Bayreuth. Say it loud and there�s music playing; say it soft and it�s almost like praying. Despite the divisive squabbling of the Wagner family, increasingly lackluster casts, and the unique privations of the Festspielhaus, the Wagnerian faithful, on their quest for musical enlightenment, converge here each summer for the Richard Wagner Festival. By emulating Siddhartha meditating under the bo tree and focusing themselves away from heat, hunger, and physical pain, enlightenment comes, as Wagner the erstwhile Buddhist intended.

This year, I hoped that Jürgen Flimm�s new "millennial" production of the Ring would lead me to Great Enlightenment, bringing a new perspective to this multi-layered epic. Instead, Flimm�s production was frustratingly elusive, frequently shifting in mood and tone or altering its thematic focus without providing a coherent perspective on the work as a whole. For the most part, each scene worked on its own, but made little sense in context. Even the repeated re-use of design and scenic elements did not provide any unity as the Grand Purpose behind the multiple reappearances of bullrushes or Hunding�s comfy chairs never became clear. Rather than a great meal, it was a poorly planned Wagnerian tasting menu � too many contrasting tastes and textures without a unifying sensibility.

Still, Flimm is a skillful director, soliciting complex portrayals from his cast and providing moments of compelling drama and arresting detail. His work was at its best in Das Rheingold, which was an inventive, anti-mythic, modern-dress, Capitalism for Dummies-style deconstruction of the opera: Frumpy, middle-class Alberich, clutching a plastic shopping bag from a low-end German department store, became distracted by the blasé Rhine chorines as he took the glass elevator from Nibelheim to Shopping-heim. Things then segued to Wotan�s startup company, where he and his colleagues coped with temporary working space, and spent lots of time scribbling in their Filofaxes. Fasolt and Fafner were exploited migrant workers. Loge tossed Wotan a purloined golden apple to give him strength for the elevator ride down to Nibelheim where Alberich kept his enslaved empire of goldsmiths wearing clean-room garb. The opera ended in a construction shed. In a telling moment, Wotan gave Erda a farewell hug only to have her vanish from her dress, leaving Wotan to hold her gown, which he focused on while he conceived his unconventional business plan. Alberich, Loge, and even Mime all resurfaced to watch longingly as the gods strode on the rainbow colored carpet into their new, perspective-challenged corporate headquarters.

Unfortunately, the director only intermittently pursued the idea that the ring dealt with the economic upheaval caused by the power struggle between E-business Wotan and bricks and mortar Alberich in later operas. When he did, as in the beginning of Act II of Die Walküre, the drama sharpened into focus. Watching Wotan struggle to hide his anguish in his scene with Fricka (whose only ram was in her Palm Pilot) was extremely riveting. This made his gradual collapse during the scene with Brünnhilde even more effective. He slowly destroyed his symbols of power and control: shredding his Wälsung file, wrecking his office furniture, and finally stripping off his business clothes. Unfortunately, Alan Titus as Wotan lacked the dramatic chops to play the scene effectively; his rage had no core or motivation. It was just loud singing and formulaic gesturing. Elsewhere in the same opera, the production aesthetic changed substantially with an emphasis on stylized scenery and action. Surprisingly, the two big scenic moments in the opera were mishandled. The Magic Fire was neither; just garish pinkish light and pretty patterns on the ground made from colored aquarium gravel. The Ride of the Valkyries consisted of bungee jumping and marching by a bunch of supers, who, in their paratrooper uniforms and hair extensions, looked like back up singers from Cher�s Vegas act.

The next two operas lumbered along, clashing in style and randomly introducing new ideas. Flimm�s Siegfried flirted briefly with environmentalism by having the dying Fafner unleash acid rain. Flimm also suggested that Brünnhilde willed Siegfried�s death all along by having her sew a big "X" on the back of his shirt in the Prologue to Götterdämmerung. (Or was she just going to business for herself knocking off Paloma Picasso?) Somehow, we still expected that the Immolation Scene would bring these disparate pieces together. Instead we were presented with a random series of painted drops and then an inexplicable, kitschy final tableau of a curly-haired youth dressed as a medieval knight staring at the back wall of the theater on an empty stage. I guess that was supposed to remind us that Parsifal followed the Ring.

In the end, the production was just frustrating, seemingly deliberately so. All we could conclude about Flimm�s approach was that he had no desire to interpret the Ring. Instead, he just wanted to provide some good theater and let the audience worry about the task of figuring out what the Ring was about. All the familiar symbols and modern references were just high-concept red herrings. Flimm�s Ring will probably be best remembered for his many emendations to the drama � unexpected appearances of characters (young Hagen struggling to concentrate on his homework while his father brooded outside Fafner�s cave) and new additions to the plot (Hagen committing suicide at the end of Götterdämmerung). It began to feel as if Wagner had brought his libretto to his creative writing group and attempted to accommodate all of his classmates� helpful suggestions ("Rick, I really, really like the exit speech for Fricka, but the role doesn�t really have a dramatic arc, don�t you think we need to see her enjoy her triumph after Siegmund is killed?").

Erich Wonder�s sets were exemplary � clean, elegant, and perfectly matching the tone of the overall production. Act I of Die Walküre, a hunting blind overrun by nature and drenched in moonglow, was particularly gorgeous. My only complaint lay with the Gibichung palace, which looked just like Hollywood Squares. Florence von Gerkan�s costumes looked striking on the thin people in the cast and unfortunate on everyone else.

Musically, things were not satisfying. Much of the blame rests with Giuseppe Sinopoli�s energetic, forceful, yet ultimately dull conducting. For all the attention to coloration and rhythm, there seemed to be little concern with the emotional contours of the piece. While, one might argue that this was in keeping with Flimm�s detached concept, there is more to Wagner�s orchestral writing than sixteen hours of dispassionate play-by-play commentary. At times, the orchestra was surprisingly sloppy, marred not only by the expected bobbles in the brass, but also by unexpected infelicities of missed entrances and askew balances, most notably in the Ride of the Valkyries which became an unlikely clarinet concerto. In a demonstration of team spirit, or, more cynically, Maria Ewing-style caginess, Maestro Sinopoli took his only onstage bows surrounded by the orchestra or the principals. Nonetheless, he was the recipient of scattered boos.

