After years of taking my operatic vacations without the alles-wissende Muschelboy (aka Mr. Fatale), I lured him to Central Europe with the prospect of two weeks of rich desserts, Strauss operas, cruisy blondes, and Vienna "sausages". To celebrate our first visit to Vienna together, the birthplace of psychoanalysis, we took in two performances of Robert Carsen�s controversial Freudian take on Strauss�s Die Frau Ohne Schatten.

Carsen has dispensed with this opera�s customary exotic, fairy-tale trappings to focus instead on the character of the Empress and the source of her great anguish and torment. In doing so, he fashioned an entirely new plot for the opera that emphasized the Freudian overtones in the libretto without changing a word of the text and by honoring the libretto�s demands for extravagant special effects. Thus, the Kaiserin becomes a patient at Freud�s (i.e., the Spirit Messenger�s) clinic. She suffers under the extraordinary delusions that she casts no shadow and that her husband will turn to stone because of her inability to have conjugal relations with him. As the opera begins, she is tossing fitfully in bed; the nurse and doctor discuss her case; they leave and we eavesdrop on her vivid dreams.

It is in these dreams that we encounter the Dyer�s Wife who represents both the empress�s tawdry self-image and her subconscious feelings and desires. The Dyer�s Wife wears a rumpled version of the Empress�s outfit and lives in a disheveled (or at least what an Austrian would consider disheveled) mirror image of the Empress�s room. These dreams slowly reveal that the Empress� distress is caused by her guilt over her father�s death and her suppression of conflicted feelings about their sexually abusive relationship. Eventually, she overcomes her guilt and is cured.

Remarkably, this transformation of the work succeeds, in part because it creates a more compelling story than von Hoffmannstahl�s rather clunky fairy tale about the joys of breeding and also, thanks to Carsen�s theatrical instincts and also to his skill at working with singers to bring out vivid performances. There are several great coups in the production, including a goosebump-inducing first appearance of the Dyer�s Wife, an impressive earthquake for the end of Act II, and a gasp-inducing set for the Empress�s big scena in Act II. Our view of the scene is that of someone watching the Empress writhe in bed from above.

Thus, the floor of the room is the back wall of the set and her bed is mounted to the wall 15 feet in the air (she was seat-belted in). The scene takes place behind a scrim on which is projected a Hitchcock-style film of the Empress�s dream showing the traumatic circumstances of her father�s death and the father giving the Empress a necklace in a scene with a sexual undercurrent. It is this same necklace that is offered to the Dyer�s wife in exchange for her shadow, one of the many potent details in the production.

In the end, the production works because it solves one of the key problems in von Hoffmanstahl�s libretto: even though she is the focus of the drama, the Empress has surprisingly little to sing and do in the first two acts. Here, she is on stage almost the entire time, and participates actively, if mutely, in the drama.

Deborah Voigt was more than up to the many acting challenges presented to her. Her vivid gestures and reactions created one of the most complex and dramatic characterizations I�ve seen on the opera stage. Her singing was at the highest level and had the audience on its feet and roaring its praise through numerous curtain calls. She displayed the requisite glowing Straussian sound, epic phrasing, and enormous power for the climaxes. Her outburst in the Act II dream scene hurled a fireball of sound from the stage. She also revealed a powerful, gutsy chest voice that she used to great impact in Act III. Nonetheless, she still had plenty of voice for the finale, where she soared over the rest of the ensemble and the Vienna Philharmonic, playing at full blast.

Ben Heppner was her Kaiser; he sang with his customary involvement, excellent diction, and a great sense of line. Unfortunately, the Vienna Philharmonic, playing at mercilessly loud levels, nearly drowned him out during his aria in Act II. He could actually be heard when he sang the part of the Young Man�s lines from off-stage. This was another one of the many thought provoking details of the production, not that the audience was doing much thinking at this point � the stunning naked actor portraying the actor had the audience whispering and frantically scrambling for their opera glasses.

Falk Struckmann and Gabriele Schnaut were Barak and The Dyer�s Wife. She is a notoriously variable performer, but at these two performances everything worked � the voice was reasonably secure; she sang in tune and the scooping was minimal. Her diction was still mushy, and the voice has little allure, but she revealed herself to be an excellent actress, actually generating sympathy and interest for the Färberin. Falk Struckmann was announced as suffering from a cold at the first performance we saw, but still sang beautifully, a few iffy attacks excepted. He did sound better at the second performance and brought out Barak�s humanity and grace in both.

