Finding the Holy Grail at Bayreuth

It's quite obsessive—you could call it an addiction, a drug.

Bayreuth, the festival that honours Richard Wagner, is an experience, and although the mere mention of the great German composer’s name outside of the small town of Bayreuth can raise an eyebrow and cause someone to develop a scowl or a polite harumph because of the antipathy towards him, mention of his name atop of Green Hill and in the environs of Bayreuth is greeted with adulation. He was a polemicist, he suffered political exile, tempestuous love affairs and portrayed antisemitic views. Unusually, Wagner wrote both the libretto and the music for each of his operas.

Casting thoughts of the character of the man aside, little Wagner statues rest among the flowers on the beautifully cultivated lawn. That’s not unusual; wherever you are in the town, you can’t escape the man, as he pops up nearly everywhere. 

After spending five days in the lovely town and travelling up and down Green Hill to the Festspielhaus to listen to his operas, I feel like I have a better understanding of Wagner. Like many others, I enjoy his music, but I can't quite come to fully like the man himself.

The festival hasn't lost any of its appeal: this year was 100% sold out, and with around 1800 people sitting down to hear Wagner each night, it was impressive.

After all, Wagner's music covers a wide range of topics, including sex, death, and passion, and he is unafraid to explore the depths of the soul.

Despite the intense heat, it is a pleasant experience joining the joyful band of pilgrims who only have one goal in mind: to hear Wagner performed in a building designed and built by the composer.

The railway station is just a short walk away from the red brick building, which is prominently visible from platform 2. It's a pleasant walk along the leafy suburb, and it's not until you ascend from Green Hill up to the hall that you feel a sense of anticipation, not least because of the acoustics, the productions, and the general excellence associated with the place.

There is a bust of Wagner’s head on one side of the road while Cosima, his wife, is on the other. There above the entrance flies a white flag with a red W for Wagner. He lives and breathes in this place, but only for one month of the year, which seems odd. For the next 11 months, it's possible to overlook Wagner. Fever pitch subsides.

Like any festival, the music and the atmosphere are wonderful to experience. A lot has changed, particularly in terms of fashion etiquette; the days of black ties are long gone, and today's dress sense is a kaleidoscope of colours. It is more bohemian: men wearing trousers and smoking jackets that would outperform Michael Portillo. There are a lot of stereotypes, although we shouldn’t characterise them. Even T-shirts are tolerated. Anything goes. Oh, to be seen.

Be wary though. Your understanding of Wagner must be comprehensive; you need to grasp the subtleties, identify the singers who performed here in the 19th century, and factor in the addition of the year 1876, when it all began. Ignorance of the man will not be tolerated.

People here genuinely enjoy the operas, and it appears to be a rite of passage for young Germans, deeply rooted in their DNA code. Impressively, there were a number of young adults and children, all of whom sat quietly throughout the performances. Wagner runs deep through their veins.

No one enters the building to take their seat until after the 15-minute call, which is not, as in most theatres, a bell, but a few of the brass players, trumpets, and trombones held high, situated on the balcony, who herald the moment with a fanfare. Cameras and phones capture the moment as a leitmotiv from the evening's opera unfolds. There are two more fanfares at ten minutes to curtain up.



At this moment, the audience, having savoured champagne, beer, or wine on the terrace, enters the venue and strolls around, buoyed by the warm August sunshine. It's similar to staring at a bright light and then turning away; the amphitheatre, where all the action takes place, has a bleak, grey appearance, with the lights resembling small planets. Despite the warnings about the seats' discomfort, I found them to be perfectly fine. It’s the lack of air conditioning that is more of a problem. However, once you immerse yourself, nothing significantly diminishes the experience.

The Bayreuth Tourist Office's website provides a detailed description of the wood-construbcted theatre: ‘Due to the special architecture, the singers can be heard clearer than anywhere else. Because the orchestra is not in front of the stage but underneath, which results in direct contact of the singer with the audience. The sound of the orchestra is carried from the arched wall of the orchestra pit to the rear wall of the stage, and this way the voices of the singers are somewhat carried out into the audience.’

The Schalldeckel certainly makes a difference. The intensity of the opening prelude in Tristan and Isolde was palpable. The climatic crescendos are thrilling.

The doors are loudly closed one minute before curtain-up, then locked from inside. The lights dim, the darkness descends, the chatter turns into a mumble, then a hush, and everything becomes silent, and then the moment arrives: the moment in this acoustic nirvana where the first notes hit your ears. Whether it be the intensity of Tristan and Isolde or the beautiful horn announcing the opening of Tannhäuser, the orchestra is in command, and an auditory and visual spectacle casts a spell. 

The Flying Dutchman was performed without any interruptions. Because the auditorium lacked aisles, I didn't have anything to drink for two hours prior to the performance. Woebetide you if you need to go out. In fact, don’t enter by the wrong door. Everything is carefully calculated the ticket has clear instructions on how to get to your seat. One poor lady had entered from the left instead of the right, which resulted in her clambering over those who had already sat down. I suppose it would prevent even the most affronted Wagner traditionalist from leaving their seat in disgust during a particular production. It’s difficult to escape.

Everyone has an uninterrupted view of the stage; that's what Wagner wanted: to see rather than be seen. Although I don't necessarily think Wagner would approve, his vision was that Bayreuth is for everyone.

Everything works in terms of aesthetics; you might not like some of the productions, but it's exciting nonetheless. The Tannhäuser performance I watched could revive opera in the UK; it was opera using different art forms at its best.

The orchestral players are hidden and their imperceptible presence is what makes this place so special. The silky and exquisite strings are clear, as are the wonderful sounds of the woodwind and the mighty brass.

There is much to be learned. The audience wants to be there. The opening event clears all the corporate hospitality and invites customers and clients who only want to be seen. While some may view this festival as anachronistic, it remains effective as pilgrims continue their quest for the Wagnerian Holy Grail.