Götterdämmerung, Metropolitan Opera, New York

Deborah Voigt as Brünnhilde and Jay Hunter Morris as Siegfried

Robert Lepage’s zillion-dollar production of Wagner’s Ring cycle fared rather badly in its first three instalments. The central, accident-prone device, a 90,000-pound cluster of 24 planks that bend, twist, rise and fall in fussy computerised configurations, did little to advance narrative clarity while it cluttered the scene and forced the so-called action on to the stage apron. The mythical exposition was clumsy at best, contradictory at worst. Still, optimists hoped that miracles would transpire, that the video projections would cohere, that the lingering questions would find affirmative answers with the arrival of Götterdämmerung on Friday. No such luck.

Theatrical ineptitude remained the rule of the night, up to and including the seemingly botched final transfiguration when virtually nothing happened on an empty, dimly lit panorama. Prior to that one endured some unintentional mirth as a silly puppet horse was pushed on so brave Brünnhilde could ride gingerly into the pink glow that masqueraded as a funeral pyre. So much for cataclysmic climaxes.

Under the circumstances it was best to try to divorce music from drama, a process not exactly encouraged by the composer. Never mind the awkward choral processions, the clumsy side-entrances and side-exits. Ignore the textual contradictions.

Fabio Luisi, who has inherited James Levine’s baton, enforced clarity and precision in the pit. There was relatively little grandeur or subtlety in his taut and speedy approach; still, one had to admire his efficiency.

Deborah Voigt does not command the tireless power, rich timbre and even range of an ideal Brünnhilde. Not incidentally, Peter Gelb, the hyperbolic Met impresario, calls this “the most difficult soprano part ever composed”. Undaunted, Voigt got through the obstacle course honourably, with breadth and sympathy, not to mention gleaming top tones. Jay Hunter Morris, the ersatz Siegfried – “definitive” and a “casting miracle”, according to Gelb – introduced a physically and vocally slender, essentially unheroic hero. His prime virtues involved stamina, cheer and availability.

Hans-Peter König boomed and bellowed darkly as a jolly-giant Hagen. Eric Owens brought odd, Wotan-worthy force to the snivelling platitudes of his father, Alberich. Iain Paterson managed to make the weak-willed Gunther a tragic victim, radiantly seconded by Wendy Bryn Harmer as his frustrated sister, Gutrune. The Norn and Rhinemaiden trios were deftly projected, scenic hurdles notwithstanding, and the gutsy Gibichung chorus, trained by Donald Palumbo, sang gloriously. The most memorable performance, however, came from Waltraud Meier, who turned Waltraute’s 20-minute cameo into a mini-drama of definitive urgency, sensitivity and pathos.

The non-capacity audience cheered the singers but, at least in part, booed the director. To many, this Ring has turned out to be a hyper-costly fiasco. But not to Peter Gelb. “Boy, has it been worth it,” he exclaims in the programme magazine. Perhaps he protests too much.

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