‘The Flying Dutchman’
A Singer’s Guide to ‘The Flying Dutchman’
This occasional series of articles has lain in abeyance for a while now, as I have been spending more time reviewing live performances in recent months. The series started during lockdown, when there was nothing much to review, but I find myself strangely drawn to this early manifestation of Richard Wagner’s genius. I am in the last phase of preparation for the publishing of my book, ‘A Singer’s Life, the Journals of a Modern Troubadour’, and re-reading the chapter on my friend and mentor, Hans Hotter, perhaps the finest Dutchman of them all, I realised that I hadn’t written much about this opera, the first great Wagner music drama.
I have never sung in it, and have only ever seen it live once, at Bayreuth in 1990, when I won the London Wagner Society Bursary and was given tickets for three Wagner operas over an unforgettable long weekend. The bass role of Daland was not one that I would have sung, I feel, as it requires a blacker, more stentorian voice than I possessed, but I always felt that I could have really got into the role of the Dutchman himself, if only my voice had been a couple of notes higher. It is, however, a proper Wagner Heldenbariton part, needing a particular voice which lends itself to roles such as Hans Sachs and Amfortas, and should not be sung by a bass, in my opinion. This hasn’t prevented some basses from trying, but it’s a hopeless task! Hotter at his peak between 1944 and 1952 was unrivalled, a dark baritone with a thrilling top, but also with the ability to allow the voice to speak clearly in the lower register. More of that later.
After the comparative success of his opera, ‘Rienzi,’ in Dresden in 1842, about a failed rebellion in Rome in the 14th Century, Wagner, who had already written ‘Der Fliegende Holländer’ in 1841, was able to stage his new opera in the Royal Court Theatre in Dresden where he was engaged as Kapellmeister. This was his first composition in the style for which he was soon to be world famous, notably using recognisable tunes to represent people and ideas within the score, the embryonic motif system, which was to revolutionise music in the coming years.
The 26 year old composer had been employed as conductor at the Court Theatre in Riga, but his extravagant lifestyle forced him to flee his creditors with his wife, Minna, in an abortive attempt to reach Paris, where he hoped to put ‘Rienzi’ on the stage and make his fortune. The sea trip, initially to London, which was due to last eight days, was a disaster, and lasted 3 weeks, involving terrible storms in the Baltic, necessitating a life-saving stop in a Norwegian fjord, at Tvedestand. This experience and Wagner’s reading of Heinrich Heine’s satire, ‘The Memoirs of Mr Schnabelewopski’ (1834), telling a tale of a sea captain cursed to spend eternity at sea after his blasphemy in a storm, inspired the composer to write the libretto and the score of what was to become ‘The Flying Dutchman’. When he and Minna reached Paris, disaster followed him there, as the Paris Opéra would have nothing to do with ‘Rienzi’ and the couple were reduced to penury. However, as always, luck and talent combined to find him an opportunity to stage ‘Rienzi’ in the Court Theatre in Dresden, at the newly opened theatre there, designed by Gottfried Semper, where the Wagners lived for several years, with Richard becoming Kapellmeister, the Royal Saxon Court Composer.
‘Der Fliegende Holländer’ was presented the year after ‘Rienzi’, on 2nd January 1843, in Dresden, with the composer conducting. The original opera was in one long act, but Wagner later broke it up into three acts, making it more manageable for an audience, and better for the singers. He had planned to set the opera in a sea port in Scotland, which might have been quite fun, but decided to reset it in Norway, where he had almost been shipwrecked himself.
It is a dramatically different score to anything that had been composed before, although the influence of Weber and even Beethoven can be heard. Starting with a huge overture, in which all the main themes (or Leitmotifs) are clear, Wagner represents a storm at sea of epic proportions. Of course, at this point, the listener new to the opera has no idea what the motifs refer to, and it is only as the work proceeds that we can attach meaning and significance to the tunes we hear. Wagner’s technique would strengthen and expand over the following operas, until the system reached a level of perfection in the Ring Cycle, particularly ‘Götterdämmerung’, and ‘Parsifal’.
The curtain rises on a boat at anchor in a fjord, having sought an anchorage after a fierce storm. The Norwegian captain of the ship, Daland, orders the helmsman to keep watch while the crew get some rest after the endeavours of the storm. They are nearly home but will spend the night here by the shore. As Daland goes below, the helmsman, a light tenor, sings a melancholy song, before drifting off to sleep himself, entirely missing the arrival of a second ship, a ghostly, quasi-transparent vessel. Its captain, a pale figure dressed in black with a thick black beard, steps ashore, and in a fantastic aria developed from a semi-recitative, he relates his story in a monologue, during which we come to realise that he is indeed the mythical Flying Dutchman, cursed to roam the seas after calling on Satan for help in another storm. His punishment, and that of his ghostly crew, is that he can only land once every seven years, and that each time he must look for a woman who is true to him and be redeemed. If this woman reveals herself to be true, his curse will be lifted and he can find solace in death at last. A similar scenario is employed by Tolkien in the Lord of the Rings, when the wraith army under the mountain breaks its curse by fighting for Aragorn, the King of Gondor against Sauron. The gist of this story is that a true woman cannot be found, and this mysogynistic belief permeates the whole opera, until the last moments.
The Dutchman’s aria builds to a wonderful climax, as the baritone voice rises inexorably over the duration of the piece to a magnificent finale. Although ‘Der Fliegende Holländer’ is recognised as Wagner’s first opera in his new style, it still relies on stock aspects, like arias, duets and choruses. It is only the use of the Leitmotif system, allied to Wagner’s genius for writing marvellous melodies and dramatic outbursts for his soloists, that makes it stand apart from every opera that has gone before!
