I’ll post again when I stop singing hojotoho!!!!, whenever that is.
Only for Wagner — and Bryn — would I wedge my can into a movie-house seat for six hours (curtain for the Met’s last HD broadcast of the season was late; that damn Lepage machine had a malfunction.) I managed to find an inconspicuous corner of the lobby to do a few Hindu squats and leg-ups so that I wouldn’t actually turn to stone.
It was worth it for the Brunnhilde and Wotan that I’ve been waiting for all my life without knowing it. The second act of this opera is pretty much Schopenhauer set to music, and it can be walking constipation even performed by fantastic voices. But then you can get this. For once, you know this is Wotan’s favorite daughter, as distinct from reading it in the script.
Things haven’t started to go south yet. Wotan’s going to pull his Emo*-mortal son’s irons out of the fire; Brunnhilde is under strict instructions not to bother bringing any of his lickspittle enemies to Valhalla. This clip cuts off before Voigt — ready to leap a-horse and thunder off on her task of securing the victory and scooping up the honorable dead from the field — bubbles up with such zest for her task that she can’t restrain a little skip, and a giggle.
That’s what I want: an insane archetypal horsewoman so fond of harvesting the dead that her euphoria bursts out in a mad titter.
Speaking of mad titters, one ran through the opera-house audience (clearly audible over the live feed) when the Valkyries assembled at the beginning of the third act, appearing to ride seesaws and then scoot down slides — that damn machine again. I can only hope someone sabotages the toadsucker before any hardworking mezzo-soprano — they dished in the intermission feature, when all eight sisters appeared with their costumes knotted up like washerwomen — has to be cut out of the thing again.
Some people can’t leave well enough alone. Fortunately this cast is so good that even the production couldn’t screw them up.
I’ll be practicing with my spear.
*You think Siegmund isn’t Emo? He spends most of the first act talking about how grief is all he’s ever known and naming himself Woeful, ferfrigsake. He gets to the Spring Song just in time to keep me from bitch-slapping him. Srsly.
Actually, you have to ask if either he or Sieglinde, as typically presented, are credible hero-parent material. He whines a lot, and she spends the whole opera being rescued by men and women alike. The staging needs something — maybe a good, crippling, knee-whacking stumble as the lovers/siblings enter in the second act, to explain why she’s such a useless sack of flour in the ensuing scenes. Just a thought.