Jane Henschel, an American soprano making her Vienna State Opera debut, was the Nurse. She is a real find � an extraordinarily committed performer with the technique and voice to sail throug the Nurse�s difficult music. Her cry at the end of Act II was thrilling and the audience loved her. Ms Henschel is active mostly in Europe. Inexplicably, she has no engagements scheduled for the Met.

Wolfgang Bankl was adequate as Geisterbote/Freud. Of course, it was hard to portray a psychiatrist when there was a real one in the pit, the conductor Giuseppe Sinopoli. Mr. Sinopoli led a performance with drive, momentum, excitement, and a great range of orchestral colors. However, while milking every orchestral climax, he did rush most of the vocal climaxes. In addition, he displayed little concern for the singers, constantly gesturing to the orchestra for more volume. The Vienna Philharmonic really excelled, managing to play with subtlety and transparency despite the repeated exhortations for sheer heft.

Musically, these were two of the greatest performances that I�ve experienced in my 15 years of opera going. Even though the production was virulently booed at its premiere and the subject of heated debates in the Viennese press, I believe that, in time, it will be regarded as a classic � much like the Chereau Ring, which was similarly despised at its first performances.

Our two performances of Die Frau were separated by a Lohengrin and an opera-less side trip to view the ultra-faboo opera house in Budapest. Anyone under the impression that the Met has a monopoly on clumsy, conservative productions, need only to have seen this version of Lohengrin designed by Rudolf and Reinhard Heinrich and directed by Wolfgang Weber, which was an overflowing cornucopia of ineptitude attempting to pass itself as enlightened traditionalism.

The curtain went up to reveal an ugly, tiered, charcoal on gray set, lit with a harsh, unpleasant glare that even the pointless scrim could not temper. The chorus was split in half and cleverly arrayed to block the audience�s view of Lohengrin�s arrival. The herald launched into his proclamation and pretty much nothing at all happened until Lohengrin showed up - the leads took their turns in the hot spot at center stage while the chorus played pocket pool and barely tried to stifle their yawns and smirks. For Lohengrin�s arrival, the lights suddenly dimmed and a projection of the swirling Spirograph of the Holy Grail surrounding a clumsily drawn swan appeared on the scrim. The lights went back up and Lohengrin had "magically" appeared atop the stairs (or at least his disembodied voice had; we couldn�t see him). Loud snickering greeted this display of stagecraft. Acts II and III were similarly klutzy, although it was harder to discern the director�s intentions in the backroom lighting.

Thankfully, Elsa and Ortrud brought some business (and acting skills) with them and improvised some business to enliven the torpor, even if the direction kept them from moving around. It was a rare pleasure to see two acclaimed Isoldes battling it out as Elsa and Ortrud. Sue Patchell, our Elsa, is a strikingly beautiful woman who moves with intensity and grace. Her voice was a little edgy for the ideal Elsa, but her sincerity and abandon led to an overall favorable first impression. Waltraud Meier was her nemesis Ortrud. The unfortunate costuming made her look like Piper Laurie in Carrie ("Elsa, pray with me!") and revealed to the world that she was not of Bra-bant. However, the dorky duds did not impede her performance at all � her Ortrud had the requisite fury and scorn and insinuation. At times, her singing was well-modulated screaming, but it was full of insight and telling details. Also, Meier is one of the few singers who can dominate the stage with a glance. Her "Who the fuck is he?" sizing up of Lohengrin upon his entrance was the best display of pure temperament I experienced this season.

Poor Tom Fox as Telramund, didn�t have much chance to make an impression with such a formidable partner, but he sure did try. He pushed unnecessarily and overdid the gesticulating and isometric eyebrow exercises. While Telramund is a bit of a Johnny One-Note, we needed to see more than hyperkinetic whininess.

Johan Botha, our Lohengrin, has surfaced a few times in New York, but is practically a house tenor in Vienna, appearing in multiple productions each season. He has an attractive, suitably ringing tone, and adequate acting skills, but his voice showed signs of trouble. Any attempts to sing softly resulted in cracking and the voice did not seem to be under control. As these problems were not in evidence the other times that I have heard him, I hope they were temporary glitches and not symptomatic of more serious difficulties. It was a pleasure to encounter the still-powerful bass of Matti Salminen as the king.

Fabio Luisi�s conducting was most noticeable for its frenetic pacing; the performance ended a full 20 minutes before the announced ending time. The Vienna Philharmonic deserves the highest praise for not letting the performance degenerate into a mad scramble. In fact, they were able to add a great deal of nuance and inflection and muster up a gorgeous climax in the Act I prelude even if Mr. Luisi was only concerned about catching his train and collecting his paycheck.

