The Man Who Would Be Karajan

It is an old, useful story. The aficionados still love to tell it over newspapers and Schlag in the coffeehouses of Vienna--where everyone, of course, is an aficionado.

Heaven, apparently, was overcrowded. Long lines clogged the Pearly Gates. St. Peter paced nervously, asking if any of the would-be entrants happened to be a psychiatrist. When a tired-looking but obviously prosperous gentleman stepped forward, the ethereal guardian quickly ushered him to the front of the line.

“What have I done,” asked the bearded and bespectacled volunteer, “to deserve such preferential treatment?”

“It’s God,” explained St. Peter. “He thinks he’s Karajan.”

Herbert von Karajan, who joined the candidates for the Pearly Gates himself last July, probably liked that punch line. During his long life, he suffered no delusions of grandeur. His grandeur was genuine.

Karajan ruled musical Europe with an iron baton. He wrote his own laws.

His artistic policies became automatic creeds. He made careers, and destroyed them, at whim. He conducted whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted. The mighty Berlin Philharmonic was, for most practical purposes, his private plaything. His every move was recorded and videotaped for a doubtlessly grateful posterity.

He wasn’t just a genial musician, a semi-competent self-appointed stage director and an overwhelming administrator. He was a multi-gillion-dollar industry.

The focus of that industry, in recent decades, was the picturesque town of Salzburg, Austria. This, parenthetically, was the town that gave the world a prodigy named Mozart, not to mention a sugary movie concerning solfeggio in which Julie Andrews chirped something about Do being a female deer.

Karajan lived there. Karajan reigned there. Karajan died there.

Over the decades, Karajan had turned the annual summer festival in Salzburg into his own memorial. It was a glamorous memorial, and an expensive memorial.

Europe’s rich and famous loved Salzburg. They came to pay homage, and to be seen.

Eventually, Karajan turned Salzburg into a rather dull memorial. The repertory adhered doggedly to the safe, the sane and the regressive. The master harbored no interest in the avant-garde. He didn’t even have sympathy for new trends in historical accuracy. In his universe, Mozart remained a romantic visionary.

Basically, Karajan turned Salzburg into a mecca for cult-worshipers, superstars, jet-setters and high-society groupies. Official photos of the Great Man or Luciano Pavarotti or Anne-Sophie Mutter graced all the shop windows.

The better hotels were always booked many summers in advance. A modest guest room cost about the same as a good concert ticket: $250. Most performances were sold out. The black market thrived.

Now the great dictator is gone. A brave new era beckons. Enter Gerard Mortier.

Mortier is 46, soft-spoken, elegant, polite, idealistic and iconoclastic. His biography documents legal training as well as apprenticeship in various German opera houses and close musical collaboration with Christoph von Dohnanyi.

Head of the progressive Theatre de la Monnaie in Brussels since 1981, Mortier was appointed artistic director in Salzburg only two months after Karajan’s death. Although he doesn’t actively assume management until October 1991, the old guard hates him already.

He has been vilified in much of the Austrian and German press. The scandal-mongers, always a vociferous element in the local population, are performing at full fortissimo tilt. The doom-sayers are enjoying bombast, registering Schadenfreude in excelsis.

The problem is simple. Mortier doesn’t fit the Karajan image.

In fact, he actively contradicts it. He is, we are eagerly assured by the reactionary chorus, all wrong for the job.

He wasn’t even part of the Karajan team. He never even met Karajan.

He isn’t a conductor. He isn’t even a stage director. He is just an administrator.

He isn’t Austrian, or even German. He hails from Belgium.

He isn’t interested in carrying on the sacred Karajan traditions. He wants to change Salzburg’s conservative profile. He is, in many ways, a modernist, and--horror of horrors--he doesn’t seem to be a snob. He thinks the present Salzburg audience throngs to the mecca for the wrong reasons.

He may abolish the existing audience. “The Salzburg public,” he has said, “I cannot work with.”

He doesn’t like Puccini. That may be pardonable, but, worse, he dares dismiss much of Richard Strauss. He thinks conventional opera productions are worthless bores.

He has no qualms about shaking up the festival Establishment. He abhors the star system. He doesn’t even like the glitzy theater that Karajan built.

“Not all operas should be played,” he recently declared. “It is good to hear some unknown operas, but also to forget some.”

Such sentiments are designed to provoke an audience that recently mustered push-button cheers for such cautious Karajan projects as a recycled “Tosca” and a dutiful “Ballo in Maschera.”

Last fall, Mortier told the French newspaper Le Monde that he wanted to alter existing commercial priorities. He spoke of “abolishing a mafia that has long exploited Salzburg for its own benefit and thought about recording before thinking about programming.”

This man doesn’t court instant success.

Mortier has come to New York to shepherd his Brussels company through Mozart’s “La Finta Giardiniera” at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. As staged by Karl-Ernst and Ursel Herrmann, the esoteric vehicle delights those who value opera as inventive musical theater. However, the 4 1/2-hour performance tests the concentration, as well as the Sitzfleisch , of an uninitiated audience. The local press has damned the effort with faint praise.