Daland duly wakes up and is staggered to find another ship anchored beside his own. After berating the helmsman for his sleepy negligence, he spots the pale captain on the shore, and goes to meet him. An interesting chat ensues. The Dutchman is equivocal about his recent voyages, understandably, but the Norwegian captain smells money. His home is quite near, and he invites the stranger to visit him. He mentions that he has a daughter, and the Dutchman, in desperation to lift the curse, announces that he wants her as his wife. He offers Daland a chest of gold as a dowry, which he accepts. This impetuosity may explain why he has found it so hard to find a woman who is true to him, since if he propositions the first woman he meets when he lands, the odds against him are high!
However, this is opera, and early Wagner, so off they go to the next fjord, where the curtain rises on the second act with a scene of domestic order and apparent contentment. However, we soon meet Daland’s daughter, Senta (as usual in fairy tales, her mother is absent, presumed dead), and we watch her as she broods over the painting of a wild and windswept seaman on the wall. This is the legendary Flying Dutchman, and she tells the assembled seamstresses the story of his appeal to Satan, and the curse that has been laid on him ever since.
Senta’s former boyfriend, the huntsman, Erik, arrives, telling her of a dream he has had, in which Daland meets a stranger who carries Senta off to sea. She ignores his warning and he leaves.
At that very moment, Daland arrives, accompanied by a stranger, who is the spitting image of the legendary Dutchman in the picture.
The two stare at each other in silence, as Daland burbles on about the betrothal and the gold. The couple ignore him, so he leaves them to get to know each other. In a duet of utter genius, starting unaccompanied, but rising to ecstatic romantic exaltation, they pledge their troth, and Senta promises to be the one who will redeem him.
The third act opens with a jolly party in the town hall with food, drink and lusty dancing. Wagner wrote an infectious tune, perhaps more Bavarian ‘oompah’ band style than Norwegian country dance, in which the poor helmsman from the first act comes in for more mockery, and the jolly Norwegians invite the crew of the strange ship to join them in celebration. In a piece of musical bravura, the rustic dance is subsumed into a ghastly ghostly nightmare sequence, as the spectral Dutch crew pay no attention to the jollity and go about their work on board. The Norwegians sneak back to the bar, and Senta appears followed by Erik, who protests that she has deserted him, having formerly loved him, swearing constancy. The foreign captain overhears this discussion and jumps to the false conclusion that Senta has betrayed him with Erik. He summons his crew to prepare to leave, thinking that his curse goes on. He tells Senta all about the curse (of which she is well aware) and proclaiming that he is indeed the Flying Dutchman (somehow Der Fliegende Holländer sounds much more menacing and scary), he sails off to roam the seas for ever.
However, Senta knows her duty, and throws herself into the waves, proving that she really is true unto death. The ghost ship vanishes and we see Senta and the Dutchman ascending into heaven, redeemed! It’s fantastic dramatic stuff and the young Wagner pours his soul into the music. He was only 28 when he wrote the opera, an astonishing feat for a novice composer, and although the structure and much of the music harks back to a previous era, there is so much to admire in this amazing score, and we can see the seeds of the mature composer quite clearly.
The music for the Dutchman and Senta is fabulous and forward looking, and with the Dutchman in particular, we can see the chrysalis which was to transform into Wotan and Hans Sachs.
For a dramatic baritone, the role is a real gift, with depth and range beyond anything that had come before, and Senta is the first great dramatic soprano role composed by Wagner, powerful and wild, yet also requiring a sense of subtlety and restraint, especially in the great duet with the Dutchman.
In comparison, the other roles are less developed. The helmsman must simply sing beautifully, with a good top B flat and Daland is a stock bass, strong vocally but psychologically restricted, a bluff seafarer interested in money alone. Erik is more developed and gets a good cavatina to sing, with robust top notes, but of character development, there is little to find.
The chorus get quite a lot of work, especially the men, and the orchestra is deployed to create all sorts of effects, especially the storm at sea. It’s a very good introduction to the Wagner style, albeit embryonic, and is also refreshingly short. Mind you, if, as some companies do nowadays, you play it in the one act version, it’s a long sit!
There are many recordings to choose from: the classic Decca version from 1976 conducted by Solti, with the splendid Norman Bailey as the Dutchman, a singer with whom I worked extensively 35 years ago, several excellent live versions from Bayreuth in the 1950s with Hermann Uhde and Franz Crass as the Dutchman, and my favourite (although with old mono sound), the 1944 recording with Hans Hotter in imperious form, brilliantly conducted by Clemens Krauss. This is also an extraordinary historical document, as it was recorded as the Nazi regime was tumbling to defeat and Munich was hardly the place to be for a definitive recording, and yet, the performance is white hot and scintillating. Three of the protagonists in this recording were also part of the world premiere of Richard Strauss’s opera, ‘Capriccio’, in October 1942. Viorica Ursuleac, who sang Senta in the ‘Dutchman’ recording, was the first Countess in ‘Capriccio’ (she was also Clemens Krauss’s wife), Georg Hann, Daland in ‘Dutchman’, created the role of La Roche in ‘Capriccio’ (one of my signature roles) and the peerless Hans Hotter was the first Olivier, the poet in ‘Capriccio’ (and later a great La Roche, and a friend and mentor to me). Clemens Krauss conducted both operas, in his role as Musical Director at the Munich Opera. Fortunately all these great performers were cleared of collaboration with the Nazis after the war and were able to continue working.