We had a train of our own to catch the next day. We made the train, but still almost didn�t make it to see Dvorak�s Rusalka in Prague. Our train arrived too late for us to pick up our reserved tickets before the deadline of 4 PM. The concierge at our hotel got confused and made us a new reservation for Philip Glass�s Fall of the House of Usher, which was playing at one of the other opera houses in Prague. By then Rusalka was sold out, but we rushed to the National Theatre anyway. After we made lots of pleading gestures to the stern woman in the box office, she relinquished 2 prime seats for us at the normal bargain price of $20 each. Greatly relieved, we went inside to explore the National Theatre before the opera.

It�s a truly dazzling house, which, aside from having many years of accumulated grime on the outside, has been very well maintained. The theater boasts amongst its many charms a strategic spot on the river, an elaborate gilded roof that can be spotted from throughout the city, a patriotic motto emblazoned in gold letters above the proscenium (Narod sobe � A nation to itself), an elaborate, yet tasteful interior, beautifully decorated cozy boxes, English supertitles, $0.25 mineral water during the brief intermissions, and the best-looking fire curtain in Europe.

To be honest, before this performance I was never fond of Rusalka. In my two encounters with the work at the Met, I found that aside from the "Song to the Moon," the work suffered from interminable stretches of wood sprite aerobics and formulaic writing. Now I must retract all that; by the end of the performance, I was won over completely. The performers� evident love for the work and their complete fluency with the language and musical idiom made for an enthralling evening. As there have been almost 1700 performances of Rusalka at the National Theater since the work premiered there in 1901, there is something to be said for the benefits of a performing tradition.

Special kudos must go to the orchestra, led by Jan Chalupecky. Their spunky playing had great rhythmic bounce and an authentic-sounding folkish "swing". The woodwinds were appropriately pungent and the brass players added lots of color and flair without swamping either singers or other players.

Helena Kaupova was Rusalka. She lacked a particularly distinguished timbre and the ability to float the phrases in the "Song to the Moon." However, she was a real beauty in a Veronica Lake (no pun intended) kind of way; a gifted actress, she managed to convey Rusalka�s sorrow and longing without wallowing in self-pity a la Renée Fleming.

Her love interest, the Prince, was sung by the handsome lyric tenor, Valentin Prolat. His voice struck me as a major one with a warm, appealing timbre and exciting, charged high notes. His thrilling singing and affecting acting in his death scene contributed to the overall strong impression. As Rusalka�s rival for the Prince�s affections, the Foreign Princess, we had the one international "name" in the cast, Eva Urbanova. Wearing what was clearly a recycled Eboli costume, she stormed through her role with scenery-chewing vigor and confident high notes.

Marta Benackova was Jezibaba. She had an impressive lower register, but the higher parts of the role were extremely problematic. Nonetheless, she seemed to be having great fun stalking the stage in her preposterous Turandot-esque get up. The Water Gnome was portrayed by Ludek Vele. It was not an overly interesting voice and he seemed to have a few frogs remaining in his throat from when he left the water, but he managed to deliver a very moving aria in Act II.

Director and set designer Alena Vanakova and Karel Zmrzly created an imaginative, engaging production on what was clearly a minimal budget. The sets seemed to have been assembled from the Josef Svoboda discard pile and the lakeshore resembled a nightclub done in 1950�s Las Vegas ultramarine. However, innovative lighting effects, dramatic interactions between the characters, and good use of rippling parachute silk made for effective storytelling and good theatre. Josef Jelinek received costume credit, but the discordant costumes seemed to have been rummaged from various sources. The outlandish getup for the Water Gnome would have been right at home on the Lost in Space episode where the Robinsons encounter a bloodthirsty salade niçoise.

Our European opera odyssey ended back in Vienna with a tryst with one of Strauss's other women: the silent one, Die Schweigsame Frau, heard on May 17. The Vienna State Opera is one of the few houses that can boast of a performing tradition for this work. Nonetheless repeated exposure has not engendered a large following for the work; for the first time in our visit, the house had a notable number of empty seats. Even downstairs standing room was only one-third full.

Those who did attend were treated to a superb evening. While justifiably relegated to the second tier of Strauss operas, this charming work still affords much pleasure, particularly when cast as spectacularly and directed as well as this performance was. The production was by Marco Arturo Marelli. I admittedly feared 3 hours of heavy-handed slapstick when the curtain went up to reveal an off-kilter triangular opening framing a severe faux-concrete cylinder. However, the cylinder opened to reveal a compact playing space in a whimsical nautical motif including 5 intricate ship models for the home of retired sailor Morosus.

