Richard Strauss
Elektra

Elektra: a myth, a tragedy, an opera, a nomen omen: how beautiful it is to be overwhelmed by the continuous, powerful electric-emotional surges of this sublime monstrosity, the first fruit of the collaboration between the musical genius of Richard Strauss and the literary genius of Hugo Von Hofmannsthal. After scandalizing (and delighting) the world with Salome, with Elektra, Strauss focuses his provocative inventiveness more on the musical proposal than on the literary content, with the result of bringing everything to exaggeration: voices, orchestra, emotions. Even though my spirit remains more closely aligned with Salome, this "dark twin" is an incredibly beautiful, adrenaline-filled work like no other, capable of stimulating the senses and thoughts with orgiastic intensity.

Among Elektra's many merits is that it revitalized, after several decades in the background, the bond between opera and classical mythology, which from this point on represented a cornucopia for Strauss from which to draw abundantly (Ariadne auf Naxos, Die Agyptische Helena, Daphne, Die Liebe der Danae). And after all, what is more universal and more fascinating than the Hellenic myths to express concepts and symbols valid for any era and key of interpretation? In the specific case, Elektra is a pessimistic, painful but truthful paradigm of the human condition, and in this, it is completely opposed to Salome, who reigns with divine splendor over her story. Elektra, on the other hand, is a spectator; Agamemnon is murdered, Clytemnestra and Aegisthus reduce her to misery, Orestes returns and enacts his revenge, but all this happens independently of her will. She can do nothing but witness, consumed by the violence of her emotions, and it is precisely this impotence that makes her such a believable and deeply tragic character.

It would be wrong to reduce a complex and layered work like Elektra to a single, continuous white-hot sonic assault, but at least initially, that might be the impression, and anyway, those orchestral peaks with tubas and trombones launched at full power are so telluric and divine that it is practically inevitable that they often overshadow everything else. And moreover, they create a "small problem": voices are needed that can withstand such an instrumental deployment, especially for the role of the protagonist for whom, besides the usual dramatic and interpretative qualities, which are more necessary than ever to highlight the tumult of violent emotions that characterize Elektra, a heavyweight voice and titanium vocal cords are required, forged by years of Wagnerian, heavy Verdian repertoire and the like: in practice, it is the identikit of Birgit Nilsson, a supreme interpreter of this role as fascinating as it is challenging, undoubtedly the most difficult and demanding soprano role in the standard operatic repertoire.

Yet at the crucial moment, the protagonist is Clytemnestra: the theme of the magical talismans, a brief overlap of notes and instruments in grave and acute tones that once heard, one remembers for a lifetime, which initiates a hallucinated, disorienting monologue, among the absolute peaks of the Straussian repertoire, in which the torn soul of the elderly queen of Mycenae pours directly into the listener's unconscious. Speaking of this monologue, there is a 1981 opera-film in which Clytemnestra is portrayed by Astrid Varnay, well into her sixties at the time, who after a career as Brunhilde, Isolde, Senta, the same Elektra, and other similar roles presented herself in this way, with this voice and acting; very simply, there are no adequate words to describe such a wonder. Not that Leonie Rysanek (Elektra in the same film) is any less in that howled, rabidly shouted replica, loaded with vitriol, repressed hatred, and finally vented, indeed, I would say that in this scene she is even more effective than Nilsson herself in conveying with the right amount of violence the state of mind of our tragic anti-heroine.

Upon deeper listening, Elektra proves to be a somewhat more traditional opera than it might initially seem; for instance, Elektra's initial monologue, suspended in the majestic regality of paternal memory, inconsolable grief, and intentions of liberating revenge, clearly harks back to the long, magniloquent cavatinas that introduce the leading soprano in the 19th-century repertoire. And also for the third most important character, Chrysothemis, Strauss resorts to solutions that are certainly not new but dramatically perfect and masterfully adapted to the context: Elektra's sister, inclined towards the desire for a normal life rather than dwelling in dark intentions of revenge, she too has her own cavatina, in which the composer integrates waltz tempos and melodies: it might be the surname, but Richard often enthusiastically used waltzes in his works, not only in the "predictable" context of the Rosenkavalier, which owes a lot to Elektra despite seemingly so radically different.

Among Elektra, Clytemnestra, and Chrysothemis, there is very little space left for the male voices: Orestes (baritone) is a small part, Aegisthus (tenor) an even smaller part, and they mainly function to advance and complete the drama: Orestes' return triggers Elektra's second great aria, in which immediate, ecstatic joy soon fades, giving way to decadent self-pity. Strauss and Von Hofmannsthal's Elektra is like a flame that burns intensely and, once fuel is exhausted, soon extinguishes; this is the first, clear warning and, once the fate of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus is fulfilled, she follows them soon after. In that triumphant dance, an electrifying closure in the best Strauss tradition, now emptied and worn out, she falls without rising again. And there is nothing more to say.