Die Frau ohne Schatten begins after happily-ever-after and ends as another ever-after begins—essentially, it’s an opera about the beginning of a middle. Written as Richard Strauss approached the midpoint of his operatic career (the next opera he wrote was Intermezzo), the story is about the intermediate phases of a relationship told through two couples, one human and one mythical. Its framing is fantastical, but a lot of its conflict is realistic: annoying in-laws, bad scheduling, infertility and each partner’s internal guilt and shame combine to test the relationship once the “after” has begun to set in. As the middles of things often are, Die Frau ohne Schatten is long and complicated and difficult to pull off.
The long-awaited revival of Herbert Wernicke’s production, which premiered in 2001 and has not appeared at the Metropolitan Opera House since the 2013-2014 season, bears out this difficulty. Strauss’s immense orchestration, the opera’s length and fiendishly difficult vocal parts for many of the leads, and Hofmannsthal’s dense, convoluted libretto featuring three separate worlds have made it so Die Frau ohne Schatten is rarely staged, compared to other Strauss favorites. But this revival makes a compelling argument for pulling it out of storage more often, for its beauty and to consider with further scrutiny its views on relationships and children in a post-Roe reality.
When the opera opens, the two marriages at the center of the opera are at their breaking points. The Empress, once a mythical shapeshifting creature, now needs a “shadow” (Hofmannsthal’s representation of both a soul and of the ability to bear children) to foil a curse and prevent the Emperor, who spends most of his time hunting, from turning to stone. She has three days to do this, with help from her nefarious Nurse. The Dyer’s Wife is equally miserable, but her concerns are more mundane: she and her husband Barak are poor, he foists his obnoxious brothers on her hospitality and they’ve been trying for years to conceive. She lashes out at him, and he, kindly and in slight denial, is hurt and confused. Both couples must undergo trials, and both emerge victorious.
Strauss casts these conflicts as equally urgent and full of frustration, pain, beauty and surprises. The score is varied almost to the point of overwhelm—from organ to whip cracks, it’s nothing if not exciting. The Met Opera Orchestra, usually good and certainly up to the challenge, has rarely sounded better. No evidence of post-Thanksgiving torpor here; Yannick Nézet-Séguin let them loose to envelop and batter the audience with Strauss’s massive palette, which spans from tender, longing soli for cello and violin to thunders of brass that would probably be safer heard with ear protection. But happily, they rarely overwhelmed the voices—a testament to the excellent singing on display in this cast.
The five principals face a Herculean task—especially the Emperor and the Dyer’s Wife—and all shouldered it well, but special kudos go to a stentorian Ryan Speedo Green as the Spirit Messenger. As the Nurse, Nina Stemme opened with a fiery warmth and power that somewhat dimmed as the evening progressed. Tenor Russell Thomas started stiffly but sang the Emperor with precision and muscle and a well-honed edge that emerged more fully in the third act. The other principals similarly trended upwards: Michael Volle sang Barak the Dyer with a gentle strength. I longed for a little more warmth from his voice after the first hour and got just that as the opera continued. As the frustrated, prickly Dyer’s wife, mezzo-soprano Lise Lindstrom was sympathetic and occasionally strident, perfectly in keeping with the character. Her part is especially challenging, but Lindstrom was indefatigable, grabbing at every bit of tenderness where she could and relying on her immense reserves of power elsewhere.
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The night was Elza van den Heever’s, though. As the Empress, she turned in technically polished, empathetic and outlandishly beautiful singing from her first line to her last. By the third act, when most singers would be flagging, van den Heever emerged as only more vocally poised, lending a combination of propulsive torque and sweetness that endeared and delighted. The Empress’s ultimate refusal to buy her happiness at the expense of the Dyer and his Wife’s marks her as a true heroine; van den Heever made her both ethereal and earthly.
Wernicke’s production is still visually splendid, even dazzling with its hall of mirrors, hefty use of the stage elevators to move between worlds, and spangled costumes for the supernatural characters, including one mirrored cape that half-blinded the crowd. It creates some stunning vignettes, particularly the inverted shadows cast on the ceilings and the redoubling reflections that make the Emperor and Empress’s realm seem both extraterrestrial and underwater. Some moments veer into wacky territory, like when the empress experiences guilty visions of mystical space worms (really spirits, but worm-like spirits!) and a back-flipping falcon, and there’s a lot of capital-A acting from the singers, who on opening night seemed somewhat under-directed by J. Knighten Smit and mugged or flailed their way across the stage. A bit more intentionality to the movements would be welcome as the run continues, but such things are forgivable.
What feels most difficult is the opera’s views on child-bearing, which the production neither questions nor puts too fine a point on. There’s an unignorable natalist streak to Die Frau—one that, when taken literally, posits that children can not only fix a marriage but also affix it… set it down and make it real. Hofmannsthal is at his heavy-handed worst with this plot point, which doesn’t work all that well dramatically, even though he echoes his contemporaries’ views on women and child-bearing. In today’s moment, where opinions about childless women have been a highly visible feature of the political landscape since the overturning of Roe vs. Wade, the chorus of the unborn will likely feel jarring and deeply weird to many women in the audience, as might the implication that infertility or marital strife is predominantly a female problem.
But the search for shadows can also easily be read as a tethering of the fairy-tale love to something grounded and future-facing. The Empress, once a shape-shifter, needs to grow and embrace the fixity of her adult self. The Dyer’s Wife’s spiteful attempts to rid herself of her own shadow are more sympathetic when read as relational doubt, not as frigid anti-child bias. She’s grappling with this question: is this person I love, who after all is not a sexy prince, just a man with strange habits and annoying siblings, really all there is? It’s a question for dyers’ wives, for empresses and for anyone else approaching love’s messy middle stages. At its best, Die Frau wants to remind us that committing to a tested love can be better than reaching for the fantasy of total freedom. While you may not be able to shapeshift any longer, you might still find yourself transformed.
Strauss’ Die Frau ohne Schatten is at the Met through December 19.