The director made excellent use of the potentially claustrophobic space by cannily handling the singers and skillfully assembling memorable, tableaux. His visual economy, humanizing approach, and avoidance of overdone comedic cliché were quite refreshing. The production had many deft touches and the skillful lighting highlighted the mercurial changes of mood in the work, as when fanciful footlights materialized at the end of Act I to signify the start of the acting troupe�s machinations and then were whisked away in the confusion as the farce was revealed.

Natalie Dessay was a marvelous Aminta. She floated through the high-lying role with disarming ease, summoning up an impressive range of vocal colors and flaunting her unusually full high notes at the climaxes. In addition, she demonstrated her considerable acting skill, overwhelming us with her remorse at having to dupe poor Morosus and had the audience recoiling with the formidable explosion of her masterfully meek "Timidia". The audience applauded her madly, but, in a rare violation of one of opera's unwritten rules, she did not get the final solo bow, despite being the title character.

As Morusus, Aminta's noise-sensitive dupe, Kurt Rydl started out in vocal distress (he had sung Pogner in London 2 nights before); the voice was raspy and the higher notes extremely strained. By Act II, the problems had largely vanished and from then he was quite secure and touching; his big monologue in Act II (where he marvels at the joy of having a new married life) was exceptionally poignant. Bo Skovhus, looking rather too foppish in his bright-red wig, tore through the demanding role of the scheming barber using his lanky physicality to his advantage as he scampered around putting his scheme into motion. To these non-native ears, his German was extremely impressive, tossing off his rapid fire spoken and sung passages with conversational fluency. At times, he was overwhelmed by the orchestra so we hope he is not tempted by any heavier baritone roles.

Michael Schade provided much more pleasure than he has in my previous encounters with his work. He sang the nephew Henry's difficult music with charm and, were it not for his redness of face, apparent ease. Aside from unseemly winning-football-team style prancing at his solo bow, his performance was notable for his restrained acting and keen ensemble sense.

Under Ernst Maerzendorfer, who was lured out of retirement to conduct these performances, the Vienna Philharmonic once again proved their world-class status with their miraculous playing of this fiendishly difficult score. The innocuously titled, virtuousic "Potpourri" that starts the opera was dispatched with agility and finesse. Elsewhere, their blend and ease were notable, as was the songful playing that gave melodic shape to the considerable filigree. Maerzendorfer's tempi seemed a touch fast, but he coordinated the intricate ensembles with skill. The performance had at least one significant cut (the invasion of the wedding guests in Act II), which eliminated the need for a chorus, but also created a very long stretch of singing for Aminta, particularly since there was no intermission after the second act.

Dawn Fatale

Anyone who attended either of the two concert performances of Norma at Covent Garden would have heard one of the best impressions of Maria Callas since Ira Siff last sang Lucia's mad scene. I am speaking of Nelly Miriciou, who sang the title role, in what was termed a "semi-staged" version of the opera. The evening (May 25) got off to a depressing start - the overture sounded as though it were being played by the Salvation Army band, under the lugubrious baton of a house conductor, admittedly standing in for an indisposed Edward Downes. Things hardly improved with the arrival of Franco Farina as a roaring, unmusical Pollione, singing unpleasantly a whole semitone sharp on anything above an F. The cabaletta was mercifully cut.

At least Mme. Miriciou seemed set on entertaing us, sweeping on in a huge, full-skirted peach evening gown and pink pashmina stole, earrings, and a curiously 1990's hairdo, sprayed to within an inch of its life. The pashmina seemed to have a life of its own throughout the evening, proving that it's not only opera queens who endlessly watch videos of Callas's Paris and Amsterdam concerts.

The most amusing scene of the evening was Norma's re-entrance as she rushed on in full evening dress, attempting to throw her arms around her children, in as far as her elaborate couture would allow. Having done this, she then immediately lost interest in them, as so many celebrity moms are apt to do. She did sound spookily like the great diva in the opening phrase of the aria, the main difference being consistent flatness of pitch, (markedly so in the repeated climactic high A's. A decent stab at the cabaletta followed, wisely cutting the second verse, and ending with a squally high C.

