Die Walküre by Richard Wagner Metropolitan Opera, New York, NY 07 April 1997 It wasn't an altogether typical Wagner cast, but it was definitely an all-star lineup for this Die Walküre at the Met: Placido Domingo, Deborah Voigt, Hildegard Behrens and James Morris singing in a gala performance for the benefit of something or another, seats at the edge of the orchestra (like mine) selling for $150. There were other hallmarks of a non-subscription show as well: a sell-out, of course, but with plenty of people hawking tickets by the entrance and lots of no-shows (at $150-plus!) in the orchestra section inside. Act One was a pleasure, start to finish. Domingo and Voigt combined for what must have been one of the most lyrical first acts ever for Walküre: sweet, powerful, the phrasing uniformly long and sustained. Domingo in particular was impressive: tall and handsome, yes, and also a powerful vocal presence on stage. His calls of "Wälse! Wälse!" were thrilling. Voigt also sang with characteristic beauty and fluidity, perhaps a little under-powered for the Met hall. She likewise cast a striking figure on stage, a believable Teutonic maiden. I thought at the end of the act how very unlike the "Beyreuth bark" of Wagner tradition this lyrical and beautifully sung first act had been. Just before Act Two, management announced that Hildegard Behrens was indisposed. She was suffering from allergies, the spokesman said, but would sing the role anyhow, and asked for the audiences' understanding. After her initial appearance, a few people even applauded, apparently to thank her for her pluck. (The applause was, of course, quickly shushed by the Met audience). I couldn't understand at first why she was singing if she was sick enough to require the announcement; then I remembered that this was some sort of special performance and I suppose she thought folks who had paid top dollar for a star cast would want to see her than an understudy. Well, not all of us. She sang the role weakly, a terribly distraction that robbed James Morris of some fine moments in the final act where his powerful singing just wasn't enough to build the tension and drama without a decent Brunnhilde to help with the heavy lifting. Ms. Behrens heard some boos when she answered the final curtain. She undoubtedly did the best she could -- but whoever decided to have her continue in the role with that voice deserved the catcalls. Morris displayed more range than I remember in the few performances I have seen, from intense rage to the poignant, almost wistful "I of all creatures least free..." One of the biggest treats was hearing the Metropolitan Opera orchestra and James Levine play Wagner. This was the Met at its best: potent, precise, powerful -- and 100 percent responsive to Levine's interpretation. (I have found this orchestra a little overpowering in many performances, as if it wanted to be playing Wagner when the score was Donizetti. What a pleasure to have them playing Wagner on purpose). I was disappointed to find my $150 seat at the extreme edge of the house in row T, under the overhanging box seats; I have sat under there before and think the sound rattles around a little. But since there were plenty of empty seats in the center, I simply waited until the lights went down and scurried over to a much better location: N-12. (This can always safely be done at the Met; no one is seated after the lights go down, so you need not worry about a late arrival claiming that seat.) At intermission I asked the house manager to move me, and he gave me another N row seat on the left-hand side, quite good except for the four twenty-something Italian tourists who wanted to chat and wriggle directly in front of me. I managed to shush them into somewhat better behavior and was able to ignore them most of the time. I found Wagner satisfying as always, despite having the dramatic crescendo ruined by Behrens' weak singing. The music and story continue to speak to me; I was particularly aware of the poignancy of Wotan's predicament: unable to control events despite his great power, the father of the Gods captive to the sweep of events, bound by his own behavior (treaties, offspring, promises) to frustrate his own desires. I walked away into a brisk April night exhilarated and satisfied. One personal note: I dressed all in black for the performance, a slouchy, hip jacket and linen pants, and was twice mistaken for "that new Canadian tenor" who was singing at NY City Opera and once for an assistant conductor. Must be a good costume. What fun.