Metropolitan Opera House, Lincoln Center, N.Y.; November 15, 2011
When the Met’s production of Philip Glass’ Satyagraha opened in the spring of 2008, it had an odd reaction: much of the house was empty the first night and not a ticket was to be found thereafter. Word got around that despite the fact that the opera was echt minimalism, with endless, repeated arpeggios, and that it barely had a plot, and that it was sung in Sanskrit without translated surtitles, it was a glorious experience. In fact it was precisely its indirectness, its subtlety, that caught the audience’s fancy. The opera is “about” Gandhi’s principle of nonviolence – the word “satyagraha” means “truth force” – Glass compares Gandhi with Tolstoy in the first act and the poet Rabindranath Tagore in the second; these men inspired Gandhi and are seen in a window high up in the back of the stage, overlooking the action. And in the third act, it is Martin Luther King Jr, who was, in turn, inspired by Gandhi, who appears, back to the audience, orating silently. The work’s spiritual message is noticeably self-conscious.
But despite the lack of plot, events do occur: Gandhi is thrown out of a first class coach even though he is carrying a first class ticket; he is attacked by a clownishly dressed mob and rescued by an upper-class English woman; there is a peaceful march – but these events are delivered more dramatically through the music than through action. We watch them happen, and there are occasional phrases projected on the stage translated from the text (which is from the Bhagavad Gita and only half of which are easy to grasp), but what truly matters is the sense of peace interrupted by violence and back again that occurs during each of the opera’s three longish acts.
One fades in and out, from rapture to occasional tedium and quickly back; the overall effect is both hypnotic and uplifting. The ear picks up subtle shifts in harmony and rhythm, not so subtle shifts in dynamics and colorful orchestrations and vocal combinations. The low, somber strings and duet for two men’s voices of the first scene give way to rapid, manic configurations in the high winds and a remarkable vocal sextet in the second scene. The chorus comes and goes throughout, sometimes chanting, sometimes taunting. The second scene of Act 2 features a vocal quintet with jumpy rhythms and a high-flying soprano line; the last scene is gentle and mostly for solo tenor (later joined by the chorus), with orchestral accompaniment of strings and a solo oboe. It is simply ravishing.
Phelim McDermott’s production is magnificent – evocative, touching and playful: Gandhi’s independent newspaper, Indian Opinion, was a major breakthrough in its day and in the sets by Julian Crouch newspaper is used widely: it is made into long chains, makes up the legs and arms of huge puppets, it covers windows, it is balled up and used as stones. At one point, Gandhi is engulfed in it. The high curved corrugated wall that makes up the backdrop (looking like a Richard Serra installation) opens and closes; it turns into a metropolis with tall buildings. There are aerialists and acrobats (a group called Skills Ensemble); colorful clothes (by Kevin Pollard) are hung out and then they fly away; a vision of the chorus, in white, holding candles, is unforgettable.
The performance could hardly have been bettered. Outstanding were Rachelle Durkin’s high-soprano in the second act (she played Gandhi’s secretary); Alfred Walker’s dark bass as an Indian co-worker and Richard Bernstein as Lord Krishna in Act 1. And Richard Croft’s Gandhi is the soul of dignity, sung with superb legato and acted with no fear of stillness. His final number, in which he repeats an upward arpeggio of eight notes thirty times, lingers in the mind and heart. “Satyagraha” is a perfect example of form equaling content: the message is pacifism, the music brings peace.
Robert Levine
