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Wie schön ist doch die Musik Berlin
Staatsoper
07/19/2025 - & July 22, 24, 2025, May 9, 12, 21, 25, 29, 2026
Richard Strauss: Die schweigsame Frau, op. 80
Brenda Rae (Aminta), Iris Vermillion (Housekeeper), Serafina Starke (Isotta), Rebecca Wallroth (Carlotta), Peter Rose (Sir Morosus), Samuel Hasselhorn (Barber), Siyabonga Maqungo (Henry Morosus), Dionysios Avgerinos (Morbio), Manuel Winckhler (Vanuzzi), Friedrich Hamel (Farfallo)
Staatsopernchor, Dani Juris (chorus director), Staatskapelle Berlin, Christian Thielemann (conductor)
Jan Philipp Gloger, (stage director), Ben Baur (sets), Justina Klimczyk (costumes), Tobias Krauss (lighting), Florian Hurler (choreography), Leonard Wölfl (videography), Detlef Giese (dramaturgy)
B. Rae, P. Rose (© Bernd Uhlig)
The enduring strength of Richard Strauss’s operas is in part thanks to his excellent choice of collaborators for his libretti. From Elektra (1909) until Arabella (1933), this had been Austria’s Hugo von Hofmannsthal (1874‑1929), the greatest librettist since Mozart’s Lorenzo Da Ponte (1749‑1838). One exception is Intermezzo (1924), a very personal opera, based on a chapter from the composer’s own life, for which Strauss also wrote the libretto.
In 1931, an extremely fortunate Strauss met Austrian writer Stefan Zweig (1881‑1942), with whom he collaborated on his only comic opera, Die schweigsame Frau (1935). Strauss believed Zweig had provided him with the greatest comic libretto since Da Ponte furnished Mozart with his Le nozze di Figaro. As attested tonight, the score is of the highest calibre. So why, you may ask, is this brilliant work so rarely performed?
The reason is that its premiere took place at a precarious time in history, with the Nazis firmly in control of Germany, and the world on the precipice of world war. Given Strauss’ importance, he was able to impose the name of his Jewish librettist on the opera’s posters and flyers. After the Gestapo intercepted Strauss’s letter to the exiled Zweig celebrating the successful premiere of the work, the composer was forced to resign his position as Chairman of the Reichsmusikkammer (Reich Music Chamber). The opera was withdrawn after just three performances, officially banned, and its productions throughout Germany cancelled.
Since WWII, there have been a few performances of this fine work, but the opera has never really earned its rightful place. Another reason for this lack of success may lie in its similarity to the effervescent, melodious Don Pasquale by Donizetti. Finally, as experienced here, is the issue of its length. Clocking in at nearly four hours (including two intermissions), it makes for a challenging evening.
Based on Ben Jonson’s comedy Epicœne, or the Silent Woman (1609), the opera recounts the story of retired naval captain Sir Morosus, who survived an explosion of his ship and has become intolerant of noise. He lives a lonely life with his annoying housekeeper and is regularly maintained and entertained by his barber. He’s initially elated at the return of his long‑lost nephew Henry, but soon becomes furious to learn that the friends who’ve tagged alongside said nephew (and wife Aminta) are in fact a noisy opera troupe. He decides to marry as soon as possible so that his nephew won’t inherit his considerable fortune. The enterprising barber convinces Henry, Aminta and the opera troupe to utilize their thespian faculties to teach the old codger a lesson.
In Act II, Sir Morosus meets three potential brides, played (unbeknownst to him) by three actors, one playing a dim‑witted country girl, another, an overly educated lady, and finally, the modest, shy Timidia, played by Aminta (Henry’s actual wife). The last one is the winner and a sham marriage is promptly arranged, with the actors playing priest and notary. Soon after the ceremony, Timidia morphs into a shrieking virago, throwing tantrums and destroying the naval captain’s precious possessions. Henry comes to the rescue, taming the boisterous shrew.
In Act III, the new lady of the house has hired craftsmen to transform Sir Morosus’ home. She also rehearses Monteverdi’s L’incoronazione di Poppea with Henry (in disguise). The barber arrives with a sham “Lord Chief Justice”, two lawyers and witnesses in tow, to see if the marriage can be annulled. After argumentations back and forth, a compassionate Henry reveals the truth, and an elated Sir Morosus blesses his nephew and wife Aminta.
German director Jan Philipp Gloger, whose staging of Benatzky’s Im weißen Rössl I saw last month in Vienna, has a thorough understanding of humour. Mercifully, he’s no fan of slapstick and sees self‑derision as the highest form of humour. He made sure opera’s characters were well‑developed and understood by the public before making them subjects of ridicule. Even with the grumpy housekeeper, impeccably portrayed by German mezzo Iris Vermillion, we felt certain we knew the type. Of course, Sir Morosus was so well‑depicted that one liked him, and nearly cheered him, as opposed to Henry and his acolytes. Unlike Donizetti’s old bachelor, Don Pasquale, Sir Morosus is no old fool, but rather an amiable, respectable ex‑military retiree.
