Director's Note: Tannhäuser

Tannhäuser is part of a long list of operas that feature an artist as a central character—think of La bohème, Tosca, or all the Orpheus operas. These characters, often described as “larger than life,” give shape to the complex emotional underpinnings of the human experience. Do artists feel more deeply, or do they have better tools at their disposal for expressing these deep truths? Either way, their stories have given me many unforgettable nights in the theater. As we look forward to this new production of Tannhäuser—about possibly my favorite operatic artist—I wanted to reflect on this larger tradition.

When the first spectacles of opera were staged in the Renaissance courts of Italy, opera was already a multimedia entertainment: it combined dance, poetry, music, and powerful visuals to tell a new kind of story. Claudio Monteverdi’s Orfeo, widely regarded as the first operatic masterpiece, premiered at the court of Mantua in 1607. Like Tannhäuser, Orfeo tells the story of an artist who was both poet and composer, a man whose song could enchant wild beasts and who nearly succeeded in overpowering death. Monteverdi’s writing, wedded to the libretto of Alessandro Striggio, combined the richness of late Renaissance dramatic performances with the simplicity of a story told in a flexible and expressive recitative. Most importantly, the composer had an exceptional talent for dramatic unity, transforming entire acts into cohesive musical units. His revolutionary work marked the transition from the Renaissance style of music to that of the baroque period.

When the 18th century arrived, Gluck brought his own spin to the Orpheus legend, which signaled his ambition to reform an opera tradition that he felt was losing its way. It was the Age of Enlightenment and talk of revolution was everywhere—in the opera house and on the world stage. The playwright Pierre-Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais, who was active in both spheres, reflected on the changing landscape in his three Figaro plays, which have inspired several operas, most famously The Marriage of Figaro and The Barber of Seville. In both stories, the title character bears a number of similarities to the playwright himself.

As the 18th century drew to a close, Romanticism emerged, emphasizing individuality, emotional expression, and experimentation with form. Artists popped up as leading characters in a wide variety of operatic genres. Jacques Offenbach wrote his own Orpheus opera, Orpheus in the Underworld, but made it a campy comic operetta; later, in The Tales of Hoffmann, Offenbach took a more serious look at the role of the poet and composer. Goethe’s Werther depicted a similarly tortured soul and served as the inspiration for an opera by Massenet. And even Hector Berlioz got in on the act when he wrote the opera Benvenuto Cellini, based on the life of the 16th-century artist.

Puccini’s operas have presented some memorable portraits of struggling artists, beginning with La bohème’s painter (Marcello), philosopher (Colline), poet (Rodolfo), musician (Schaunard), fiber artist (Mimì), and singer (Musetta). In Tosca, the heroine is an opera diva, and her lover is a painter. I think Wagner would have loved Tosca’s passion and bravery. In her most famous aria, “Vissi d’arte,” she sings, “I lived for art.” It’s not that far afield from what Tannhäuser tells us in the song contest.

Why do all these operas featuring an artist at the center hold such widespread appeal? I believe every individual possesses an artistic spirit, a desire to create something of value for themselves and others. Often, artist-protagonists are set against the backdrop of a fractured world, showcasing the belief in one person’s potential to create change through art. This was our foundation as we developed the visuals for our production of Tannhäuser.

My designers and I considered it essential to define the world that Tannhäuser inhabits as strict and stifling. We looked for something evocative of the 19th century, suggesting a closed society. Religion plays an interesting role in the story; it is both a unifying force and an instrument of repression. To me, the opera offers a clear parallel to Wagner’s own experience as he struggled to express an alternate worldview through his art.

Wagner wrote two versions of this opera, one for Paris and one for Dresden; we have opted for the Dresden version (1845), which has a shorter ballet. As the opera opens, we see the sublime natural world through the eyes of the great romantic painters of the late 19th century. Tannhäuser is a member of an austere religious community that has rejected the excesses of the Gilded Age. While it is not meant to be a specific representation of any one faith, its visual language is drawn from Amish, Quaker, and Hutterite communities.

As Tannhäuser reaches adulthood, he is permitted to experience life outside of the community. Having never felt completely comfortable within his own society, he travels and is intrigued by the boldness and creativity he encounters in “Venusberg,” a world that starkly contrasts with Tannhäuser’s rural world and simple life. Our Venusberg is set in a progressive New York salon where wealthy artists gather and challenge norms, none more so than “Venus” herself, who resembles a sort of Edith Wharton figure. Tannhäuser’s struggle between sacred and profane love makes for a compelling and thought-provoking journey.

The challenge of reconciling a unique inner life with the expectations of one’s community is not unique to artists; it has been part of the human experience since long before the first operatic experiments. It is no wonder that artists stand at the center of so many beloved operas, since their heroic struggle mirrors and magnifies our shared humanity.