NEW PRODUCTION: "DIE FRAU OHNE SCHATTEN"

By Martin Bernheimer

"Die Frau ohne Schatten" cast its own daunting shadow in the eyes of Richard Strauss and his librettist Hugo von Hofmannsthal. In "Recollections and Reflections," the composer called their fantastic, symbol-ridden, intrinsically complex and dauntlessly grandiose collaboration "a child of sorrow."

The score was completed in 1914, Strauss explained, "in the midst of trouble and worries of the war." It wasn't performed until 1919, a year after peace was restored, and then it tended to stretch the musical as well as theatrical resources of most ordinary companies. At the same time, it seriously challenged audiences attempting to unravel its opulent threads of multi-leveled meaning.

Originally "Die Frau ohne Schatten" was planned as a relative jeu d'esprit, a fairy-tale indulgence of sorts, a change of expressive pace for the creators of "Elektra," "Rosenkavalier" and "Ariadne auf Naxos." The opera ended up, however, as a sprawling philosophical treatise on the sanctity and fulfillment of marriage, a noble Germanic ode to the elevating forces of fertility and devotion. Strauss and Hofmannsthal expanded themes defined by momentous forebears, the triumph of conjugal love as celebrated by Beethoven in "Fidelio," and the concept of purification through trial as examined by Mozart in "Die Zauberflöte."

It took a relatively long time for "Die Frau ohne Schatten" to escape its unwonted and unwanted image as an lush, lavish indulgence for specialists and connoisseurs. The beginnings, according to Strauss, were rather grim. "In Vienna," he wrote, "the opera had to be withdrawn more often than it was performed, owing to the strenuous vocal parts and to difficulties involving the sets. At Dresden, the second theater, it came to grief because of the imperfections in the mise en scène." Strauss eventually took comfort in what came to be regarded as the opera's esoteric appeal. "Music lovers in particular," he noted, "consider it my most important work."

Lotte Lehmann, the beloved soprano who created the role of the Färberin, or Dyer's Wife, cherished sanguine memories of the premiere. Writing more than four decades later, she mused rather coyly, perhaps self-servingly, on the opera's impact on her relationship with a more glamorous rival. "'Die Frau ohne Schatten' contains two important female roles, the Empress and the Dyer's Wife. I have no idea when Strauss and [the conductor-impresario Franz] Schalk chose me for the Dyer's Wife, but in a magazine article some time ago Maria Jeritza stated that Strauss originally wanted her to be the Dyer's Wife, but that he changed his mind and gave her the role of the Empress. If she said so, it must be true." The sound of prima-donna purring is almost palpable.

"Even so," Lehmann added, "I do not believe that I was merely second choice. I am convinced that I had been picked for one of these two roles, neither of which would have been a disappointment." She went on to lament the loss of correspondence that might have contradicted Jeritza's claim, but admitted satisfaction with the ultimate casting. "I was much too ambitious, much too taken with the beauty of the music and fascinated by the psychologically fascinating personality of the Dyer's Wife to have entertained a thought of refusal."

Lehmann did note, however, that Jeritza "reaped the lion's share of the laurels" because she dominated the climactic scenes. "Jeritza knew perfectly well what she was doing when she decided on this role; but the more I think back to those childish rivalries of long ago, the more I approve of Strauss' decision to switch the roles. I was perfectly content to sing myself into a state of near prostration and then gradually fade toward the end." One wonders if the lady protested too much.

She had prepared her assignment during a long hot summer at Strauss' villa in Garmisch, sparring on occasion with his adored if rather shrewish wife. Frau Pauline Strauss, not incidentally, is said to have served as a model of sorts for the Färberin.

"Strauss was greatly amazed at my knowing even a single phrase of the work," Lehmann recalled. "Time and again he expressed both his surprise and delight. 'God,' he would cry out, 'that's really a tough one! I'd never have thought any singer could learn this.'"

Strauss enthusiasm for Lehmann, according to Lehmann, was almost boundless. "He made few suggestions regarding my interpretation of the role; I believe that, for one thing, he liked my own approach and that, for another, he disliked making changes. At times he seemed to be sitting there with tears in his eyes, but I kept thinking that perhaps my imagination was playing tricks on me."

The German diva and Marschallin-in-excelsis did not foresee the eventual surge of interest in "Die Frau ohne Schatten" when she wrote her memoir in 1964. The opera, she wrote, "is not popular in the United States, where I am now living, and I do not believe it will ever become a popular favorite despite the overpowering beauty of its music. The libretto is intricate, ornate, overloaded, and very hard to follow. People have told me time and again that they find the music truly divine-'But what, in heaven's name, is the story all about?' That, in my opinion, is why 'Die Frau ohne Schatten' will never enjoy great popularity."

It was only after several decades and a second war that "Die Frau ohne Schatten" began to assert itself on an international scale. The first U.S. performance took place in 1959, thanks to the dedication and vision of Kurt Herbert Adler at the San Francisco Opera. The Metropolitan Opera followed suit in 1966, two weeks after moving to Lincoln Center, with a generously literal production staged by Nathaniel Merrill and designed by Robert O'Hearn. The revered conductor was Karl Böhm, and the breakthrough cast included Leonie Rysanek and James King as the lofty Empress and Emperor with Christa Ludwig and Walter Berry as their earthy counterparts and Irene Dalis as the evil Nurse. This conservative representation went in and out of the repertory until 1989-90.

Its replacement this year serves as only the second version of "Die Frau ohne Schatten" ever presented by the Met. It reflects the vision of Herbert Wernicke, a leader of the German avant-garde who makes his debut in the dual capacity of director and designer. He has stirred healthy controversy in recent years with innovative stagings of "Der Fliegende Holländer" and "Elektra" in Munich, "Die Meistersinger" in Hamburg, the "Ring" in Brussels and Frankfurt and "Tristan und Isolde" in London.

Andrew Clark of the Financial Times finds Wernicke's productions dominated by "dislocated modern settings, with characters often resorting to extreme behavior and outlandish postures to illuminate situations and relationships."

Wernicke's set models suggest a cool realm of mirrored abstractions for the Emperor and his barren bride (the titular woman without a shadow) and a prosaic industrial environment for the Dyer and his unhappy wife. Strauss' compelling child of sorrow returns in 2001 with a brave new look.