It is not a happy Ring cycle vocally, when the four best performers in the cast all appeared in one opera apiece. Most extraordinary was Waltraud Meier as Sieglinde, in what was likely her Bayreuth farewell, thanks to a catfight over next year's rehearsal schedule with the high priest of pettiness, Wolfgang Wagner. She made a staging work that few other singers could pull off. After putting Hunding to bed, she returned wearing a wedding dress, in thrall to a kind of Wotanic possession. She performed the rest of the role with the trancelike urgency of one acting under a very powerful post-hypnotic suggestion. Vocally, she was radiant and unusually sensitive to the text. She opted for a number of novel interpretive choices including an extremely restrained "O hehrstes Wunder" that all worked within the context of her unique conception.

Our Siegmund, Placidó Domingo once again proved he is a real life Emilia Marty. Rejuvenated by Bayreuth�s salubrious acoustic, he sang with a vigor and passion that was missing from his Met performances in the spring. He also benefited from having actual direction, bringing lots of pungent detail to his role. John Tomlinson was an extremely effective Hagen. After only having heard him live in the sprechstimme role of Moses, it was a pleasure to actually hear him sing. His Hagen displayed an undercurrent of torment and anguish to go with the usual slimy villainy. The last member of the honor role was Violeta Urmana as Waltraute. She brought both urgency and a lovely legato line to her scene with Brunnhilde. It was a relief to hear a Waltraute that didn�t shriek. Urmana was also able to redeem herself from an unhappy Kundry a week earlier, when she fell victim to Christoph "Dr. Evil" Eschenbach and his singer-unfriendly slow tempi.

I had a more mixed reaction to Alan Titus�s Wotan than others in the audience. Even though he acted with care, I found him somewhat outside the role. Also, while he sang the part with authority, passion, and a measure of vocal grandeur, his voice still seemed one size too small for anywhere but Bayreuth. There was little extra for the big emotional or vocal climaxes. That was a general problem throughout all the operas at Bayreuth this summer; too many of the singers were only just able to manage their roles, thanks to the favorable acoustic. Surely, Wagner�s intention in designing Bayreuth was not to create a house where a bunch of underwhelming singers could squeak (literally and figuratively) through their roles. Günter von Kannen (Alberich), Michael Howard (Mime), Birgit Remmert (Fricka), and Philip Kang (Fafner and Hunding) were all just competent, nothing more.

For the Siegfried and Brunnhilde, near-inaudibility would have been a distinct improvement over what was inflicted on the audience. Encouraged by her Dyer�s Wife this past May, I had more positive expectations of Gabriele Schnaut�s Brunhilde than did most others in attendance. Alas, my enthusiasm lasted for only a few moments. Even by the compromised standards of our Wagner-singer challenged era, her performance was simply unacceptable. Any sustained tone was approached through a long, ungainly swoop; the top notes were random lunges that would defy notation by even the most adept microtonalist. She managed to pull together an Immolation Scene, but by then it was too late; we were still chuckling over the fact that her screeching actually attracted a bat into the house in Act III of Die Walküre. Her acting seems to alternate purposeful waddling and intense scowls, and her dykey byplay in Walküre earned unintended snickers from the audience. There was no passion or love in her scenes with Siegfried and her unflattering costumes made her look like an escaped hospital patient.

Her Siegfried, Wolfgang Schmidt, was in some ways more even more exasperating. The basic sound is unattractive � more kazoo than heldentenor, and physique is far from heroic, as was made clear by the director�s decision to show him shirtless before the Rhine journey. The doofy buzzcut and clownish costumes lent him even less gravitas than George W. Still, he made actually made it through the role without tiring, showed sensitivity and tenderness where appropriate and managed the only moving death scene for Siegfried that I�ve seen, his death throes mirroring Brunnhilde�s struggle to rise as she awakened.

A great Ring should bring a sense of catharsis and relief at its close, but by the end of the Flimm ring, we only felt disappointment and relief that it had ended. Our trip was salvaged, to some extent, by a side-trip to Bregenz, where each summer the opera company mounts spectacular open-air opera productions on a floating stage on Lake Constance. These performances draw enthusiastic audiences who come for eye-popping sets and special effects (including real fireworks) as much as for musical gratification. Un Ballo in Maschera, in an imaginative production by Richard Jones, proved extremely satisfying on both fronts. He and his design partner, Anthony McDonald, set their production in the 1920�s, but kept true to the spirit of the work and provided riveting theater. For once, Ballo had with a palpable feeling of menace and palace intrigue; there was a surprising level of tension and suspense, particularly during Amelia�s unveiling in the gallows scene. For Bregenz productions, the amplified orchestra and chorus are located in a covered area behind the stage. This allowed Jones to use ballet dancers for onstage crowds. Thus, the chorus could negotiate extremely intricate routines in the ball scene and wear whimsical, yet ominous, costumes that would overwhelm most choristers. At the end of the ball scene, there was an unplanned coup de theâtre. Just as Gustav was shot, a heavy downpour began. The soloists and dancers persevered to the end.

The enormous set, which could be spotted from a mountaintop miles away, consisted of a skeleton looming over an opened book painted with dance steps. Thanks to some nifty hydraulics, this proved to be an extremely flexible playing space. A large crown emerged from the floor to create the space for the first scene. For the gallows scene, a 4 story high guillotine with a sinister orchid growing from the basket for catching heads rose out of the water. Most impressively of all, a large coffin floated out from behind the stage and opened up to form the set for the Ulrica scene. This same coffin made a timely reappearance at the opera�s finale when the arm of the skeleton pushed the dying king inside.