Her singing throughout the rest of the evening was a rag bag of Callas mannerisms, replete with many a ferocious coup de glotte and abuse of chest voice. Her interpretation only served to re-inforce the difference between those who are influenced by Callas, and those who merely copy her. Renata Scotto was obviously influenced by Callas, but in a positive way, in that she applied it to her own voice and temperament, with the result that she had an artistry and intensity that she made her own. This is illustrated by the fact that she triumphed in many roles that Callas never sang, and (dare I say it without running the risk of being sent poisoned poveri fiori?) surpassed her in some.

Suzanne Mentzer as Adalgisa was unremarkable. Am I alone in detecting a slight resemblance to the timbre of Von Stade, a quick tight vibrato, and a tendency to sing just under the note? A footnote for high-note queens (among whom I shamelessly count myself!), yes, Miriciou did attempt the D at the end of the trio. Or rather, she sang as high as she could and hoisted her pashmina aloft, hoping that the sound she was producing would eventually reach a D. It didnt.

Fils de Brahma

SFO�s summer festival rose from the ridiculous to the sublime. Our first outing was a truly ghastly production of Don Giovanni. Thierry Bosquet�s semi-circular gallery crammed in the set creating an arena-like effect. I almost hoped for wild beasts and Russell Crowe to add some entertainment to this chaotic mess, and some meaning to the insipid stage set.

The singing was better than the production. Dmitri Hvorostovsky can hit the notes, but can he pronounce anything clearly in Italian? Not yet in my experience! I�d love to hear him sing in Russian to see if he has any diction at all at least in his native tongue. Dmitri has the swagger, the cheekbones, and the confidence to show off a well defined, muscular chest as hairless as a Barbie doll � which is nice if you like that sort of thing. (I�d rather eat Crowe!) Now, if he worked on diction like he works his sex appeal, he might be a pretty good baritone!

Carol Vaness � formerly the soprano I loved to hate � continued to earn my respect. Donna Elvira is a good part for her, and her performance was one of two high points of a low evening. She deserves better company and a better setting.

Antonio Antoniozzi�s Leporello also stood out in this production. He�s becoming familiar to San Franciscans as a good comic bass-baritone. In a better production, with some decent direction (instead of Lotfi Mansouri�s Reaganesque muddling), he could make an outstanding Leporello. In this fiasco he was quite good. He could have, and should have had the opportunity to do better. Much the same could be said for Anna Netrebko�s delightful Zerlina. She, Vaness, and Antoniozzi all deserved far better. And so did the audience!

The Rake�s Progress was progress indeed. David Hockney�s sets were trotted out yet again. Some complained about this repetition, but not I. Hockney�s whimsical take on the original Hogarth etchings parallel Stravinsky�s allusions to Mozart. Colorful cross-hatching made contrasting textures on a very flat set, with little details everywhere to tickle the eye. I�m not an especial fan of Hockney, but for this masterpiece he will have my undying gratitude!

I am an especial fan of Raymond Very, and even more so of Bryn Terfel. Terfel, as Nick Shadow, was amazingly understated. Terfel� understated� yeah� who�d�a thunk it? His discretion worked marvelously. Tom Rakewell in other productions has too easily been covered by his own Shadow. Here Tom�s character (or lack thereof) stood out all the stronger, and Terfel�s restraint made him seem more of a Jungian shadow, Tom�s own dark side manifesting and dragging him to disaster.

Very (who appeared here as Dan White in Harvey Milk) is perfect as the arrogant young lout who imagines the world owes him every success. As a central character he made a wonderful ensemble performer, always balancing his performance with others on stage.

Brian Asawa was the one who overpowered all, but as Baba the Turk, how could he not? In a city where drag queens are a dime a dozen and real bearded women are more challenging to the norm, I rather objected in principle to this part being done by a man, but Asawa conquered me as well as he did the role. His Baba was power and grace personified. Rebecca Evans sang the Anne Truelove with such tender sweetness I�d love to hear her as Mimi! The classic ingénue, Anne can too easily fall into stereotype. Evans filled her out with emotional depth and occasionally wavering moxie to show how bright, strong girls fall in love with dunderheaded louts.

Parsifal was tremendous! Last year I'd seen Wolfgang Wagner's production at Bayreuth, and was appalled then by the heavy-handed (even ham-fisted) Christian imagery that re-enforced the religious (as opposed to "spiritual") aspects of this opera. It's a tough problem. This is indeed a very Christian opera, but it is imbued with mystical themes that open it to a broader interpretation. The staging can make it very Christian-exclusivist with implicit or explicit overtones of anti-Semitism -- or it can be presented in a more open, abstract fashion, presenting the issues of corruption, redemption, and resurrection in a more broadly spiritual way.

