‘The Ring’ at the Met Review: Rise of the Machine

The Robert Lepage production of Richard Wagner’s epic cycle returned to New York with better results than before.

A scene from ‘Götterdämmerung’ Photo: Ken Howard/Met Opera By Heidi Waleson May 13, 2019 3:42 p.m. ET

New York

The Metropolitan Opera’s Robert Lepage production of Richard Wagner’s “Ring” returned this spring for three complete cycles, concluding with Saturday’s “Götterdämmerung.” Launched with “Das Rheingold” on the opening night of the 2010-11 season, and last mounted in spring 2013, the production has been lambasted for its seemingly idea-free monumentality. Built around the enormous multi-ton “Machine,” with its 24 rotating planks, the production is an odd mix of abstraction and extreme literalness, like the tacky breastplates and wigs worn by the gods in “Rheingold.” (Carl Fillion designed the set; François St-Aubin the costumes; Etienne Boucher the lighting; Boris Firquet, Pedro Pires and Lionel Arnould the video.) This time out, the Machine suffered none of the malfunctions that plagued its debut, and only clanked a little bit. At its best, the show allows for spectacular moments, but for the most part, it leaves the singers to fend for themselves against an overwhelming, and sometimes precarious, backdrop. The three cycles did a brisk box-office business anyway; such is the rarity value of a full “Ring” with a top-flight cast.

For my third time through this production (and having seen other “Ring” cycles in Toronto and Chicago since the last one), I thought I pretty much knew what to expect. “Rheingold” was as remembered: a handful of eye-catching special effects, some of which rely on stunt doubles for the singers walking up and down walls, and others done with video, as when the mermaid tails of the Rhinemaidens seem to create cascades of river pebbles. But for most of the opera, the Machine looked bare and, well, mechanical, with the singers wedged uncomfortably onto the stage apron, or gingerly climbing around the planks, appearing none too safe, and the production lacked any point of view. This was in marked contrast to the David Pountney version at Lyric Opera of Chicago, which skillfully interpreted “Rheingold” as a black comedy.

The savior of the evening was Michael Volle, whose lyrical baritone and extraordinary articulation of text created a wonderfully pompous, arrogant Wotan. Other pluses were the Alberich of Tomasz Konieczny, with his powerful, penetrating bass-baritone and thoroughly nasty demeanor, and the playful, mellifluous trio of Rhinemaidens, Amanda Woodbury, Samantha Hankey and Tamara Mumford. None of the other singers stood out, and the Met Orchestra, led by Philippe Jordan, sounded muscular if occasionally unfocused, with some worrying bleats in the brass section. Overall, the auguries seemed unpromising.

But as the rest of the cycle unfolded, the performances in general got stronger, and I even found myself making my peace with the Machine. “Die Walküre” is the most emotionally immediate of the four operas, and thus the hardest to kill. The tipped planks made sense as the roof of Hunding’s gloomy, oppressive hut, while Günther Groissböck (Hunding), Eva-Maria Westbroek (Sieglinde), and especially the anguished Stuart Skelton (Siegmund) created high tension together. The acid tone of Jamie Barton’s Fricka worked better here than it had in “Rheingold,” and Christine Goerke’s impulsive, radiantly sung Brünnhilde was exhilarating.

Again, Mr. Volle was riveting. He started Wotan’s lengthy Act II monologue practically in a whisper, as though he were talking to himself, and built it up into a howl of despair. In Act III, you believed both his towering rage and his grief over his punishment of Brünnhilde. No longer serenely certain of his power, as he was in “Rheingold,” this “Walküre” Wotan visibly struggled in the trap he had made for himself. The set issues were still there—watching Wotan and Brünnhilde scramble over the planks in Act II was frightening, and the eyeball that displays shadowy figures during the monologue was weird—but Fricka’s ram-headed chair had a certain elegant witchiness, and the stark mountain against which father and daughter play out their final confrontation looked properly implacable.

The “Siegfried” production has more representational video, some of it cool (the critters and snakes slithering through the roots of the forest), some of it lame (the insubstantial Woodbird, especially pale when compared to Erin Morley’s silvery offstage voice). The Machine’s major drawback here was the tiny, cramped space allotted for Mime’s cave, and Mime (the effective Gerhard Siegel) kept crossing behind Siegfried (Stefan Vinke), distractingly close to him, during the Forging Song. This was annoying because Mr. Vinke’s tenor was at its clarion finest in this moment, and while you need to notice the scheming Mime, he shouldn’t upstage the star. Mr. Volle developed the Wanderer (Wotan) still further in “Siegfried”: He had a sense of humor (he enjoyed baiting Mime and Alberich), and was resigned to watching his own destruction play out. And as Wotan leaves the cycle, Brünnhilde’s development begins. Ms. Goerke brought a whole kaleidoscope of feelings to the Act III awakening scene, changing from frightened virgin goddess to rambunctious, ready-for-anything teenager, when confronted with the hot young hero.

Ms. Goerke was even more exciting in “Götterdämmerung,” delivering the newly adult Brünnhilde’s confidence, fury and finally understanding with absolute vocal and dramatic authority. This last opera of the cycle was all about her. Eric Owens turned in a deep-voiced, complex Hagen, his malevolence hard-wired, Mr. Vinke, though tiring a bit, powered through Siegfried’s undoing, and Michaela Schuster was touching as the desperate Waltraute.

The orchestra’s brass bleats had gone away by the end of “Die Walküre,” and Mr. Jordan and the musicians provided a cushion for the singers, and powerfully sustained the narrative thread. Then in those final, transcendent orchestral moments of “Götterdämmerung,” when the world is washed away, I started to see the point of the Machine. Mr. Lepage has said that his inspiration came from the treeless, rocky landscape of Iceland. Now, the set’s craggy, abstract blankness suggested geological time, with the video images and even the people—the struggles of gods and men, with the stupid, greedy Gibichungs as the last straw—being evanescent blips in its eternal existence. “What use was my wisdom?” sings Brünnhilde. What use, indeed? It’s not a comfortable conclusion, and there are still silly bits (that horse! those costumes!) and too many dull, undirected moments in the long hours of this “Ring.” But maybe it did have an idea, after all.

—Ms. Waleson writes on opera for the Journal and is the author of “Mad Scenes and Exit Arias: The Death of the New York City Opera and the Future of Opera in America” (Metropolitan).