It is impossible to judge the singers fully as they were miked. However, this was the best sound design that I have experienced. There was a natural blend between singers and orchestra; voices seemed to emanate from the singers� location on stage; little knob-twiddling was evident and the voices lacked the metallic edge often inflicted upon amplified opera singers. There were two singers that I hope to hear again in an opera house. Tenor Stephen O�Mara, the King Gustav, boasted an unusually dark timbre and an intense stage manner. He seemed to flag some toward the end, perhaps a victim of the rain and the fact that the performance was done without intermission. (He covers the role at the Met this season.) Elizabeth Whitehouse, the Amelia, did some lovely piano singing and proved to be a moving actress. Elena Zaremba and Elena de la Merced as Ulrica and Oscar respectively sank into their parts with fervor. The intriguingly named Pavlo Hunka was a capable, if unintimidating Count. Lodovico Zocche�s conducting was propulsive and atmospheric. He maintained a notable level of coordination despite being unable to see the singers from the pit behind the stage.

Oh, more about Bayreuth: this burg is so un-happening that it doesn�t even merit an entry in the Spartacus gay guide. Its one gay bar, the Mohren Stube is right out of The City and the Pillar. There is, allegedly, some after-opera action in the lushly landscaped grounds of the Festspielhaus, but our after-opera activity of choice was foraging for food. We did stumble onto some cruisy action in the many antique stores in town, where fellow opera queens paw through the Martha Mödl photos and Wieland Wagner books (though these are, curiously, available only by special request). We spotted Christian Thielmann and companion eyeing Beidermeier tchotchkes.

Nearby Nuremberg is big enough to have a gay map, but the city was too creepy and haunted for us to investigate the scene. Medieval Nuremberg was mostly leveled at the end of World War II, but the old city has been restored with less of an eye to authenticity than to creating a saccharine, Otto Schenk-esque picturesqueness. The force-fed quaintness is only one aspect of Nuremberg�s efforts to whitewash over its central role in the Nazis' rise to power. No World War II-era artifacts are to be found in the exhaustive collection of the German National Museum and a mere footnote in the German language-only tourist map alerts visitors to the so-called "Zeppelin field" on the outskirts of the city. No sign explains that this vast disused marble arena is the stadium used by the Nazis for their notorious party rallies. Teenagers perform skateboard tricks on the steps; families play racquetball against the walls; and a recent wall of greenery hides the stadium from the busy avenue on the other side. Inside, there is a sparsely attended, unpublicized exhibit on Nazism presided over by a dour clerk who complains aloud to no one in particular about her malfunctioning cash register.

We shuddered at the collective copy-editing of German history, the skillful elision of years of evil and moral cowardice. German history, it seems, is only palatable when delivered à la Meistersinger with likable heroes, a hissable villain, a user-friendly message, and a chest-thumping sermon at the end. When the decidedly mediocre performance of Die Meistersinger (Thieleman�s magically sculpted conducting notably excepted) ended at Bayreuth on August 19, the mostly German audience erupted in fervid applause and bravos. I wondered what I had missed. A few brave souls booed Wolfgang Wagner for his inept design and direction, but they were soon silenced aggressive glares and muttered threats from the near-homicidal True Believers. Luckily, the auditorium doors were unlocked and we were able to scurry out without incident; still, the dressy audience�s lightning transformation into xenophobic mob gave this less-than-perfect Wagnerite his most indelible Bayreuth memory.

Dawn Fatale

When Speight Jenkins took over the Seattle Opera in 1985, his first project was to replace their clunky "realistic" production of the Ring. Jenkins was looked at somewhat askance in the opera world back then, as a mere critic who had never run an opera company; the François Rochaix Ring, his initial project, was his bid to enter the big leagues. It worked. From the moment the curtain of Act III of Die Walküre rose to show warrior maidens soaring above the stage on (artificial) horses in mid air, Jenkins was the toast of Seattle and a player among American opera impresarios. The cast, led for several seasons by Linda Kelm (a gallant Brunnhilde) and Roger Roloff (a sturdy Wotan), evidenced Jenkins� shrewd ear for young talent and instinct for when to take a chance.

The Rochaix production, with its visible prop men (who took a bow of their own at the end of a cycle, and were always well received); its billowing curtains abruptly rising, falling, vanishing; its focus on the "backstage" drama � Wotan as impresario, in Wagner�s frock coat (to a Fricka in Minna Planer Wagner�s flowered hat), leading Brunnhilde into the theatre attic for a nap and awaking an Erda asleep in an armchair � earned much affection in the hearts of all who lived with it over the years. Who can forget hefty Ms. Kelm leaping (in a harness) from the top of a three-story tower to persuade Siegmund to go on living? Or striding through the greatest amount of fire ever put on an operatic stage at the end of Götterdämerung? (She sang well, too.) Who can forget the opera house-sized dragon with crab legs? The production was constantly changing dragons, and never did get a good one, but the live bear in Siegfried always stole the show.

Opera lovers never forget, but sometimes we have to. Years pass, fashions change, and this year the company began to accrete a new Ring, with Rheingold and Walküre. The director is Stephen Wadsworth, who has never done a Ring before, and the conductor is Armin Jordan. The style is the currently fashionable one for realism to excess. Thomas Lynch�s sets are among the most gorgeous to be seen on any stage � if you love the scenery of the Northwest as I do, you will want to strap on a backpack and hike through them for a week. One hopes wiser heads will alter the production�s sometimes significant mis-fires before the complete cycle premieres next summer.

In contrast to the "backstage" drama of the Rochaix Ring, Wadsworth focuses on the "family" drama: the characters are figures in an extended domestic fracas, and are always pausing for hugs, kisses and quality time amidst the declamations. One is surprised that no one spanks Fafnir for roughhousing with Fasolt, or that Sieglinde does not feed milk and cookies to the strange thirsty man at her hearth.