Courtly and efficient, Mortier pours tea in the posh hotel suite he shares with the company’s leading conductor, Sylvain Cambreling. Mortier’s habitual politesse masks understandable exasperation.

In three hours, “La Finta” will be repeated in a gala performance for an audience of generous benefactors. Everyone is muttering about the less than sympathetic review just published in the New York Times. Compounding potential jitters, the central tenor has succumbed to throat problems. His only alternate, Barry McCauley, happens to be singing Cassio that night in “Otello” at the Metropolitan--under the temperamental and tyrannical Carlos Kleiber.

Cassio is neither a terribly important nor a terribly difficult part. There must be a half-dozen replacements on the Met roster prepared to take over the assignment at a moment’s notice. Normally, Mortier would simply request that his colleagues at Lincoln Center release McCauley as a matter of professional courtesy. But not this time.

“Kleiber is conducting,” he explains with mock trepidation. “I must not even ask.”

Instead, Mortier drafts a less experienced tenor to sing the role from the pit, score in hand. The indisposed hero will mime the action on the stage.

“I am worried,” Mortier admits in perfectly fluent, engagingly Gallic English. “I hope the audience will accept the situation.”

He also admits to chagrin regarding the New York Times.

“I was a little bit hurt by the review. The analysis said nothing about the piece. I thought the writer (John Rockwell) had seen another piece. I understand if one likes or doesn’t like. That is not a problem. But if the critic does not like, I like to know why.”

He wonders if there has been a lapse in dramatic communication. Mortier is no supporter of supertitles. He speculates, however, that instant translations might have made “La Finta” more accessible to an American audience.

“If we came back to New York again, I would use them. It is very difficult for European stage directors to use them. The Herrmanns protested. We do not use them in Brussels. If we did, we would need two sets--one in French and one in Flemish. But, sometimes, for instance for works by Janacek, we use short projections that explain the scene. It is not so important to have the exact meaning of every word. Perhaps we should have done that here.

“In Brussels we provide very elaborate programs with translations. Everyone reads them. Everyone is prepared. In the States, the public does not have this attitude. We provided a good program here, but few people bought it.

“The public understands the music here, however. It understands good singing. I do like this audience.

“The musical sophistication is probably higher here than it is in Brussels. But the appreciation for musical theater seems not as high.”

He reflects for a few seconds, and describes an event in “Finta.” It is a mime passage, invented by the Herrmanns. A character slashes a pillow and departs in a fit of frustration. A mysterious Cupid-like figure comes upon the pile of feathers, picks one up in sad disbelief, and slowly trudges off stage. The child suspects mayhem.

“It is a subtle, poignant moment,” says Mortier. “In Europe, the audience always gasps. Here they laugh. New Yorkers are accustomed to gags.”

Mortier has been called a dangerous man, and he has been labeled an adventurer. He bristles at both descriptions.

“If I have ideas, I have to follow them. I do not think that makes me dangerous.

“An adventurer? That is amusing. The thought would amuse Peter Sellars. I admire him. His is one of the biggest talents I know. He is very musical. I defend him. But I do not like everything he does.

“I have the impression of myself that I am very conservative. I am conservative in the way that I don’t like staging that doesn’t go from the music.”

He disparages the work of such trendy directors as Pierluigi Pizzi and Ken Russell. At the same time, he extols Luc Bondy and Patrice Chereau, not to mention Sellars and the Herrmanns.

“They stage for the score,” he says. “They love music.”

In this context, the United States still baffles him. “What I sometimes don’t understand,” he says, “is the American taste. “Sellars is so full of ideas, yet the New York Times always attacks him. I am told that New York doesn’t get to see his work. But for many years, New York accepts the big, empty, pretty shows of (Franco) Zeffirelli. I do not understand this.

“You cannot do music theater in your big houses. I was at the Met this week for ‘Otello.’ The music was wonderful. The drama was impossible.”

Mortier does not respond to hero worship. “My public in Brussels knows that the doors of the Monnaie are too small for Pavarotti, the corridors too narrow for Jessye Norman,” he has declared.

He referred here not to bulky physiques but to bulky egos and bulky fees. “I don’t like it if an opera production turns on one person. On the other hand, I am delighted if stars are willing to form an ensemble, to really rehearse and work together.

“I certainly like to work with artists like Jose van Dam, Frederica von Stade, Julia Varady and Sam Ramey. They are stars. I am delighted that someone like Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau has accepted a small role in Janacek’s ‘House of the Dead’ in Salzburg.

“There used to be a great ensemble in Vienna and Salzburg, with singers like Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, Sena Jurinac, Hilde Guden, Irmgard Seefried. Perhaps we create something like that again. I do want stars, but only stars if . . . .”

His voice executes a diminuendo. His shoulders execute a poignant shrug.

Rumors have surfaced from time to time that Mortier might be, or might have been, a candidate to run the mighty Met. He laughs at the suggestion.

“There was some talk. We never negotiated. I don’t see how I can do the Met. This house is too big. In this place one cannot play opera.”

Mortier cannot--or will not--play opera in Paris either. He had served for a few months beginning in 1985 as director of the beleaguered Bastille Opera project. He withdrew when imminent disaster became an on-going reality.

