But it is in the paragraph that falls between the lists for spoken and musical theatre that the idea I wish to discuss (and that Hirsch’s remarks reminded me are Brechtian in origin) falls. ^(I) It is meant to apply specifically to the operatic situation, and it is given typographical emphasis by Brecht:  ” . . . a radical separation of elements” (“ . . . einer radikalen T r e n n u n g  d e r  E l e m e n-t e “).  Brecht placed this idea above all others where opera is concerned, and consciously aimed it at the very foundation of the notion of the Gesamtkunstwerk. When, Brecht argued, the elements of a work, of a production (and by implication, of work and production together), are gathered, so that they are mutually reinforcing and directed toward a common, all-engulfing purpose, when the contributing arts are intermingled, each is necessarily degraded, and functions only as a signpost to the others. Music, words, and scenic representation must become more self-sufficient. And they must, in their conspiratorial independence, seek a kind of theatrical disenchantment—not an “experience” (“Erlebnis“), but a world-view (“Weltbild“).

Near the beginning of Opera as Opera, I encounter this concept of the Separation of Elements in relation to Robert Wilson’s production of Lohengrin (it is cited as a working precept by his dramaturg, Holm Keller). And it was much in evidence. While its setting was not really Brechtian (for although it abjured any “real-life” pretense, it did seek a kind of abstract enchantment), its slo-mo, pantomimed telling of the story was utterly detached from the rhythms and tempos, the emotional content, of the music. The receptor was thus left to contemplate, and puzzle over, this bifurcation; and the confirmation  of eye and ear, through which Lohengrin registers its wonted sensory impact, was destroyed. That wasn’t Brechtian, either. Brecht didn’t want the audience puzzled or confused, or “alienated” in the sense of “put-off.” There cannot be a Brechtian production of Lohengrin, because its music, whose power can be vitiated only through musical and vocal inadequacy, could not possibly have been written to Brechtian ends.

Brecht’s own plays would be poorly served by presenting them according to illusionistic principles, their elements united, the qualities of their events and actions determined by the development of the inner emotional lives of their characters. I once performed the role of Tiger Brown in The Threepenny Opera, and immediately came up against the problem most American-trained performers face in dealing with Brecht’s characters: one can’t “connect the dots” from one point to the next according to a normal emotional logic. “People don’t behave this way,” one thinks, “unless they’re extraordinarily hypocritical and cynical.” But Brecht says, “Yes, they do. They behave this way all the time, as a matter of course, because they are responding in survivor mode to the economic pressures exerted on them by society.” (BB probably would have put it more forcefully.)  So although Tiger does try to save old army buddy Mackie (and their mutually profitable illicit business partnership), he at length turns him over to the executioner, and without a tortured monologue or aria to let us see him arriving at a wrenching decision. He just does it. As he stands outside Mackie’s cage, he’s really sorry—but what are we to do?