The North American premiere of Heiner Goebbels’s deconstructed portrait of the past 120 years; a stripped-down Purcell work performed in a cemetery’s catacombs.

A scene from ‘Everything That Happened and Would Happen’ Photo: Stephanie Berger for Park Avenue Armory By Heidi Waleson June 6, 2019 4:22 p.m. ET

New York

I’m all for recycling, but Heiner Goebbels’s “Everything That Happened and Would Happen,” which had its North American premiere at the Park Avenue Armory on Monday, looked mostly like a way to repurpose scenic elements from the director’s 2012 Ruhrtriennale production of John Cage’s “Europeras 1 & 2.” The 11-member company scurried around the gigantic Wade Thompson Drill Hall, raising and lowering cutout Baroque-style drops depicting trees and buildings—often displaying them upside down or backward. Sometimes the drops became screens for video, most of it very recent footage from the Euronews “No Comment” program (we saw the immense cruise ship that smashed into a dock, colliding with a small tourist boat in the middle of Venice on June 2; a Tough Mudder race in Germany from the day before). The company also pushed pedestals and large wheeled bins around the space; the latter action, with the bins lighted from the inside, looked like a dance for dumpsters. Boulders rolled noisily down inclines. There was also fog.

Ostensibly, the show was a deconstructed portrait of the past 120 years, presenting fragments rather than a narrative intended to tell the audience what to think—except that it did. Readings (in multiple languages) from Patrik Ouředník’s 2001 book “Europeana” touched on such 20th-century events and concepts as racist ethnographic displays, the Holocaust, Barbie dolls, the death toll of World War I (“500,000 kilometers of soldiers fell”), jogging, and the Millennium bug. This juxtaposition of serious things and trivial ones, though seemingly chosen at random, nonetheless painted a picture of a global society that never learns anything. Resistance to a progressive theory of history is nothing new, but this formulation didn’t allow for any positive developments at all. No discovery of penicillin, for example.

In any case, the physical production bore little or no relation to the text. Nor did the music, a dreary tapestry of drones, squeals, crashes and wails improvised by the five musicians (percussion, clarinet/saxophone, ondes martenot, organ, guitar/electronics) positioned around the edge of the playing space. The lighting (by John Brown and Mr. Goebbels) provided some dramatic moments, and in one cool effect a giant bar code of white lines rolled slowly across the stage along with the performers, who seemed to be trying to outrun it. But when the lengthy finale, which had the company making a pile of those drops and the musicians building up a noisy crescendo, finally ended, it was a relief to realize that the running time of this pretentious display, announced as 2 1/2 hours, had been mercifully reduced by about 30 minutes.

iii

A scene from ‘Dido and Aeneas’ Photo: Kevin Condon

Brooklyn, N.Y.

Rather than filling a giant space with a lot of hot air, Death of Classical’s intimate production of Purcell’s “Dido and Aeneas” (1689) this week suffused the Catacombs of Brooklyn’s Green-Wood Cemetery with as much sound and emotion as this claustrophobic tunnel, flanked by family burial chambers, could hold. Alek Shrader’s focused, imaginative production, tucked into one end of the tunnel, relied on simple visuals—a small platform, a single chair, flickering candles, Dido’s dramatic red dress and chainmail jewelry (by Fay Eva), arresting makeup (by Ivey Ray), subtly hued lighting (by Tláloc López-Watermann)—and let the music do its job in this highly resonant acoustical environment.

Mr. Shrader interpolated a few brief spoken scenes from Christopher Marlowe’s 1594 play on the same subject. This device turned chorus members into named characters, such as the Berber king Iarbas (bass-baritone Paul Greene-Dennis), who is rejected by Dido in favor of Aeneas. It also added some detail to the central love story and gave Dido’s final lament an extra suicidal twist. Dancer/choreographer Liana Kleinman—representing Dido’s soul, perhaps?—supplied a poignant movement component compact enough for such a small space, while the singers kept their physical gestures to a minimum.

Daniela Mack was a mesmerizing Dido, both her voluptuous mezzo and her demeanor complex yet generous in love and in death. Baritone Paul La Rosa made Aeneas irresistible—who wouldn’t fall for this buff, handsome, clear-toned warrior? He even did the dialogue well. Molly Quinn was an enchantingly mellifluous Belinda; Vanessa Cariddi, a scary Sorceress (her chain face-mask added to the effect); Alyssa Martin and Erin Moll, comical yet deadly Witches. Marc Molomot led the sailors’ song with brio; Brooke Larimer was a bit over-vibratoed as the Second Woman, here renamed Anna, Dido’s sister. Anna is in love with Iarbas, a Marlowe plot complication the Purcell can easily do without.

Music director Elliot Figg led an ensemble of five period string players from the harpsichord. Their position behind the stage resulted in a few coordination problems, and some of the arias and choruses were too slow. This erotic languor was sometimes interesting, but I missed consistent rhythmic snap and variety. This is the second season of the Angels Share, a series of opera and other music productions in the Catacombs and elsewhere in the cemetery. It has proved inventive and exciting in its use of this unconventional space, but some production dead zones remain to be animated.

—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).

Greenwood Cemetery. Forget my fate.

