The spectacle leaves me with two thoughts. One is that while I recognize that the special-occasion nature of the event is real, and bears traces of an old German tradition of honoring artists and their place in their community that I think we should hold dear (and, over here in our naïve, take-it-easy way, think about emulating), there is also in all this a heightened form of the atmosphere that envelops many cultural happenings now—one of indiscriminate cheerleading, professed mutual admiration, and self-congratulation, as distinct from one of considered appreciation for a contribution of lasting significance. The second is that it’s a wrap in both senses. Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde is enveloped, wrapped up in a package of popceleb rhythms, noises, and homey disclosures. It’s brought on as the class act on an overlong variety show, or perhaps a marathon for some unnamed charity. When the opera begins, we are drawn (if we are—see below) into its deep, dark, essentially slow and essentially ancient way of being, only to be yanked out of it into the ever-hypeful energies of the now. For an instructive contrast:

The Aix Surround. There is none. No Thomas, or French equivalent. No interviews, no backstage or dressing-room peek-a-boos, no Director’s Note. Silence. At the intermission, the camera stays with a fixed view of the auditorium of the Grand Théâtre de Provence. No TV announcer, no commercials. More silence. The audience files out except for the few who stay in place. After the allotted time, they slowly file in again, and when all are back in place, the next act starts. Fifteen to twenty minutes of dead air.

According to contemporary expectations, a shocker. But it put me in mind of my earliest opera-going days, as a Family Circle standee in the old Met. One had to have bought one’s ticket by half-hour, then rushed up the stairs to claim a favorable spot at the rail. Once there, however, one could turn around, sit on the velvetish-carpeted step, and lean back against the barrier for thirty peaceful minutes while the house slowly filled and the orchestra tuned up. One could glance through the program, read the libretto or anything else, assess the new arrivals, chat with one if so inclined, or—nothing, except for harking to the slowly building anticipation of performance. A decompression chamber was constructed. The same at intermission, though by then there was some bustle, and a different energy; by then, an act had happened. At home with vidop, one is free to do or not do anything. One can grab a snack or a beverage, process the opera thus far, or simply turn to something else. True, one can do any of this with the Munich event as well. One can even stomp away in disgust. But that would be against the drag on one’s curiosity, which the structure of the event is designed to maintain. And I wonder: for whom is all this intended? We who already know and love Tristan don’t need a bit of it, and might easily be turned off. Do the presenters truly believe that those of the Alle who are not already aboard are going to riveted by Tristan because Thomas is MC-ing it? That must be the theory, I guess.