Das Spielwerk und die Prinzessin was given a double-premiere, in Vienna and Frankfurt, on March 15, 1913. It was somewhat appreciated in Frankfurt but caused an ugly scandal in Vienna; critic Julius Korngold (father of Erich) loathed it. After three performances in one house and five in the other, it disappeared. In 1915, Schreker revised it, compressing it into one act; the version recorded here, from live performances in Kiel in January 2003, is the original, taken from a recently discovered full score.
The plot, as much as the almost embarrassingly lush and difficult music, may have been the problem at its premieres. Filled with symbolism so murky that you lose interest almost immediately, here is the action: Before the curtain goes up, Master Florian, an inventor with an assistant named Wolf, created a music box (“Spielwerk”) that played exquisite music–but it would play only when Florian’s son, a violinist, played his own instrument. The son became involved with the local evil Princess, and since Wolf’s work was imperfect, the box let out Dionysian, as well as Apollonian, tones, and the Princess began giving more and more dirty parties, much to the horror of Florian. Florian’s wife, Leise (coincidentally Wolf’s lover), also took part in the crass festivities.
As the opera begins, the son’s corpse is being carried onto the stage, having been found in a ditch. Leise, now a batty old slut, begs Florian for help, but he refuses. An itinerant musician shows up and plays the flute; this makes the music-box play again. The princess seduces him, there’s an orgy at the castle, and Leise turns the populace against the Princess. To divert them, the itinerant musician makes the box play again, but then Florian enters, announcing that his son is no longer dead and is playing the violin. The people go crazier and set fire to Florian’s house while the castle turns blue-green, and then red. Florian screams and the people say “O Lord, we know no remedy, be merciful to us in our sins” as the curtain falls.
So, we have a story that’s unclear and loony, fantastic but eventually religious, mixes genuine feelings amid unreal situations–all of it backed by a gigantic orchestra and music that’s as late-Romantic, gushing, colorful, and intoxicating as it gets. I’ve listened several times and am entranced, although the opera does its best to keep you at a distance: the endless chromatic harmonies rarely allow the listener to get comfortable, but boredom is similarly impossible.
The Kiel forces, beautifully rehearsed, play the 100-minute score with both passion and beauty, and conductor Ulrich Windfuhr is to be congratulated for keeping everything clear and moving. The second act, in which there are musicians in the castle playing at the same time as the pit orchestra, with various choruses and soloists singing simultaneously, easily could deteriorate under a less-determined hand. For the most part, the singing is fine: Thomas J. Mayer’s expressive (if not lovely) baritone is just right for the obsessed Florian; mezzo Anne-Carolyn Schlüter sings the unhinged Leise with excellent madness; and Hans Jürgen-Schöpflin manages to sound innocent while still being enthusiastic as the traveling musician. Matthias Klein’s Wolf is unsatisfying, although the problem may lie in the role itself. Weakest is the Princess of Julia Henning. It’s a terrific role, requiring seduction, anger, and cruelty, and the vocal line is the most interesting in the opera. But Henning makes unpleasant, nasty sounds; it’s a pity. CPO’s sonics are slightly too in-your-face, but overall we should be grateful for a chance to hear this weird, rich score, so expertly handled.