Another curious thing about this staging � but it is a Wadsworth trademark, and one that singers surely love him for � is that the depths of the stage are so filled with backdrop and scenery that all the action is thrust to the front three or four feet. Voices are as close to the audience as they can get, and no one has to worry about being swallowed up in the rear of the set. The drama seems a bit "stagy" as a result, and there is very little room to maneuver on the coal face of Nibelheim or in Hunding�s hut, but you can hear everything as well as if this were a concert performance.

At curtain rise on the opening Das Rheingold, August 4, it was apparent that Wadsworth had taken to heart the lesson of that old Walküre�s triumph: If Rochaix could conquer the town by putting his maidens of air on wires high above the stage, why not do the same with the maidens of water? Painted backdrops and shimmery lighting effects put us very convincingly under the river, and the girls are in slinky silver mermaid gowns, in which they do many an aerial cartwheel. It�s wonderful to watch, but would be more charming if the trio would shut up: they have been directed to giggle constantly whenever they are not singing. Since Wagner provided his own giggles, "Weialalla, u.s.w.," this is not merely unnecessary and intrusive, it is dumb. Long before the scene was over, I wished the girls were also dumb � pretty singing did not make up for the shambles they made of the mood, and they seemed hardly interested when Alberich, Richard Paul Fink in a star-quality performance, as actor, singer and rock climber, made his power grab.

The sets were so elaborate that a drop curtain had to be lowered between the scenes of Rheingold, and this was a major miscalculation: an audience evidently unfamiliar with Wagner applauded loud and long during the scene-change music. Awkward as his dramaturgy can often be, in musical matters Wagner can be trusted to pull things off. Just perform the notes and don�t get in their way. Giggling where he did not write giggles and applauding where he did not indicate a pause will chop him at the knees.

The second scene opened not in the clouds but in the depths of a great Northwest pine forest. It�s a dazzler, but that did not quite make up for the twist of symbolic focus. Worse, the distant Valhalla, the gods� castle in the clouds, was a rinky-dink toy castle on a small mound behind the trees. (The backdrop was of distant Alpine peaks � why on earth didn�t they put Valhalla there? Or leave it invisible, as Rochaix did?)

Wadsworth, like too many opera directors, had his own concept and had decided that Wagner was to be ignored whenever he inconvenienced that concept. These aren�t gods at all, evidently, but ordinary people with a few conjuring tricks up their sleeves and dubious morals. Wotan was a sleazy nonentity without dignity, shoved about by giants, dwarves and everyone else, too lost in his egotism to think things through � decidedly less sympathetic as a tragic or even interesting figure than the wretched Nibelung he despoils. The heroes of this Rheingold are Alberich (an anti-hero, to be sure), Loge (much beloved of stage directors, who probably identify with his gift for pointless mischief), and, of all people, Fricka. The put-upon Queen of the sex-mad King of the Gods has become the moral center of the universe, the only thoughtful person at the top.

That the cast was led by Philip Joll, Richard Paul Fink, Peter Kazaras and Stephanie Blythe underlined these sympathies � which is unfortunate because Wagner really intended us to feel for Wotan in his predicament, and wrote music for him that dazzles if the singer is up to it. Mr. Joll is not up to it. After an international career that has never exceeded mediocrity, he fulfilled his youthful promise with a barking, unsubtle, third-rate performance, the only substandard singing of the night. In Die Walküre he was so much better � if never top of the line � that one can hope he was suffering opening night nerves, but it is not happy news that he is slated for the complete role next year.

Mr. Fink is exciting whenever he is on stage, and the occasional roughness of his instrument suits Alberich, just as it did Kurwenal at the Met last year. His lust, fury, gloating and despair, not perhaps the prettiest of emotions, were all involving and human in ways none of Wotan�s feelings were, as Mr. Joll expressed them.

Peter Kazaras�s Loge had all the aristocratic hauteur Wotan is denied in this production, and his singing was as insinuating and subtle as his acting.

It was not surprising to have Loge alone in the final tableau. Loge is often shown separating himself from the gods and their saga nowadays, and the text supports this interpretation. It was new to me to have Fricka join him. According to Wagner, at this point (if no other moments), she is fully in sympathy with Wotan�s mad triumphalism. In Seattle, instead, while the other gods cross the rainbow bridge (on wooden crates behind a scrim behind the rainbow), she remains down front, staring at the corpse of Fasolt, lost in thought about the murder�s implications � though in fact she seemed to be thinking, "Maybe he wouldn�t have made so bad a brother-in-law � all men are louts, and at least he loved her." What made this work was the intelligent and invariably beautiful singing of Stephanie Blythe, whose first Wagnerian role shows her as supreme in this repertory as she is in Handel, Donizetti, Stravinsky and Blitzstein.

The set for Scene 3, by the way, a glittering coal face, was as striking as the rest � for looks, this Ring cannot be bettered. The other singers, all very good except for the gruff Fafner of Harry Peeters (singing through a cold), included Stephen Milling�s splendid Fasolt, Marie Plette�s dulcet Freia, Thomas Harper�s Mime, Thomas Studebaker�s Froh, and James Courtney�s Donner, as well as Lisa Saffer, Mary Phillips and Laura Tucker as Rhinemaidens � who are fine when they confine themselves to singing. Another standout was Nancy Maultsby, in both look and deep, penetrating voice just what one wants in an Erda � neither sexpot nor barrel-shaped torso, but a figure who would fascinate Wotan.

At the August 5 premiere of Die Walküre, Act I could hardly have been better sung. Mark Baker sometimes strains for a high note, but then Siegmund is under strain; too, one could credit the character�s miserable curriculum vitae for the fact that he looks twenty years older than his twin. His love music had the fervor and beauty of a man given a new lease on life, but lying down in the gorse and waiting expectantly for the girl to get done singing and join him may not be the best way to portray this.