The extreme abstraction of this production -- indeed, raising more questions than it answered -- gave the listener more room to contextualize the spiritual issues more independently of a specific religious context, to look within for the answers to those questions rather than having them dictated. The Temple of the Grail, the home of its Knights, was a place where time and space were one. The surreally abstracted designs drove this home. If this is "Eurotrash", give me heaps of it! I�m ready to embrace the label and turn the slur into an honorable name to stand proudly with "Gothic architecture", "Impressionist painting", and "cocksucking queer"!

The first act set was a flat of gray panels with a huge boulder lodged in from the back. Gravel and rock, apparently fallen through chutes on the side, gave a post-apocolyptic feel. The Grail Knights appeared in grey versions of what I�m told were ancient Chinese uniforms. Incongruously, what I noticed about them was an arrangement of twelve buttoned pouches over each soldier�s chest, recalling in shape the breastplate of Aaron. Into all this grayness and despair Kundry explodes, in a muted but multi-colored winged costume that makes her look like Papagena on crack. But she�s a changeling, tortured by some curse, described previous to her entrance as "flying," so it all makes wonderful sense. Catherine Malfitano plays the edge between Kundry�s madness and clarity with� well, a maddened clarity� or a clear madness� Even when she sits silent and still, there�s an internal battle raging within her.

Kurt Moll as Gurnemanz holds a center and remains the powerful axis around which Kundry and Parsifal pull the universe from despair to redemption. Moll�s depth and steadiness, his enduring faith and power hold down the earth while Malfitano�s fiery shifts of madness and struggle, erotic longing and final serene redemption illuminate the sky. These two pros set a vocal standard that hunky young Christopher Ventris can�t hope to approach, but he makes a fine Parsifal, and in a few years he may be able to achieve that standard. He enters with his downed swan in skins and paint matching Kundry�s feathers. They approach each other and pull away like two linked, but oppositional forces of nature, which of course they are, but here they circle each other like wary animals, sensing, but not knowing� The tension is riveting.

Could this be matched by the second act? Tom Fox sang a good, but not great Klingsor. In fairness to Mr. Fox, the direction gave him rather little to do. His singing was spot on, but he was physically static, enthroned in a vaguely Asiatic circular throne suspended behind a scrim painting of a skeleton�s pelvic region. He lorded over Kundry with delicious malice while she was trapped below in some white fabric circular device below, visible only from the neck up. As she writhed around, she gave the sense of being trapped in the downward spiral of a drain� or of a toilet.

The flower maidens with their hair bunched up in twin top-knots as medieval Flemish maidens looked perhaps more to the modern American audience like Mouseketeers. As our hero remained obdurate against their charms, they extended rods from their deep wide sleeves and escalated their pestling of him until Kundry rose from behind and told them to pedal their wares on another corner.

The Malf sang Kundry like she was born for it! The character is so complex, so conflicted, that it takes a great actress as well as a great singer to make any sense of it. Malfitano�s emergence under an inverted plastic flower � which served stylistically as a mantle, but was stiff enough to convey imprisonment gave visual complement to the tension in her singing, the struggle between her seductiveness and her resistance. Breaking out of that shell, she emerges in a dress, also a trap of molded plastic, and later rolls around pulling out of that like an insect emerging from a chrysalis, in little more than her bloomers. Klingsor arrives to halt this struggle towards freedom, to complete the task that she had failed, and to show the one major flaw in this production�s direction. Klingsor is given so little to do, it seems as if Tom Fox is left on his own bringing all he can into a vacuum. He�s performed many other parts brilliantly. (His Jokanaan here a few years ago was wonderful!) Or perhaps it was the director�s aim to make Klingsor flat and lifeless compared to the others�

The third act was appropriately jarring. The temporal disruption/universality was suggested by a railroad track that curved in a slope suggesting a careening inevitability of fate, and later the Grail knights entering in 20th century uniforms. Kundry arises from a bundle of laundry, covered like a nun, all in white and at peace. Parsifal shows up in black armor made of molded plastic, and slowly removes enough of it to reveal his identity: older, sadder, and much, much wiser. At the end Kundry and Parsifal exit together, their tension and polarity finally resolved. Yes, her salvation comes in service, but so does the salvation of all the men present. The inherent sexism of Wagner�s time and his libretto is almost completely eradicated in this resolution. Like the sword and the Grail they are united in a sacred balance of masculine and feminine energies.

Gertie Dammerung