Bright Shadow

Palace and hovel, ships, torches, caves, rocky passes, thunderstorms, primeval forest, a chorus of "unborn children." The whole idea for a new opera called Die Frau ohne Schatten (The Woman Without a Shadow) so excited Richard Strauss that he wanted to be gin composing right on the spot. That was in 1911. It was eight years, however, before the shadow became a reality, and then, despite wide critical acclaim, it was 40 years more before it was staged in the U.S. Trouble was, with all those ships and rocky passes, the technical demands of the fanciful libretto were more than most opera houses could handle, especially the matchbox confines of Manhattan's old Met. Now, with a new stage that could accommodate the Punic Wars, the Met has finally mounted its first production of Die Frau ohne Schatten.

MGM Sunrise. Produced last week, it was the most lavish spectacle ever conjured by the Met, a triumph in a season of new productions that so far have ranged from big-scale to boffo. In Antony and Cleopatra, the scenery outweighed the music. La Traviata, Verdi's melancholy masterpiece, was buoyed by the stylish performances of Anna Moffo and Robert Merrill. La Gioconda, an en dearing old war horse, came vibrantly alive in an opulent but refreshingly conventional production, beautifully sung by Renata Tebaldi and Franco Corelli.

But nothing approached Die Frau ohne Schatten. Poet Hugo von Hofmannsthal's libretto requires a primer course in the mythology of six cultures in order to be fathomed, moves murkily between the spirit world, the human world of an impoverished dyer and his sensuous wife (Baritone Walter Berry and Soprano Christa Ludwig), and the go-between world of an emperor and his wife (Tenor James King and Soprano Leonie Rysanek). The empress, alas, is without a shadow--she cannot bear children--and with the aid of a Mephistophelean nurse (Mezzo-Soprano Irene Dalis) she attempts to divest the dyer's wife of her shadow with promises of riches. In the end, after wading knee-deep through a quagmire of symbolism, all parties are appeased, and the two couples are elevated into an MGM sunrise, singing their heads off.

Flies to Flies. The plot evolves, or rather meanders, in a kind of metaphysical Disneyland setting thick with mountainous stalactites and stalagmites, behind, over and under which lurk new magical wonders to behold. Fog billows, backdrops quaver with psychedelic patterns, a sword springs from nowhere, an orange fountain gushes from center stage, a tenor flies into the flies. The singing, which requires a display of vocal acrobatics that few performers can successfully negotiate, was excellent. Loudest bravas went to Christa Ludwig, whose lusty soprano and hip-swinging histrionics had bite and conviction.

What saved the opera from its pretentious libretto was the soaring music of Strauss, conducted with thunderous brilliance by the late composer's gifted friend, Karl Bohm. By turns raging and receding, mischievous and mystical, the orchestration powerfully underscored the mysterious gulfs between the two worlds and buttressed each role with bold, contrasting shades of vocal writing. Big, robust, infinitely rich, Die Frau was symphonic opera music--and Metropolitan Opera--at its best.

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