“I retired before the election,” he recalls. “It was clear that two things had to be done: to build the house, and to change the internal working of the house. Changes seemed unlikely. Progress was slow. There were terrible problems with the unions, terrible political problems.

“It was impossible. Even now, after the grand opening, I see that little has changed. Despite all the plans, and all the promises, they have managed to schedule only 16 performances in three months. They are with old clothes in a new house.”

He frowns eloquently.

Mortier has big plans for Salzburg, adventurous plans. Some of them actually involve the Los Angeles Philharmonic.

Our orchestra is scheduled to play several concerts in 1992 in addition to serving in the pit for Olivier Messiaen’s grandiose and exotic “St. Francois d’Assise.” Esa-Pekka Salonen will conduct, and Sellars will direct. The entire production probably will come to Los Angeles afterward, and to Albert Hall in London. Potential sponsors include the Los Angeles Festival and the Royal Opera.

“The project is typical,” Mortier says. “I don’t just want tour performances by visiting orchestras. I don’t want standard repertory all the time, with no connection to the time or the place. I want themes. I want to integrate the special visitors into the festival.

“The Cleveland Orchestra will come in 1992 also, but not for operas. The Vienna Philharmonic insists on playing Mozart and Strauss in the pit. It doesn’t want to play something like the Messiaen, which requires so much rehearsal.”

The extra-wide stage of the great Festspielhaus in Salzburg disturbs Mortier. It was built with Karajan’s blessings in the early 1960s to accommodate Cinema-scope vistas. Mortier wants to narrow the horizon of the proscenium.

“We have a crisis of focus,” he explains. “It doesn’t work for theater, and certainly not for Mozart.”

He stresses his role as a mediator. “Basically, my job is to bring people together. It is very open now. I want to change things in the city.

“I don’t want to see pictures of singers in shop windows. I want to see composers, productions.

“We must get rid of the idea of obligatory events. If something is worth doing, we must do it with the whole soul. There will be no more dutiful celebrations of important modern composers who are treated like second-class citizens. In such cases, there will be no concert performances instead of staged operas. The radio orchestra won’t be used instead of the Philharmonic. We won’t play at the Felsenreitschule instead of the Festspielhaus .

“The audience that comes just for Domingo or Pavarotti will not be pleased. I am sorry.

“I also want to change the price structure. Actually, I may have to make the expensive tickets even more expensive. That way we can sell more middle-price seats--say for $100. I think everyone can afford that much for something special.

“I must find a way to work out subscription packages, to form a mix. I want it possible for a person in one week to see, for example, a Mozart opera, a concert with (Pierre) Boulez and a recital.

“The present public may go away. I know that. But we still have three demands for each available seat. Others will come.

“Too many Germans come. The Italians don’t come. The Spanish don’t. I want to make the atmosphere more international.”

Mortier pauses to contemplate the enormity of the challenge.

“Salzburg may not be ready for me,” he sighs. “I don’t know. If it doesn’t work, I must retire and go back.”

Mortier can be tough.

In Brussels he successfully defended Mark Morris, the flamboyantly controversial American choreographer, from a segment of the public that found him shocking, as well as from sentimentalists who championed Morris’ predecessor, Maurice Bejart. Mortier had, of course, occasioned Bejart’s departure for Switzerland.

“I don’t think Mark will stay,” he admits. “My successor will decide that in June, 1991. I have the opinion that Mark does not want to stay. In the meantime, we are looking forward to his ‘Nutcracker’ next year.”

Mark Morris’ “Nutcracker”? It sounds like an oxymoron. Mortier can be ironic.

Also on Mortier’s pre-Salzburg agenda is the world premiere of “The Death of Klinghoffer,” John Adams’ opera concerning the terrorist attack on the Achille Lauro. This project involves the creators of “Nixon in China,” including Sellars and Morris. It, too, will eventually travel to Los Angeles.

“ ‘Nixon’ was a very interesting attempt,” Mortier hedges. “It is not an opera in the traditional sense. It may not be music for eternity. Nevertheless, the theatrical experience is very important. It is very actual.”

Mortier can be funny, even self-mocking.

At the last Salzburg performance of “La Finta Giardiniera,” he surprised the cast and audience by making a personal appearance in the final scene. Donning maidenly drag, he replaced the expected mime soubrette and crossed the back of the stage, flirting on cue with the character tenor, Ugo Benelli.

“When he saw me,” Mortier recalls, “Benelli made an awful face and walked the other way.” Everyone laughed.

Mortier can be angry.

“The critics were against me at first in Brussels,” he admits. “But they changed. It is the same now with Salzburg. Perhaps they will change. Some of them I don’t take seriously. It is not a problem for me.

“I have been badly attacked. I don’t think I am dangerous, but it does not seem worthwhile to convince some people that I am not. They have their opinion, and they should keep it. I have mine. If their fight does not involve art, then they can be my enemies.”

Peter Sellars, who admires Mortier extravagantly and with good reason, isn’t worried that his friend will fall victim to any untoward assaults.

“Gerard is a thorough professional,” Sellars observes. “Don’t underestimate his Machiavellian abilities.”