Parsifal
A freak April storm turned New York City into a winter wonderland yesterday, so we spent the afternoon dancing in the snow in Central Park. But I had tickets to Parsifal. So reluctantly we put on adult clothes and trudged off to the opera.
Security was different this time: not better, just stupid in a different way. As I walked in, some “security” guy wanded me in my lower midsection. He didn’t ask me to stop walking or slow down, so I didn’t, and that’s the only part of me he had time to wave. It’s a good thing my penis isn’t made of metal, or I’d have set off an alarm. Or maybe not: my zipper didn’t set anything off and neither did my cell phone, which was hanging directly in front of his wand. Or more likely it did go off and he just didn’t care. A few feet down they were making half-hearted attempts to check some of the women’s bags, but not the expensive ones. Later, during the intermissions, I was able to walk in and out freely with no checks whatsoever, completely negating the previous attempts to make the Metropolitan Opera more like an airport.
When I was younger I’d studied the Ring cycle in some detail, but for this performance of Parsifal I only learned the basic leitmotivs. I was sure this performance wouldn’t affect me much, apart from perhaps bringing back pleasant memories. But it was like an electrical shock when the orchestral prelude started. Within the first minute my stream was unblocked, and I’d been sucked into his world again.
Wagner uses musical language very consistently, and most of what I’d learned in the Ring, which I thought I’d forgotten completely, came back quickly. I also found that the character of Parsifal brought up natural comparisons with Siegfried, Klingsor brought up Alberich, Titurel and Wotan, the grail and the gold. From those beginnings I moved into the dialectic of the musical drama, and had one of the most memorable artistic experiences of my life.
On the way home we were standing on the subway platform next to a couple of the orchestra musicians (who always somehow manage to pack their instruments, change clothes and get to the subway before everyone else: there must be a special pneumatic tube to transport musicians to the trains from the orchestra pit). The phrase “five and a half hours” figured prominently in their conversation. And one of them, eyes rolled back, noted that they’re putting on the full Ring cycle next season. Strange. Placido Domingo’s an old man now, and he managed five and a half hours superbly.