Margaret Jane Wray, new to me and to Seattle, sang Sieglinde, and had the town at her feet quick as you can say, "Ein fremder Mann." Her voice is cool, even, beautiful throughout its range, intense where intensity is called for without ever losing a polished-gem luster. This was not a hysterical Sieglinde, but a dignified one, even at the explosive moments in her wedding narrative and the neurotic scenes in Act II: one felt her emotions the more keenly because, evidently, a Walsung doesn�t let these things out � and yet she did. I was not a bit surprised to learn that her background includes the Countess and Donna Anna, and I slaver in anticipation of her as Brunnhilde and Isolde.

Stephen Milling, the eight-foot-tall (it looked like) Danish basso who also played Fasolt, sang Hunding with the largest, brightest, most mellifluous bass to come down the pike since Kurt Moll won my heart 25 years ago. One phrase and he had Seattle on his side of the marital dispute. Happily, he reversed this by brutally kissing Sieglinde, to show that Wehwalt character just who was in possession of the trophy wife. Act I of Die Walküre has many pitfalls, and it was a joy to see a staging in which Sieglinde kept her dignity and Siegmund did not slobber on top of her at first sight, in the Peter Hoffman manner � and which gave us an idea of what her marriage has actually been like.

Hunding�s hut was a hut among egregiously tulgy Teutonic woods, not a loft with cathedral ceilings in Forest Primeval Estates, as at certain other opera houses. Curiously, it was also the set for Act II, scene 1, as social workers Wotan and Fricka, with many a feelgood hug, tried to save the Hundings� marriage and their own. (With very little imagination, the half-inside, half-outside set could serve Act III of Rigoletto.) The set then spun on turntables to the sort of rocky defile more usual to this act, and the orchestra�s melodious anguish was happily so evident that the descent of a drop curtain during the change did not lead to intrusive applause.

The staging of the end of Act II made little sense, but in eight or ten Ring stagings, I�ve never yet seen a director bring it off. The fault may be Wagner�s: too much intricate action has to be made clear. A problem, of course, is finding singers who can hover in mid air, and then there�s getting weapons to break on cue � as the sword did not in Seattle. Wadsworth made his gods visible to his humans in a most un-god-like style that ignored Wagner�s libretto and much of its symbolism. In this version, Hunding doesn�t kill Siegmund with his own spear; he grabs Wotan�s. Too, Fricka was there, with feet for Hunding to kneel at, on Wotan�s command � which is supposed to be sarcastic and deadly. At the end of the scene, we were left with a Fricka who seemed to understand she had lost her marriage by gaining her point, pondering a corpse as the curtain falls, just as she pondered the same body (playing a different dead character) at the end of Rheingold. Once again, in this production, Fricka�s tragedy has been given parity with anybody else�s, at the expense of Wotan�s tragedy, or the world�s, which latter are what Wagner wished to depict.

Act III was set on a narrow ledge on the edge of a huge rock face (sedimentary and folded rather than igneous) just above the tree line, with pine tree tops sprouting from the untenanted stage floor below. The ledge made Maestro Jordan nervous when he edged out for a bow, but everyone else seemed admirably free of acrophobia, even when obliged to slither past an armored valkyrie or two. No flying horses this time, folks � instead, they were projected on a wall in an old-fashioned and dopey style King Ludwig would have found familiar. The magic fire � oh, how they love fire in Seattle, perhaps because of the volcanoes in sight at either end of town � was quite real, quite magical and not a little frightening when the pine trees caught. The entrance of Loge, stepping over groveling Wotan, is, I am told, going to occur only in those performances of Die Walküre given on the night after a Rheingold.

I am not a great admirer of Jane Eaglen, though she does try hard. Many notes were big and beautiful, several were inaudible, the top was poorly supported, the trills effortful (but they were trills, by gum!), and if her stage sense is nil, she does do what her directors tell her to do. I don�t know whose idea it was that she clap her hands with a grin like a fat, happy baby in a commercial for dry nappies when Wotan suggests the ring of fire to surround her, but it was not too eccentric to this family values production. Narrowing the stage space to a lofty ledge three feet wide and having her swing herself around her sister valkyries means that she must tame her unattractive waddle � always a plus.

The point on which I grade a Walküre Brunnhilde is "Der diese Liebe mir ins Herz gelegt dem Willen, der dem Walsung mich gesellt.", and my ideal can be heard on the Karajan recording, sung by Regine Crespin. If your heart does not break for father and daughter at this point, you might as well nap. Eaglen has neither Crespin�s control nor her feeling here: she sings fine phrases, but one can almost hear her step on the clutch between them.

Mr. Joll was considerably better in this opera than in Rheingold. He will never be my idea of a Wotan, but he was not painful to hear. (It was more painful to hear a loud voice prompting him during his farewell to Brunnhilde � help that no one else required.) The direction obliged him to continue to grovel when playing an unhappy father or a royal deity caught in the headlights of fate � he is not an actor of wide range, and this is a part that profits from, indeed elevates the drama, when performed with implications of deep feeling.

Ms. Blythe, directed to be less shrewish and aggressive than most Frickas, sang beautifully but did not make her points as strikingly as more robust Wagnerians have been known to do. I could not tell if this muting is due to directorial vision or lack of Wagnerian experience. Since she is both a great singer and a fine, thoughtful actress, I confidently expect her to reach the heights � nothing in the mezzo range seems beyond her fach.

The orchestra knows this music very well, and plays it with enduring love. I missed a really lush sound among the strings, especially at such times as Wotan�s farewell, but the winds � aside from the usual contortions among the horns � were often significantly lovely at significant moments, beautifully coordinated with the acting. (I am thinking especially of the tenderer music for Siegmund and Sieglinde.) Armin Jordan sometimes pulls some of the big emotional punches, but his vision is a very satisfying one. This is potentially a major Ring, but I fear that the director�s vision will undercut that potential.

As for special effects � the bottom of the Rhine gets an A+, the vanishing Alberich the same, the dragon transformation a B-, the frog an A, the giants a "pass" (they�re just big dudes, y� know?), Erda a B+, Valhalla a C-, and the rainbow bridge likewise. To get ahead, into Walküre, the flying horses get a C, the magic fire an A, and the hovering gods an "incomplete". No one ever gets a good mark for the hovering gods, and I refuse to include failure here in my full grade for the production. The Wadsworth "concept", in my opinion, rates an A for originality and execution, a B- for relevance to Wagner�s vision.

