First performed within 20 years of each other in the mid 19th century, The Flying Dutchman and The Pearl Fishers both feature capricious seas, broken vows and longing for deliverance through love or death. Yet in almost every other regard, they are opposites. Seeing them performed in tandem heightens the contrast between their distinct styles. Bizet’s opera presents opera as entertainment, a vehicle for fantasy and erotic possibility. In Wagner’s work, we see opera cast in a different role—the midwife of consciousness.
The elemental forces at work in The Flying Dutchman bring forth visions and emotions from a dream landscape which may be individual or collective. Both approaches stake their claims, just as both these productions vie for our favour. The production of The Flying Dutchman enjoys the advantage of a Wagnerian zeitgeist lending it added dignity. From the moment the impassive face of the Dutchman is plucked from darkness by a shard of white light, an atmosphere of foreboding and menace is established. The muted baying of unseen horns quickens the pulse. John Wegner hardly puts a foot wrong as the Dutchman. Even before he sings a note, his presence affects. He appears for the first time on the empty deck of his ship, cradled by its exposed ribs, brooding. Around him the storm may have subsided, but within his compact frame the howling winds have not abated. A bearded man in a heavy coat and peaked cap, he stands with a Napoleonic bearing. Commanding our attention, he is at once isolated, threatening, tormented.
Equally captivating is Senga’s (Elizabeth Whitehouse) rendition of the Dutchman’s ballad. Not content to spend interminable hours spinning thread, Senga strives to forge her own destiny. Her will to escape is as unyielding as iron, yet her summoning of the Dutchman remains sensuous, infused with delicate precision. The Dutchman’s longing is generic—any woman may save him. Senga’s is particular, and we share her triumph as their destinies intersect with a glance. The entire ensemble pulls its weight. The sailors’ chorus is suitably bouyant and the supporting characters played with unassuming gusto.
Thomas Studebaker’s Erik deserves special mention—a complex creation combining a hunter’s temperament and bulk with a patient tenderness evident in his interaction with Senga. Erik is an intriguing figure until the opera’s dying moments, when a directorial decision has him nonchalantly snap Senga’s neck. This is unfortunate, as it reduces Erik to a stock