Ariadne auf Naxos at the Met review – a transformative revival of Strauss’ opera

Dobby, the helpful Harry Potter elf, had made it to Seat C106 at New York’s Lincoln Center. Good to know he wasn’t killed by beastly Bellatrix Lestrange in Deathly Hallows, after all. JK Rowling can stop apologising, at least for that.

At the end of Lise Davidsen’s Ariadne Es gibt ein Reich (There is a kingdom) aria, just after the intermission, when the 3,850 packed-out Met audience broke into a visceral, spontaneous roar, Dobby defied “sitting during the performance” protocol. He probably had his mobile turned on, too.

He leapt up, extended spindly arms outwards and above his head from a flapping suit that either belonged to someone else or fitted once. Bony hands with extended fingers gesticulated wildly, and elfish squeaks of “brava” pierced the air. 

For a few seconds, only a few, he was more interesting than the regal Davidsen, who absorbed the sustained — five full minutes — onslaught ovation without a movement. Nary a flicker of recognition of the dervish elf directly in her eyeline, only an orchestra pit away. This was self-containment of the highest order.

From my vantage point in Row H, Dobby’s sharp head, wispy hair and pointed ears were silhouetted against the light of the stage. “Dobby like Lise Davidsen,” rang around the auditorium.

Well, no it didn’t, but it might well have. For Davidsen had done that “thing” that is so special in opera. She had taken her audience to another place, every bit as convincingly as JK Rowling takes us to her world of wizarding.

As Davidsen — presumably — transforms from diva into just another Norwegian in the taxi home, when the house lights went up at the interval, so Dobby turned out to be only a sprightly old man, undoubtedly from the Upper West Side, legging it up the aisle to the bar to beat the crowds. Another illusion shattered. Still, he would be well advised to revisit his tailor.

But wasn’t Lise Davidsen triumphant? Her voice has an ability to cross even a Met orchestra in full flight under the baton of Maestro Marek Janowski and fill that cavernous Lincoln Center space.

A voice in words? Almost impossible. Davidsen’s darkens towards the lower register and gains in power. It is an astonishing experience. She delivers coloratura passages with stiletto precision. Never a blip in the musicality throughout her range. At 35, she is the lyric dramatic soprano of the age.

She certainly outgunned Brandon Jovanovich, Bacchus, her eventual rescuer, an American tenor with a global reputation for taking on difficult Slavic French and German roles.

I can just imagine the troubled maestro, responsible for balancing the onstage sound, despairing in the face of the Davidsen sound tsunami. “What the heck? Let it rip! The audience will love it.”

Who can blame him? Would you care to tell a 1.8m Lisa Davidsen, towering over you in the pit, to “Turn it down a bit?”

I’m thrilled to see Davidsen is back in the 22/23 season, taking on the role of Marschallin in Strauss’ Der Rosenkavalier. If Simone Young, conducting, has any success in reigning in that voice I will be desolate.

Asked, “Who is your favourite composer?”, my answer must be Richard Strauss. At least until tonight, when I’m due to see Handel’s Rodelinda, after which the answer will be Mozart. Because, by then, I will have descended back to earth and rational judgement.

Ariadne auf Naxos is one of Strauss’ most artful constructs. Pitting the world of comedia del arte against opera seria, observing the clash of galaxies that follows and watching from the side-lines as they dance, twist and eventually merge.

He and his librettist Hugo von Hofmannsthal pepper the work with sharp comedy and satire. Hofmannsthal self-deprecatingly described Ariadne as a “divertissement”, a mere “trifle”. Anything but.

The long, troubled history of the development of the opera must wait for another day. Suffice to say, when the final version, a comic diamond in the rough, was cut, there was revealed the jewel of a simple truth. Opera is not a choice between seria and comique. Each form has much to offer to the other.

Hang on! Running my eye across the fine print of the programme, I came across — for me — an unusual entry: Intimacy direction — Rocio Mendez (they/she). What does they/she do?

I have not been paying attention. 

The Royal Opera House hired an intimacy director, Ita O’Brien, in February 2022 — “to ensure actors feel comfortable in intimate sex scenes”. All I can say is that if this is designed to rack back the raunchy dial, Mendez has misunderstood the role.

In the 2003 Met Ariadne production, Zerbinetta and Harlekin indulge in a chaste kiss and some canoodling in their romantic encounter. In this production, we are treated to unbridled sex. Zerbinetta, flat out front stage right, Harlekin humping on top. Then, possibly at the insistence of Mendez on equality grounds, the positions are reversed. No room for ambiguity.

None of this was offensive in any way, but it made me wonder if intimacy directors were being misunderstood. Possibly if the singers don’t mind, they don’t give a … fig.

Of course, this newfound political correctness has spawned an industry. Welcome to IDC — an intimacy consultant website that offers the services of 55 highly skilled he/she/them/us professionals.

I was reassured to learn that IDC is officially a “SAG-AFTRA program for training intimacy coordinators!” The exclamation mark is theirs, not mine, so perhaps they have a sense of humour after all. Sag-Aftra is an artists’ support organisation that has found a new, rich revenue vein to exploit.

If you need a home-grown version to advise on the propriety of your next dinner party seating plan, to avoid unwanted knee-fumbling, “Who ya gonna call?” Intimacy Directors International UK — of course.

Another gravy train, at full Equity rates, steams down the line loaded with costs just when the arts world is struggling to revive from the Covid desert. 

Back to the action. Ariadne auf Naxos, unusually, is set in two parts, not Acts — a Prologue and, post-intermission, the Opera.

The Prologue

We are in Vienna, 18th century. Backstage, at the private theatre in the house of the richest man in town, preparations are in progress for the performance of a new opera seria, Ariadne auf Naxos.