At The Armory — a new candidate for one of the worst five things I’ve seen. I should have seen it coming with the Gertrude Stein quotation at the front of the program. Heiner Goebbels needs to know a bit more about history and philosophy before holding forth. Both elitist and anti-intellectual at the same time.

Furman Center panel with @errollewis and @mayawiley

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).

At the Metropolitan Museum, the stories of a runaway slave and a shunned author.

Martin Bakari as Genji and Kristen Choi as Lady Murasaki in ‘Murasaki’s Moon’ Photo: Stephanie Berger By Heidi Waleson May 20, 2019 4:20 p.m. ET

New York

The Metropolitan Museum’s MetLiveArts programming has a strong focus on the contemporary. This season, the unconventional American soprano Julia Bullock’s residency was particularly imaginative, especially “Perle Noire: Meditations for Joséphine,” her shattering embodiment of Joséphine Baker, a collaboration with the composer/percussionist/pianist Tyshawn Sorey, which they performed on the steps of the museum’s Great Hall several months ago. The show amplified the furious inner voice of Baker, the black American entertainer who was the toast of Paris starting in the 1920s, uncomfortably exploring Baker’s feelings about race and being objectified. In mid-May, Ms. Bullock curated a piece amplifying another marginalized voice: Hans Werner Henze’s “El Cimarrón” (1970), which is based on the oral history of an Afro-Cuban ex-slave Esteban Montejo. Born into bondage in 1860, he worked on the sugar plantations, escaped and lived in the jungle until slavery was abolished in 1886, and fought in Cuba’s war of independence from Spain. He lived to age 113.

Henze’s 80-minute chamber piece for voice, flute, percussion and guitar was a tour de force for the mesmerizing bass-baritone Davóne Tines, who recounted Montejo’s story with a deliberate, matter-of-fact cadence that belied its horrifying content. Much of the text was spoken, and when, in moments of rage or other extreme emotion, Mr. Tines veered into song, it was often falsetto, as though the storyteller were somehow possessed. The musicians, Emi Ferguson, Jonny Allen and Jordan Dodson, built atmosphere under and around the voice. A huge percussion array, with dozens of instruments including marimba, steel drum, melodica and gongs, was used subtly for color and variety rather than as massed cacophony; the delicacy of the Spanish-style guitar and the multiple special flute effects contributed to a score that felt purposely fragmentary.

Different sections powerfully evoked the brutality of slavery; the freedom of life in the jungle; the machines of the sugar factories; Montejo’s musings about ghosts, women and priests; and his account of the Battle of Mal Tiempo, when he joined the rebel cavalry in slaughtering Spanish soldiers with machetes. With direction by Zack Winokur, the percussion instruments crowding the stage of Grace Rainey Rogers Auditorium became, among other things, an obstacle course for the escaping Montejo and the jungle that hid him for years. The neutral-colored homespun costumes, designed by Carlos Soto, completed the effect.

The world premiere of Michi Wiancko’s “Murasaki’s Moon,” co-produced with On Site Opera and performed in the museum’s Astor Court this weekend, accompanied a special exhibition that explores the artistic tradition of the celebrated 11th-century Japanese novel “The Tale of Genji.” Artists through the centuries have played with the imagery of this 54-episode saga and the exploits of its amorous hero—the exhibit includes parodies, erotic paintings, card games and manga illustrations, among other objects. In their hour-long opera, Ms. Wiancko and her librettist, Deborah Brevoort, offered a feminist spin, putting the focus on the novel’s author, Murasaki Shikibu, who was a lady-in-waiting at the Imperial court. Their Lady Murasaki is lonely and unpopular with the other ladies because she is educated and not pretty; she decides to write her tale, which centers on Genji’s quest for the perfect woman, in order to show the negative outcome of that behavior for both the pursuer and the pursued.

The structure is clever. A quick sequence of episodes from the novel, depicting Genji’s serial conquests (he collects lovers’ fans as trophies) and his lack of consideration for the women he seduces and abandons, is bookended by Murasaki’s meditations and her conversations with her creation. However, the libretto often tells instead of shows, and its moral—that the artist must speak the truth, even if it doesn’t make her any friends—is heavy-handed. The vocal writing similarly has expressive high points, like the Murasaki-Genji duet about loneliness, but too often devolves into simple text-spinning melodrama.

Kristen Choi was a powerful Murasaki, with a big, expressive mezzo and a commanding presence, and she ably switched characters to become Genji’s different conquests. Tenor Martin Bakari made an amusingly arrogant Genji. As the bossy Buddhist Priest, who chides Murasaki, saying “the purpose of stories is to keep women in their place,” John Noh’s text articulation was unclear. Geoffrey McDonald capably led the eloquent chamber ensemble made up of a string quartet with Japanese flutes, percussion instruments, and a koto providing non-Western accents. Director Eric Einhorn made a virtue of simplicity: The singers used the whole courtyard space, often venturing behind the audience that flanked the narrow runway at the center, and Murasaki’s plain kimono (designed by Beth Goldenberg) established her low-level position in the glamorous Imperial court.

—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).

Carnegie. Liszt, Rossini. Thanks Gianandrea for the great restaurant tips.

Heaven

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).

The Gods have Their Twilight.