Schostakowitsch at the Staatsoper

Recently I went to see Shostakovitch's Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District, one of my long-standing favourites, at the Vienna State Opera. Even though this has been my "second home" for a year now, I chose for the first time the Parterre Stehplatz (standing room), rather than the habitual Balkon or Gallerie. It turned out to be a veritable zoo. The Parterre is the most popular choice, always packed beyond capacity unlike the more comfortable, orderly and civilized Balkon and Gallerie, and always sells out first. I suppose it is because the best and closest view of the stage is to be had here, and most people probably go to the opera in order to see it, rather than to listen to the music. To be fair, the voices are best heard here as far as the balance with the orchestra is concerned, but I have a feeling that most of the tourists - who are the mainstay of standing rooms - don't know that. When I returned to my spot marked by my tied cravat on the railing as is the custom, it was overrun by bodies and I was immediately enveloped by a sickly stifling heat produced (I suppose a must in any old European opera house), and the show has not even begun. I was uneasily grateful to a rather aggressive Viennese, who threw out a woman so that there would be space for me (I wondered if it was him who took my spot in the first place).

As the show progressed, people were leaving intermittently, often at the most inappropriate moments. In contrast to these unappreciative types, two typical (although in this instance particularly psychotic) examples of Viennese audience and society sighed or stifled a guffaw beside me everytime anyone in the audience made a sound, infallibly following it with an irate and usually ironic comment mezza voce vaguely directed to each other, in itself just as disturbing, if not more so, than the very thing they were deploring. Sometimes physical action was necessary: an older man trying to take a flashless picture earned himself a push from behind and an angry admonition. And, just as if one were on an airplane or a coach, inevitably there always is one unfortunate person (and concurrently many others), who developes a body odour.

This was only the second performance of a relatively obscure and virtuoso score in a premier production for the Staatsoper. The orchestra sounded muddy, unprecise in ensemble and rhythm. I missed the clarity and detail in this stupendous jigsaw puzzle of an orchestral part with its complex superimposed layers of "Shosty's" signature incisive rhythms, textures and colours, where the slightest lack of precision is deadly to the success and effect of the music. I wondered (and my suspicion was soon confirmed by a friend joining me from the Balkon after the intermission) whether this was partly due to the acoustics in this hitherto unfamiliar spot. It turns out that the extraordinarily perfect balance between the voices and the orchestra is achieved at the expense of clarity of detail emerging from the pit, although this should have only obsured the laxness of ensemble. Likewise the audience was a let-down, perhaps for the first time in my presence there. Usually so knowledgable, responsive and passionate (if opinionated), this time they were lukewarm at best. They seemed more appreciative of the performers' efforts as shown by the final curtain call applause (nonetheless lasting only a fraction of the usual duration), than of the extraordinary piece of music itself, which merited only a miniscule tepid reception between the acts. If anything, it was the apathetic lackluster performance that didn't rise to the excitement of the score. This uptight purse-lipped reaction of the audience was perhaps partly due to the sexually explicit and violent story, music and staging. I imagine that the respectable public at the venerable State Opera prefers the comfortable polished grandness of Wagner to the vulgar rough reality of Russia; a choice between escaping, or living life through art.

Vienna Court Opera 1902; now the State Opera.