separating language from meaning
by Douglas Messerli
Philip Glass (music), Constance DeJong (vocal text),
Constance DeJong and Philip Glass (libretto) Satyagraha / the production I saw was
an HD, live production broadcast from The Metropolitan Opera in New York, on November
19, 2011
In many respects Philip Glass'
pageant opera, Satyagraha, is one of
the most frustrating of all opera experiences. It is not that the work isn't,
at times, musically splendiferous and even powerful—at least in the MET
high-definition live broadcast I saw in 2011. But Glass takes away so much of
what opera is really about drama, language, and, at times, musical
comprehension—that it is difficult to get one's bearings.
Each of Glass' acts are overseen, furthermore, by an historical figure
who influenced Gandhi or over whom he would have an influence. From the past,
we see Leo Tolstoy, from the present, Gandhi's close friend, the Nobel-prize
winning Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore, and from the future, Martin Luther
King.
The program notes explain in some detail what we are experiencing.
However, that experience itself is much less lucid. As Richard Croft (playing
Gandhi) explained in an intermission interview, it is difficult to act because
what is occurring is happening inside, not in the actual drama on the stage.
The chorus, and more important, the Skills Ensemble, often play out—in a highly
imaginative use of masks, puppets, and through staged acts—what is symbolically
occurring, but the actors, somewhat like those of Wagner, are allowed little
movement. Yet, unlike Wagner's figures, the major actors here are not even
communicating with the audience in a language they can comprehend, since they
sing the entire opera in Sanskrit, quoting spiritual fragments of the Bhagavad Gita.
I am sure that when he first got the idea to use the language and images
from a book which Gandhi knew intimately, it must have seemed a brilliant
concept to separate language from meaning, but it ultimately cuts us off from
true communication and, more importantly, given Glass' minimalist repetitions,
presents us with long passages in which we only have a vague idea what is
happening—not that it would help to know, at any moment, that Gandhi, for
example, is reaffirming his ideals...or whatever. We sense the emotional
impact, and Glass' simmering music often seduces us, but, nonetheless, it is
sometimes a long endurance test, particularly in the last act, when Glass
almost sentimentally links Gandhi with the future American racial revolutionary
King—over and over
The most successful act of this opera is Act II, when puppets, chorus,
and major singers all come together to create the horror of the wealthy Dutch
landowners and the busy industry of putting together the newspaper, and the
dramatic bonfire of government issued certificates.
The cast, including Croft, Rachelle Durkin as his secretary, Miss
Schlesen, Kim Josephson as a supporter, Mr. Kennenbach, and Alfred Walker as
Parsi Rustomji were all quite adept, and the Met chorus was absolutely stunning
in its ability to learn the Sanskrit score while counting Glass' tricky
rhythms. The costumes and settings by Julian Crouch and Kevin Pollard, as well
as the stage direction of Phelim McDermott and conducting of Dante Anzolini
were all spectacular.
The Met audience seemed thoroughly charmed by the opera, remaining
through the entire series of applauses. Yet, for me, that was just the problem:
long on charm, the opera was too short on substance, despite focusing on such a
substantial historical figure. But then it is difficult, if not impossible, to
think without language.
Los Angeles, November 20, 2011
Reprinted from Green Integer Blog (November 2011).
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