German film director, producer, screenwriter, actor and opera director (born 1942)
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Ich las die Übersetzung des Piaveschen Librettos zu Ernani, herausgegeben in Zürich 1952, und im Vorwort steht in atemberaubender Dummheit, man habe die krassesten Unglaubwürdigkeiten ausgemerzt, wo doch gerade das Unfaßbare das Schöne an der Geschichte ist, oder besser: an der Gattung Oper an sich, weil gerade was von keiner auch noch so exotischen Wahrscheinlichkeitsrechnung mehr erfaßbar ist, in der Oper zu einer machtvollen Verwandlung der ganzen Welt in Musik als das Natürliche erscheint.
Auch die großen Gefühle der Oper, die oft als übersteigert abgetan werden, kommen mir eher in die Gegenrichtung aufs äußerste reduziert vor, auf das Archetypische der Gefühle verdichtet, nicht mehr weiter in ihrer Essenz konzentrierbar. Es sind Axiome von Gefühlen. Das ist es, was Oper und Dschungel verbindet.
A few years ago, we had a family reunion on the coast of Spain, where my brother was living at the time. At his invitation and expense, we had a wonderful evening at a fish restaurant. My brother, sitting beside me, put his arm around me as I studied the menu. Something began to smoke; I felt a light prick at my back, and suddenly I realized that with his cigarette lighter he had set my shirt on fire. I tore it off, and everyone was aghast, but the pair of us laughed loudly at the joke that didn't seem funny to anyone else. Someone lent me a T-shirt for the rest of the evening, and the little sore patch of skin on my back was cooled with a splash of prosecco.
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A vision had seized hold of me, like the demented fury of a hound that has sunk its teeth into the leg of a deer carcass and is shaking and tugging at the downed game so frantically that the hunter gives up trying to calm him. It was the vision of a large steamship scaling a hill under its own steam, working its way up a steep slope in the jungle, while above this natural landscape, which shatters the weak and the strong with equal ferocity, soars the voice of Caruso, silencing all the pain and all the voices of the primeval forest and drowning out all birdsong. To be more precise: bird cries, for in this setting, left unfinished and abandoned by God in wrath, the birds do not sing; they shriek in pain, and confused trees tangle with one another like battling Titans, from horizon to horizon, in a steaming creation still being formed. Fog-panting and exhausted they stand in this unreal misery - and I, like a stanza in a poem written in an unknown foreign tongue, am shaken to the core.
I have experienced comparable transformations in the realm of communications, beginning with ancient times. I remember the man working for the mayor's office in Wüstenrot in Swabia, a few hours from Munich and Sachrang, where my brother and I later lived for a year with our father. He was the town crier. There's an archaic German word for it. I heard him make his way through the village up to the Raitelberg, ringing his bell to get people's attention. Every three or four houses, he would stop and call out his "Hear ye, hear ye!" and announce official decrees and deadlines. From my early childhood, I knew what radio and newspapers were even though we didn't always have electricity, but I never saw a film. I had no notion of cinema. I didn't know such a thing existed until one day a man with a mobile projector came to us in our one-room village school in Sachrang and showed us