Great film series tend to have at least one instalment that lets down the side. Who can forget, or forgive, how Temple of Doom sullied the original Indiana Jones trilogy? Thus it is with Siegfried within Wagner's legendary Ring cycle. It is still undeniably Wagner, so we have captivating music, compelling themes and high drama. But the hero is a thoroughly unlikeable brat who, after subjecting us to hours of alternating complaining, bluster and self-obsession, implausibly wins the love of one of the most magnificent female characters in all of opera within just one scene.
Not even Longborough, now proudly ordained as “the British Beyreuth”, can save this opera from itself. It is the penance one has to pay to get through to the heartache and beauty of Götterdämmerung.
That's not to say that I didn't enjoy a great deal about this production. First, and always to be expected at Longborough, the cast was magnificent. In this most masculine of Wagnerian outings, it was the three small female roles that impressed most. Julieth Lozano's woodbird ... the first friend Siegfried has ever made once he is able to understand its language … was an absolute delight, guiding the hero with cheerful enthusiasm, delicately avian movements and a pure soprano voice worthy of the morning chorus. Mae Heydorn emerges from the mist as Erda, her one scene almost stealing the whole show. She is a majestic, all-knowing goddess … had Judi Dench been an opera singer, her performance would have had this gravitas … yet also as confused and lethargic as you’d expect while struggling to consciousness from a centuries-long sleep. And Lee Bisset's return as Brünnhilde after last summer's turn in Die Walkure was a joy tarnished only by how little stage time Wagner gives her in this instalment. The heart of her section … where she’s emotionally torn by her joy at evading eternity’s curse and finding out the child she struggled to protect has grown into a hero versus her terror about losing her supernatural powers and being subjugated to a man … was powerful. The bits on either side where she’s in giddy love with her much-younger brat of a nephew who woke her from her curse? Preposterous. But Bisset’s a soprano, not a miracle worker.
Bradley Daley, in his Longborough debut, had the unenviable task of trying to make Siegfried likeable and credible, all the more challenging by Longborough's intimate, 500-seat theatre. The character works only if you understand him as an undisciplined, unloved, immature, hormone-ravaged teenaged boy, experiencing an abrupt coming of age due to extraordinary circumstances. While the costuming and Daley's acting did an admirable job of characterisation, no illusion at those close quarters can hide that the singer is old enough to be Siegfried's father. Of course, I don't believe any human young and buff enough to give us a great physical Siegfried could ever deliver his voice. (Jonas Kaufman probably managed it a decade ago, but I’ve never seen him in this role.) Only a singer of of deep maturity could hit the range, power and endurance Siegfried requires, and Daley delivers. Another of the irreconcilable contradictions within the opera itself.
Sets and costumes were particularly good. I might have been easily impressed simply because we haven’t seen a full staging since 2019 (thanks, Covid), but memory suggests this was pushing even Longborough's impressively creative envelope. A multi-level set and the most sophisticated use of light and video projection I can remember here really maximised the limited space within this tiny theatre. Erda's scene was the best example of everything coming together, with her ethereal grey and diamond costume materialising as if from nowhere and returning to the mists, her on a distant mountain top while Wotan occupied a lesser plain. We were going to praise the cleverly integrated stilts that allowed Wotan to tower over everyone else with a commanding presence, until we realised Pauls Putnins is simply that tall!
They even won me over with Alberich's “dragon”, not a dragon at all but a bitter and twisted human on crutches. I continue to dream of a production that gives me a properly winged, scaled, clawed and fire-breathing dragon of Lord of the Rings or Game of Thrones quality, but the idea of a man destroying his physical well-being with excessive greed was far more palatable than the robotic extensions, towers or cherry pickers that modern, abstract productions have leaned towards. Perhaps the best bit of creativity on the night, however, was Freddie Tong stepping in to sing Alberich from one of the front boxes while Mark Stone, suffering from throat problems, lip synched and “walked the role”. Another stretch of credulity that delivered.
A fresh, young conductor was also thrilling. The orchestra, returned to glorious full strength and packed back into the usual crowded, under-stage pit with no social distancing required, was still very much under the direction of Anthony Negus. The great man is now clearly acknowledged as one of the world’s greatest Wagner interpreters, but Longborough plans to be around for a very long time and it’s always promoted young artists. Thus they’ve appointed a Ring Cycle Conducting Fellow, the promising Harry Sever, to work alongside Negus, share the load and develop the next generation.
Above, below and backstage, it’s clear Longborough is in safe hands for the future. I’m looking forward to my first ring in 2024 (Longborough’s second) when we sign up to binge watch all four episodes in one week. No matter how much they improve this one … and there’s not that much to improve … they’ll still have their hands tied by Wagner’s characterisation and plot. But you need to trudge through The Two Towers to fully appreciate the magnificence of Return of the King.
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