 |
Vol. XVII No. 4 December 2001/ January 2002 |
 |
Beyond Juilliard: At the Met, a Soldier’s Tale In times of war, I ask a lot of questions that begin with “why?” Then, somewhere in my daily routine of work, eat, sleep—repeat, I also wonder, “What has all this got to do with me?” This inquiry is not unique to current times. Almost a century ago, Alban Berg asked his wife the exact question in a letter while in military service during World War I. Berg continues, “and then I wonder why the world doesn’t wonder the same thing! Three years stolen from the best years of my life, totally, irretrievably lost, and every moment of freedom dearly paid for.”
It is not surprising that when Alban Berg saw Georg Büchner’s Woyzeck—a play based on the 1821 premeditated murder of the mistress of a psychologically disturbed soldier named Woyzeck—Berg responded with his opera, Wozzeck. Like the play, the opera delves into the mind of a soldier who suffers from alienation, who can’t abide society’s hypocrisies. Berg writes to his wife: “There is a bit of me in his character, since I have been spending these war years just as dependent on people I hate, have been in chains, sick, captive, resigned, in fact, humiliated.” Wozzeck is an ill-fated character, and the only character—though a murderer—with whom we empathize at the end of the opera. The opera is structured into three acts, each act containing five scenes, and each scene composed in a distinct form. But the movement’s titles (“Rhapsody”; “Fantasie and Fugue”; “Invention on a Theme”; “Invention on a Tone”, etc.) are deceptive, because Berg did not intend for the listeners to hear these musical forms. In the journal Modern Music (1927), Berg writes: “No one in the audience, no matter how aware he may be of the musical forms contained in the framework of the opera, of the precision and logic with which it has been worked out, no one, from the moment the curtain parts until it closes for the last time, pays any attention to the various fugues, inventions, suites, sonata movements, variations, and passacaglias about which so much has been written.” It is not his ability to compose atonal music in 16th- and 18th-century forms that Berg intended to convey to the audience; rather it is “the vast social implications of the work.” Earlier this season, the Metropolitan Opera revived its production of Wozzeck with James Levine conducting the superb Metropolitan Orchestra and a cast that included Katarina Dalayman as Marie; Graham Clark as the Captain; Michael Devlin as the Doctor; Wolfgang Neumann as the Drum Major; and Falk Struckmann in the title role. I left the performance awestruck by Berg’s ability to integrate social criticism with the music. Wozzeck is not a complex character. In fact, he is a simple man, a “worthy man,” as the Captain calls him. Wozzeck is a hardworking soldier who earns extra wages by shaving his Captain while being verbally abused, and brings the money straight home to his mistress Marie and their child. He is not an educated man, nor is he the village idiot. He is continually ridiculed by the Captain, the Doctor, and even Marie’s new love interest, the Drum Major. However, Wozzeck is never oblivious of the insults; rather, he is ashamed of his intelligence. In the recent Metropolitan Opera’s production of the opera, Struckmann (as Wozzeck) never holds his head up. Unable to reconcile his ill-fated life, Wozzeck takes his own life. There are two types of characters with whom Wozzeck is associated—those who establish the laws, abide by the laws, are educated, and believe in free will, and those who embody love. The Captain and the Doctor represent the former; Marie and the boy the latter. Not belonging to either category, Wozzeck’s alienation from society, exacerbated by Marie’s infidelity, eventually drives him to death. The Captain personifies an almost fascist-like obsession with order. He opposes rashness and hastiness like a mother who tells her children to chew thrice before swallowing or not to run around the house. “Such haste will run you into your deathbed!” he screams at the Doctor. The Captain’s ideal citizen is someone who “takes his time… a man with a conscience that does all things slowly.” However, the Captain’s obsession with order is unreal and unjustified. His compulsive nature to control the rate at which others move conceals his fear of the uncontrollable: the earth’s orbit, cancer, and science. Hence, the Captain fears the Doctor, since through science, the Doctor understands the order of the universe, while the Captain remains dumbfounded by the simplest invention from the Middle Ages: the mill wheel. Order without logic is meaningless. The Doctor, who prides himself on inventing and discovering new medical frontiers, is, ironically, emotionally removed from basic human necessities. He speaks of free will and condemns superstition; but his obsession with his “hypothesis” (we’re never told exactly what that is) blinds him to the Hippocratic oath and ability to diagnosis objectively. His patient Wozzeck, who clearly displays signs of depression and hallucination, is encouraged to continue his daily tasks of shaving the Captain, catching lizards, and eating beans, even though these tasks are senseless, and the cause of Wozzeck’s deteriorated health. At the Met, the Doctor was played cleverly by Michael Devlin, who, standing on stilts, literally and figuratively looks down upon all the other characters on stage. While the Captain and the Doctor symbolize the pillars of civilization gone awry, Marie represents the last remnant of hope for compassion. Marie is different in her faith. She is not modern like the Captain and the Doctor. Marie’s faith stems from love and religion—elements of humanity long predating Newton’s Laws and organized regiments. Perhaps this is why Katarina Dalayman’s arias sounded so sweet and tonal. Despite Marie’s stray eye for men in uniform, she expresses unconditional love for her child. She sings to the boy, worries whether Wozzeck spends enough time with him, and prays for his well-being in spite of his being born out of wedlock. Sadly, her prayers and love do not help Marie, because Wozzeck is unable to express any form of love. In the end, her faith is tarnished. Without Marie, Wozzeck is left completely alienated, unable to survive in a modern society rife with moral injustices and void of compassion. The society that Berg portrays leaves no room for the compassionate. Indeed, it is most fitting that Marie and Wozzeck die in the woods, away from civilization. Wozzeck’s death, in essence, was predetermined. This 1921 opera is more than an exploration of the 12-tone row, pitch-class sets, or other musical forms. It is an opera that speaks of social dilemmas and the hypocrisies of modern society, themes that remain potent to this day. Tiffany Kuo, a publicist in the Communications Office, holds
a master’s degree from Juilliard. She dedicates this article to
her uncle, who died in October.
|
| ||||||
