that a royal assassination relatively
close to home was an unsavoury subject for a theatre piece. Clearly, Gustav III was not the only royal to
live in the grip of paranoia...
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