A staging afterthought: how the heck did Hunding get his whole mishpochah into that tiny little hut for his notorious wedding feast � the one with the one-eyed gate crasher? If Zeffirelli were filming this, you know we�d have to flash back and see it.

For those who love late twentieth century cities � sleek if boxy towers of glass and metal sprouting from streets of pastel boutiques and coffee bars � Vancouver, British Columbia, a few hours north of Seattle, may be the handsomest of the lot. All Vancouver needs is a world-class music festival, with recitals, early music, symphonies, and opera. This summer, it had such a festival, Vancouver 2000, with dozens of events and stars of Barbara Bonney�s caliber.

The opera I got to, on August 3 ^rd, was La favola d�Orfeo, generally acknowledged as the first masterpiece (1607) of a form barely ten years old when Monteverdi composed it for the first of opera�s aristocratic patrons, the Duke of Mantua. (The operas I had to forgo were Britten�s Curlew River and the premiere of a Canadian work about hockey.)

I last saw Orfeo in Brooklyn a year ago, in a very elegant avant-garde production starring Simon Keenlyside. The Vancouver staging was put together in the Netherlands by lutenist Stephen Stubbs and organist Paul O�Dette, with a great deal of talent from the trans-national European-American Early Music community. The stated intention was to present the piece with the sort of stagecraft that might have been seen at the premiere. Costumes ran to the excessive (and excessively brown) draperies proper to poetic shepherds and shepherdesses in the late Renaissance, dance steps were of the period, dainty and frequent, sets were on rollers like a towel in a washroom, to conduct us from earth and Olympus to the pits of Tartarus and back, and we had a slew of valveless trombones and cornets. The exceptions to the backward glancing rule were the lighting, the surtitles (I admit to knowing very little about Renaissance surtitling practice) and the voices. The singers, though many boast international credentials in the Early Music movement, sounded curiously bright, vibratoless and clear � perhaps because the Vancouver Playhouse is such a small theater, the perfect size for such works as Orfeo and Curlew River.

The look of the production fell somewhere between spare period elegance and slightly tacky � I doubt that sets and costumes so short on splendor would have been displayed before the Duke Vincenzo, a patron eager to display the regal status of the Gonzaga dynasty. Before extremely basic backdrops, the action of the first two acts (we would call them "scenes") consisted largely of songs and Italian court dances performed by the shepherds and shepherdesses celebrating the nuptials of Orfeo and Euridice, and then mourning the sudden death of the latter. Getting opera singers and choristers to move at all is often a strain, but these kept the beat and tripped about most prettily. After a break, instead of the spooky, melodramatic Underworld they pulled off at BAM, Orfeo simply walked through a painted cloth cavern to be surrounded by skull-masked spirits. He led Euridice back by the same scarf she had played with during their nuptial dances, and that he had mourned over later � yet he did not trust the meaning of its tautness. The version of the opera played here chose the original, happy ending of the piece, in which Apollo consoles his son and places the boy�s lyre among the stars, rather than the revision in which (as in mythology) Orpheus is torn to bits by maenads.

The only singer in Vancouver well known to me was Jan Opalach, a lugubrious Caronte. Tenor Paul Agnew, a veteran of Les Arts Florissants, was a bit stiff as a passionate lover, and his gilded wig did not suit him at all, but he grew steadily in the part as his quest proceeded. His beautifully executed goat-bleat trills in the scenes by the Styx implied both the cold and the terror of his location. His singing throughout was, if cautious, beautifully produced and phrased. Suzie LeBlanc sang both Music�s introduction and the rather brief role of Euridice with musicality and charm � and a pretty turn to her dancing. Alto Laura Pudwell, a budding Erda, was especially pleasing as Hope, who guides Orfeo to the gates of Hell, and quotes Dante when he gets there. Joel Frederiksen and Ellen Hargis, the royal couple of Hades, made the most of their prefiguration of the love duets Monteverdi would create years later for L�incoronazione di Poppaea.

The Vancouver audience for early music is impressive for its size and couth � the musicians were warmly appreciated and the long night of music was not awkwardly interrupted, except during Orfeo�s last aria, when someone�s wristwatch began to play the Toreador Song.

Hans Lich

On a buswoman's holiday (since I work full time for San Francisco Opera) visited the Munich Opera Festival this summer, deliberately viewing productions we are doing next year here in SF. Following are some capsule thoughts:

Tuesday, July 20: Handel Ariodante: Production completely off the wall but not offensive, except for the "spastic" ballet. Loved the sea as depicted by a huge blue screw spanning the stage, cranked by two supers, but when the audience applauds the sets, I think perhaps the regisseur (David Alden) has gone too far. Mostly English cast: Ann Murray in the title role, described in the English press as "totally committed" and she was. Joan Rodgers as Ginerva, a dramatic soprano with coloratura flexibility. Umberto Sciummo, the King of Scotland, who took no curtain calls, was an adequate bass, as was Paul Nilon, as Lucianio. English countertenor Christopher Robson as Polinesso brought to mind the young James Bowman, if you can conceive of a baritone-tinged countertenor. Dalinda, whose name I did not catch, was a last-minute rescue from England, the original singer becoming critically ill at the lat minute. Ivar Bolton's tempi seemed slow and then too fast, but the total timing came out even. Costumes were basically 18th century, including full armor, what appeared to be real, and obviously difficult for the singers to navigate.