The action is transposed to the present time and makes the tribulations of the elderly its starting theme. Before Act II and III, we see a projection citing issues the elderly face, such as solitude, physical and mental health issues. During Act I’s orchestral prelude, there’s a projection of advertisements for apartment rentals, from which we understand that Sir Morosus may be trying to find new lodgings in a quieter neighbourhood.
One could not have hoped for a better cast. The stars of the show are Sir Morosus and Aminta, seconded by Henry and the barber. British bass Peter Rose was a marvellous Sir Morosus, endowed with a rich basso profondo that conveyed authority, stature and a certain pomposity. A regular performer of Baron Ochs in Der Rosenkavalier, Don Basilio in Il barbiere di Siviglia and Osmin in Die Entführung aus dem Serail, Rose had the bona fides for basso buffo roles: a powerful, deep voice and a natural comic verve. At the end of Act II, having been traumatised by his new wife turned virago, Sir Morosus attempts to sleep while Henry is keeping Timidia “under control.” The short musical phrases in his retorts to Henry in deep basso are hilariously evocative of a man’s snoring. This is how Act II brilliantly ends. Sir Morosus’s final reflection is of such high calibre that he may be compared to Verdi’s Falstaff: “Wie schön ist doch die Musik - aber wie schön erst, wenn sie vorbei ist!” (“How beautiful is music. But music is better when it ends.”) In Gloger’s staging, Sir Morosus does not find happiness in quiet, but realizes he has bliss in the company of Henry and Aminta.
American lyric soprano Brenda Rae starred in the same role in Munich three years ago. She has a feel for the role of Aminta, a much sweeter soubrette than Don Pasquale’s Norina. This is a kinder woman; she is even ready to leave Henry so that he doesn’t forfeit his inheritance. As she reluctantly tolerates the subterfuge, she develops affection for the old man. Rae was able to dazzle with her stratospheric high notes and pretty timbre while managing to let her kindness show. In Act III, where she sings an extravagant variant of Monteverdi’s L’incoronazione di Poppea, she is hilarious.
Heard as Froh in Milan’s recent Das Rheingold, South African tenor Siyabonga Maqungo was much more suited for the high tessitura of the role of Henry. His duet with Aminta at the end of Act II was well acted and delivered with refreshing sensuality. His Monteverdi with Aminta in Act III was amusing. At the end, he movingly conveyed Henry’s tenderness for his uncle.
The barber is a physiotherapist here, which would justify daily visits and more knowledge of his clients. German baritone Samuel Hasselhorn played his role the right way: a discreet puppet master rather than the star of the show. I wish more Figaros in Rossini’s Il barbiere di Siviglia played the go‑between his way. Hasselhorn’s virile high baritone contrasted nicely with Rose’s bass in their exchanges in Act I. Hasselhorn is also a true bête de scène with both great stage presence and onstage agility.
The second act is hilarious thanks to two of the sham brides, the dim‑witted country girl Katharina, sung by Swedish mezzo Rebecca Wallroth, and erudite nerd Isotta, in the person of Serafina Starke. Wallroth’s exaggerated country accent made Mariandl from Der Rosenkavalier sound posh. Adding to this, her antics were well‑played, whether being shy or performing folkloric dances. Starke was so obnoxiously nerdish with all her citations that Sir Morosus would have happily settled for chatterbox housekeeper instead. The two are equally funny in the last act, when they claim to have been witnesses to Timidia’s infidelity. The roles require comic timing more than impressive voices, but in both, these singers had it all.
German bass Manuel Winckhler, as the opera troupe’s leader Vanuzzi, was utterly convincing as “Lord Chief Justice” with his grandiloquent legal jargon and extensive use of quasi‑Latin. Russian‑Greek baritone Dionysios Avgerinos and German bass Friedrich Hamel impersonated the two lawyers to a tee, rendering the comedy positively delicious by dreaming up unexpected arguments just when the issue seemed settled. Had Henry not decided to come clean with the truth, their endless legalese could have easily lasted another hour.
As is always the case with Strauss operas, the orchestra is as important as the voices. Few orchestras can rival Staatskapelle Berlin, especially under the formidable reins of Christian Thielemann. Renowned for his affinity for Strauss and late Romantic repertoire, Thielemann delivered a lush orchestral soundtrack for this glorious comedy, with its deceptively intricate score.
This auspicious performance, with its ideal cast, first‑rate orchestra and imaginative staging may lend this neglected comedic opera the needed impetus to help it become more frequently performed. It’s a wonderful vehicle for a comedic bass and for a soubrette soprano leggero to shine brilliantly. Most of all, it’s first rate Strauss, with a well‑written libretto that’s as fresh today as it was in 1934, thanks to the genius that was Stefan Zweig.
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