The production, mounted in 1993, has probably had its final run-through. Otto Schenk has always spoken of his ambition to elicit believable behavior from his singing actors, and at times, beginning with his first Met production (Tosca, 1968, with Nilsson, Corelli, and Bacquier), has shown signs of nudging his stars in such a direction. But in pieces with strong comedic elements—Die Fledermaus, Don Pasquale, and Die Meistersinger, all of which would benefit from the stated ambition—he has always turned tail and reached for the handy grab-bag of hoary laff-riot tricks, confusingly intermixed with efforts to cut his serious characters down to naturalistic size. As the Meistersinger production has aged (this revival was staged by Paula Suozzi), the vitality that could be detected at times in either of these contradictory directions has weakened, such stylistic unity as the staging once possessed has been undermined, and the theatrical definition needed at places like the Night Watchman’s entrances or the procession of the guilds has blurred. The sets of Schneider-Siemssen work well in the indoor scenes, less so in the Nürnberg street and the festive meadow, with their difficult crowd gatherings. S-S became Schenk’s regular collaborator, and the two produced a string of comfortable productions, quickly identifiable as their work, over a stretch of many years. But I can’t help recalling those Tosca sets by Rudolf Heinrich, a great designer who adapted his personal aesthetic inclinations to the stylistic demands of the work at hand, so that one would not at first glance have spotted the visual treatment of a given work as “a Heinrich,” except by the always exceptional skill with which it was executed. I think these observations on staging and design are important to register, not for the purpose of running down the thankless labors of those charged with maintaining this and other repertory productions, but to provide some corrective to the assumption that an outmoded “traditional,” “representational,” or “literal” approach to production is what accounts for the dull, unimaginative impression it often creates. It’s not that impetus, that vision, but the failure to follow through on it, that is at fault.

˜ ˜ ˜

Pentatone’s Fidelio is the best evidence I’ve yet been able to hear for Davidsen’s oft-claimed standing as the next great Wagnerian. She was scheduled to sing the role here before the pandemic knocked those plans askew, and did get in a couple of London performances in the part, to much acclaim, before the run had to be curtailed. There is no point in trying to compare her with the likes of Leider, Flagstad, Farrell, or Nilsson. The voice is simply not of that format, and probably would not be even if its lower register were engaged and expertly incorporated into the instrument (though that would certainly help). Nor does her temperament seem to be a fiery and fearless one—but again, a proprioceptive sense of her limits no doubt restrains her. The presence of her free, open-throated upper range, often of striking beauty, is now so uncommon that it has led some commentators to think they hear Brünnhildes and Isoldes in the offing. And of course she may sing these parts, things being what they are, but to consummate them she will have to find some means of shoring up her lower octave. Singers don’t embark on re-structuring once their careers have reached this high a plateau, and such strengthening won’t happen by itself.