The major-domo — a powdered, periwigged pomposity — enters to inform the music master that, after his opera, an Italian comedy will be performed, then fireworks in the garden.

Fireworks break out in the rehearsal space. The outraged music master replies that the composer, his young pupil, will never tolerate that. Major-domo leaves. When the idealistic composer appears, hoping for a last-minute rehearsal, a disdainful servant tells him the musicians are not available. They’re still playing dinner music.

Suddenly, the tenor rushes in from his dressing room, arguing with the wigmaker. The prima donna — Ariadne — furiously comments on the presence of the comedy troupe and their leading lady, Zerbinetta.

In the middle of the confusion, the major-domo returns with another announcement. So the fireworks can begin on time, the opera and the comedy are to be performed simultaneously.

Chaos, outrage, “my artistic integrity”! Then, practical reactions when the 50 Ducat fee is mentioned. The dancing master suggests cutting the opera’s score. The music master persuades the despairing composer to do so. The two lead singers independently urge him to abridge the other’s part.

Meanwhile, Zerbinetta gives her troupe a briefing on the opera’s plot. Ariadne, they are told, has been abandoned by her lover Theseus on the island of Naxos, where she now waits for death. Zerbinetta, however, claims that all Ariadne really needs is a new lover. Her solution to every dilemma.

When the composer vehemently disagrees, Zerbinetta begins to flirt with him. Suddenly, the young man finds new hope. Filled with love and enthusiasm for his work, he passionately declares music the greatest of all the arts.

But when he catches sight of the comedians, ready to go on stage, he realises he has made a pact with the devil. He blames the music master for the artistic debacle and runs off. We don’t see him in The Opera. He takes his bow.

The Opera

Department of explanation. The opera starts at the end of the conventional Ariadne myth. That tells how Prince Theseus of Athens set out for Crete to kill the Minotaur, a creature half-man, half bull, who was concealed in a labyrinth.

Princess Ariadne of Crete fell in love with Theseus and gave him a ball of thread to help him find his way out of the labyrinth after he had killed the Minotaur. When Theseus left Crete, he took Ariadne with him as his bride.

During their voyage home, they stopped at the island of Naxos. While Ariadne was asleep, Theseus, the rotten scoundrel, slipped away and continued his journey to Athens without her. The opera, Ariadne auf Naxos, begins at this point.

Ariadne, the dumpee, is alone in front of her cave. Three nymphs look on and lament her fate. In this stunning Elijah Moshinky production, the nymphs are towering figures — singers precariously perched on tall, wheeled platforms, of different heights, diaphanously gowned, distanced from the main action and commenting amongst themselves. 

Watching from the wings, the comedians are doubtful whether they will be able to cheer her up. Ariadne recalls her love for Theseus, then imagines herself as a chaste girl, awaiting death.

Harlekin jumps in, tries to divert her with a song, but Ariadne ignores him. As if in a trance, she resolves to await Hermes, messenger of death. He will take her to another world, where everything is pure.

When the comedians’ heroic efforts continue to fail, Zerbinetta finally addresses Ariadne directly, woman to woman, explaining to her the human need to change an old love for a new. Insulted, Ariadne leaves.

Zerbinetta sings a nine-minute coloratura aria Noch blaub’ ich dem einem (I often dream I stay with one man alone). Brenda Rae, the American soprano who was a knockout Poppea in Handel’s Agripinna at the Met in 2020, was every bit as coquettish playing Zerbinetta.

This aria brings all of Strauss’ musical skills into play, his unexpected transitions, luscious harmonies, and simple themes that appear and disappear just as they are comprehended, but before they can be grasped.

Nothing can match French soprano, Natalie Dessay’s execution of this tour de force moment in the Met production of 2003, but Brenda Rae came close. This is one of the standout arias in all opera and Rae was spectacular.

Post aria, her colleagues leap back into the scene, competing for her attention. Zerbinetta, more than a flirt, gives in to Harlekin’s comic protestations of love — this is the moment of intimacy direction compromise — and the comedians exit.

The nymphs trundle back and announce the approach of a ship: It carries the young god Bacchus, who has escaped the enchantress, Circe. Bacchus’s voice is heard in the distance, and Ariadne prepares to greet her visitor, whom she thinks must be death at last. Ariadne was not an optimist.

When he appears, she at first mistakes him for Theseus come back to her, but he majestically proclaims his godhood. Entranced by Ariadne’s beauty, Bacchus tells her that he would sooner see the stars vanish than give her up.

Reconciled to a new existence, Ariadne joins Bacchus as they ascend to the heavens. Zerbinetta sneaks in to have the last word: “When a new god comes along, we’re dumbstruck.”

And, ain’t that true of life, art and politics in our turbulent world today?

Here’s a point. Maybe a ridiculous point. I think Strauss, as impish as the German folkloric prankster Till Eulenspiegel whose merry pranks he portrayed in his beloved tone poem, is having a behind-the-hand, ever-so-gentle, nod-nod-wink-wink, laugh at the expense of the sorcerer of Bayreuth, Richard Wagner, his mentor.

At Bayreuth, Strauss found not only inspiration but, also a wife, singer Pauline de Anha.

Think about it. In Ariadne, a new god arrives in a “dark ship” and starts out as an ambiguous character — a reference to Der flieglende Holländer (The Flying Dutchman.)

Then, Ariadne and her new love have a brief, heated exchange about ending it all with a potion — surely Tristan and Isolde — before chucking the idea as impractical and heading towards a blissful dawn hand in hand. More pragmatic than the tragic Tristan.

What took Wagner a whole opera to explain is dismissed in a two-minute, offhand exchange by Strauss. Potions? Nuts! Whatever, the Wagner allusions add to the delicious melange of chaos that is Ariadne auf Naxos. A triumphant Met revival.