The following night's Simon Boccanegra reminded me of how great this late and neglected work of Verdi's is. The Pietro (Gerhard Auer) and Paulo (Giancaro Pasquetto) were both wonderful as the conspirators; Roberto Scandiuzzi magnificent as Fiesco, bringing to mind SFO's 1970s productions with Siepi. In fact, I told Mr. Pasquetto "con io solo Amelia, sposo il baritono, non il tenore". But then, I have a weakness for baritones. Christina Gallardo-Domas was a youthful if not very attractive Amelia, smirking enough to be all-too-believably the daughter of her "padre", Franz Grundheber, has neither the high notes nor the low notes for the title role, and as San Francisco Chronicle's Joshua Kosman remarked, continues to "sing into his armpits". The chorus in the council chamber scene was magnificent, as was Pasquetto's "mi maleditto".

The following night, July 20, brought yet another Handel opera, Rinaldo, with no fewer than four countertenor roles. By this time I had met both David Daniels (had I known I would meet him I would have brought "that" issue of parterre box) and David Walker, to whom I remarked there are over-the-countertenors today, as opposed to the under-the-countertenors of yesteryear. The staging, again by David Alden, was totally off the wall, Blues Brothers, modern day preachers in suits, raincoats and sunglasses. I began to feel that countertenors have fachs of their own: Walker a lyric soprano (where he learned to bliss out like that, having not been born in the 60s, I know not), Daniels a mezzo, and Alex Kohner a contralto. Caveat: The Prinzregentheater has wooden seats with no pads, which is hard on the tuchis but great acoustically. This produtions used recorders, cembalo, cittarone, all to comic effect, and the singers got to dance as well as sing. I would love to have a seven-headed dragon costume like Armida (Noemi Nadelmann). There must have been some Americans in the audience because there were some boos for the production, but the bravos outdid them.

Friday the 21st found me back in the Staatsoper for La traviata, the star of which, for me, was Paolo Gavanelli as the elder Germont (again, my weakness for baritones is showing). He lights up the stage whenever he appears, and soars over the chorus at the end of act two. There were no damn supertitles, but also no Italian text (glad I brought my own). Christina Gallardo-Domas was much, much better as Violetta than as Amelia two nights earlier, although her "Sempre sibera" was taken v-e-r-y slow. Almost the entire performance was excessivly slow, and soft, although that may have been the fault of my seat under the overhang, or that of the conductor Jun Markel. A friend I met at intermission agreed with me on the tempi: "earth-to-conductor, where are you?"; the orchestra was not playing at the time time as the chorus was singing. Period costumes in a modern bright minimalist set. It didn't feel like Verdi, even the choris in Flora's ball scene is stand-and-sing, no stage direction. Alfredo's sister appears in this production, as a very young girl, mute. Ms. Gallardo Domas was very convincingly terminally ill in the third act.

For my last very fitting evening, July 23rd, a lovely traditional production of Der Rosenkavalier, based, as is San Francisco's, on the original Roller sets. Peter Schneider's tempi seem correct; Felicity Lott a woman "of a certain age" to which I can relate, she is shapely, graceful and elegant and sings well. I did not realize before hearing Kurt Moll the range of Ochs' role, high to very low, imagine it is difficult for him to be funny but not so emotionally draining as his magnificent Gurnemanz in SFO's Parsifal. He has dignity even with his rather ample posterior towards the audience; Moll is big, but graceful and elegant, even when pretenting to be awkward. Angelica Kirschlager sings well and looks young as Octavian, but less convincing "in hosen" than others I have seen, not awkward enough as Mariandl. Mohammet a darling girl with long braids. Eike Wilm Schulte a small man, and Rebecca Evans a small woman, realistic casting as father and daughter, Faninal and Sophie, and both very well sung. Unusually expressive and beautiful Annina from Anne Pellikoorne. Act 3's set much grubbier than usual; Lott gracious and elegant, lots of stage business with the table, the concluding trio gorgeous. This very funny, yet traditional production, was the perfect anschluss for my visit, and sent me home smiling.

Basta Profunda

Placido Domingo has been a presence in Los Angeles for almost fifteen years, but his overexposure this past week has reached almost Roberto Benigni-esque proportions. Besides performing in concert and bringing his world famous Operalia singing contest to town for the first time (more on that later), Domingo is in the spotlight as the new Artistic Director of the Los Angeles Opera.

His inaugural production was the much-anticipated LA Opera premiere of Aida. Meant to kick off the Domingo era with a bang, this Aida was underwritten by Alberto Vilar, the gazillionaire philanthropist, who in donating millions to the Met, the Kirov Orchestra, Operalia, and now LA Opera, has become the man who puts his money where Domingo�s mouth is. Domingo�s participation, the large sponsorship, and the always fabulous Deborah Voigt (making her LA-debut and homecoming of sorts), invited expectations of a grand pageant. In the event, one audience member seated near me was overheard to say "I think the pyramids and decor set up for the opening-night party outside are more impressive than the ones onstage."

Domingo�s next appearance at the Music Center was singing two acts of Wagner with Valery Gergiev conducting the Kirov Orchestra. The evening has been promoted as "The first time Domingo has performed Wagner in Southern California." Hard-core Wagnerites were rejoicing, no doubt, as the last two LA Opera Wagner debacles (1995�s Dutchman, which prompted the Martin Bernheimer tomato incident, and 1997�s Tristan, when it was feared that Siegfried Jerusalem wouldn�t be able to get through the second act, let alone the run) have prompted the company to avoid Wagner for the last three years. ^*

This concert was a last minute addition to the season, an attempt by Domingo to solidify relations between Gergiev and LA Opera. And we should all be thankful for that. The Kirov sounded excellent and Gergiev�s passionate interpretations of Act I of Walkure and Act II of Parsifal were a wonder to experience live. I feel Domingo is a better Siegmund than Parsifal and so I favored Act I; however, Linda Watson and Alan Held (seen last year in NY as Donner in the Ring) impressed people over so much as Kundry and Klingsor that many people I�ve spoke to preferred Act II. Needless to say, it is the type of argument opera lover�s dream of and a caliber of performance Southern California Opera audiences would love to hear more often.

The next morning, Domingo�s next big "appearance" indicated that perhaps this will be the case. With "pride and anticipation," Domingo unveiled LA Opera�s 2001-2002 season at a major press conference. But Mr. Domingo�s devotion to the art of opera was demonstrated most visibly on Tuesday night at his Operalia finals. Operalia is Placido Domingo�s pet project., an international vocal competition for young singers early in the careers. Domingo does not claim that the contest is strictly about vocal precision nor does he deny that it helps him find new talent for LA and Washington Opera. The contest is about launching careers. 15 contestants from seven countries competed for the three prizes named in honor of (guess who?) Alberto Vilar.

Rodney Gilfry, perhaps LA Opera�s second most familiar face, was the Master of Ceremonies and kicked off the evening with a few words about vocal competitions and then the singing began. Two uninspiring singers came and went before the proceedings got interesting thanks to 23-year old Daniil Shtoda, who sang a wonderful and obscure aria from Cilea's L'Arlesiana. His manner was unassuming at first, but quietly and deliberately, he built to an impressive finale. Shtoda has a strong voice; but, his dramatic talent was what impressed me most, both for its power and its subtlety.

Following Shtoda was one of the big favorites and a previous winner of a Met National Council award, Isabel Bayrakdarian. Frankly, with her big hair and yellow dress, she looked a bit too much like Big Bird for me to take seriously � which her choice of a frothy bel canto piece did nothing to diminish. However, her vocal technique was excellent, scaling Rossini's "Bel raggio lusinghier" with ease. This combined with her huge, toothy smile bowled the audience over � it was clear that she would be getting an award, it was just a matter of which one.

Next came the main event of the evening: the American debut of Virginia Tola. Let me pull no punches. On the basis of one aria, I'm putting my money on Tola to be our next great diva. To begin with, she's a knockout. Wearing her long, dark hair pulled straight back and flowing down her back, Tola, in a gorgeous, sleeveless gown, took the stage and began the longest number of the evening, an inspired choice, "Col sorriso d'innocenza" from Il Pirata. Her striking looks and commanding presence kept everyone attentive, but what was impressive to me was the naturalness of her performance. She simply sang and let the music drive her expression, inflection, and action. Or at least she's a strong enough actor to fake it. But that's what being a true diva is all about: blurring trying into not trying. By the end of the number, any "acting" had given way to the real drama of Bellini�s music, and as she finished, clutching her shoulders, I had forgotten we were at a concert performance altogether.

The crowd applauded vigorously. Domingo turned to her immediately and nodded in approval. Tola bowed gracefully, then turned to the first violinist and shook her hand. It was a touch of humility, that pre-meditated or not, did not go unnoticed and only enhanced her Divahood. Get in line now for tickets to see her in Tosca.

Next up was Konstyantyn Andreyev, a Ukrainian tenor who, given the hype and his choice of "Che gelida manina" (a personal favorite), I was very much looking forward to hearing. His "interpretation" consisted of a bland, by-the-book singing of a standard with a few theatrical arm motions and a big grin throughout. For reasons inexplicable to me, the audience loved him.

Next was He Hui, the Chinese soprano, singing Verdi's "O patria mia," and pulled it off impressively, even nailing the infamous High-C. Hui is definitely the real thing. Her voice was big when it needed to be and she has a strong (if somewhat exaggerated) presence on stage. What was missing from her performance were the grace notes, but with a little time (she's only 28) and work, she could be something very special indeed.

Wrapping things up before a brief intermission was Bruce Harlan Sledge, the one American who seemed to have a shot at a prize. I have seen Sledge in a few LA Opera productions and he is a fine singer with a clear voice, but the light Donizetti piece he selected didn't give him room to shine. His earnest performance was solid, but not attention grabbing � and that's what competitions are about.

After the intermission, Maestro Domingo took the podium (again to rapturous applause) and immediately led the orchestra into the most well-known regions of Il Barbiere di Siviglia. Russian baritone Andrei Breous ran out on stage, Figaro-style and began a fully gesticulated "Largo al factotum." Perhaps this plays well in Rostov, but even the LA audience was not impressed. Some members of the audience seemed not to mind Breous's shaggy-hair, ill-fitting tux, and weak voice; however, even Rodney Gilfry (a wonderfully hammy Figaro, himself) seemed slightly embarrassed when he took the podium to announce the next singer, Elena Manistina.

Manistina also comes from Russia, but she was a continent apart from Breous in style, voice, and presence. She sang a stirring yet restrained "Mon coeur" from Samson and her elegant pout and steady voice made her an instant contender. She was followed by two more Russians, including another Dalila, sung by Marina Domashenko, a slinky, Siberian Mezzo. Domashenko is a tiny woman with a huge voice. The audience loved her and her performance confirmed the reputation she has earned with her past engagements and concert successes. Finishing the program, was Robert Pomakov, a Canadian bass whose aria from Aleko was solid if not as impressive as his age.

The formal intermission came and went and soon Rodney Gilfry was at the podium again, praising the singers ("I'm in awe of all the talent in this room") and telling anecdotes ("I lost that competition, but don't feel too bad � the winner�s name was Renee Fleming."). He finally admitted that he was stalling to allow Placido to finish signing checks. When he ran out of stories, Gilfry then broke into an a cappella rendition of "Besame Mucho." Finally, Domingo and Vilar emerged. Placido took the mike and immediately announced that due to the abundance of talent on display, there was a tie for second runner up. Pomakov and Andreyev were announced and came up to take their third place trophies.

After the applause subsided, Domingo announced (gasp!) there would be another tie for second place. He Hui and Daniel Shtoda took home the second place prize, proving that judges had been awake after all.

Then, with the audience quiet, the maestro revealed that there would be only one grand prizewinner. Bayrakdarian was the winner. She was all smiles. The evening ended as everyone joined in for the Hebrew Chorus from Nabucco.

But fear not, opera lovers, for Virginia Tola was awarded the Prize of the Public, an award voted by the audience. When she walked out for the final bow with all the contestants, the 24-year old looked noticeably sad. But at the final call, she was standing center stage next to Mr. Domingo and Mr. Vilar.

Clifton James