At the dawn of the industrial age, the advent of the mechanical loom revolutionised textile production, making it possible to manufacture fabrics on a large scale and at lower cost, while depriving many artisanal weavers of their livelihoods. Another technological advance, the “programmable” loom operated using punched cards, invented by Lyon-born Joseph-Marie Jacquard, made it possible to create complex textile patterns and foreshadowed, as early as the 19th century, the development of control technologies, making the loom a kind of precursor to computing and the modern computer.

It was against the backdrop of the profound social upheavals brought about by the Industrial Revolution that Richard Wagner composed Der Ring des Nibelungen. Today, exactly 150 years after the first performance of the complete cycle of his magnum opus, the Paris Ring comes to its conclusion with Götterdämmerung. Wagner, who always wrote his own librettos, was the only composer to have a theatre built during his lifetime according to his artistic vision and dedicated entirely to his works. It was at the first Bayreuth Festival, in August 1876, that Siegfried and Götterdämmerung were premiered, and the first complete performance of the Ring was given.

The final part of the Tetralogy was Wagner’s starting point. In 1848, he had initially conceived a single work entitled Siegfried’s Death, a heroic grand opera. Thus, it was with the ending, and with the death of his hero, that the composer first envisioned beginning his Ring. Only later did he add the story of the events that preceded it, eventually arriving at Das Rheingold and the initial theft of the Ring. Wagner had indeed realised that it was impossible to have the complex events leading up to Siegfried’s murder recounted retrospectively: instead, they had to be shown to the audience and brought to life on stage.

In Götterdämmerung, the “magic of musical allusions” (“Beziehungszauber”, in the words of Thomas Mann, a great admirer of Wagner) unfolds to its full effect. To ensure the musical cohesion of the Tetralogy and its approximately sixteen hours of music, Wagner developed what he himself called “motifs of remembrance” (“Erinnerungs-Motive”), a term he had already used in Der fliegende Holländer and which he preferred to the now more commonly used term “leitmotif”. A motif of remembrance can blur different layers of time: it may refer to the past, shed light on the present, or anticipate the future.

In Götterdämmerung, the motifs of remembrance from throughout the Tetralogy are woven into the musical fabric. Those heard, for example, in the “Funeral March” – the orchestral epilogue that follows Siegfried’s death in the penultimate scene – recapitulate the hero’s destiny and downfall. Wagner’s decision to entrust the orchestra with an autonomous commentary on the stage action was a major innovation.

For the Paris Ring, director Calixto Bieito and his team have chosen a discontinuous narrative in which past and future intertwine. Their journey through the Ring began with Das Rheingold, in a “big data” universe where humans had risen to the status of gods, and where greed and selfishness had banished all sense of transcendence. In the militarised and violent world of Die Walküre, compassion was scarce, even though love was able to flourish amid the destruction. At the end, Wotan witnessed the collapse of the digital world he himself had created. In Siegfried, by contrast, nature had reclaimed a devastated world that had become uncontrollable as a result of human manipulation. The forest has been transformed, and the bond between humanity and nature has been broken.

In Götterdämmerung, it is the descendants of the great adversaries Wotan and Alberich who ultimately face one another: Siegfried, Wotan’s grandson, who has definitively stripped his grandfather of his power and who, unknowingly, has “transformed” the Ring, a symbol of power, into a token of love; and Hagen, fathered by Alberich for the sole purpose of carrying out his revenge and reclaiming the Ring. Both have been used as instruments, but a decisive difference sets them apart: Hagen knows his mission, just as he knows the history of the Ring. This advantage allows him to manipulate Gunther and Gutrune, his half-brother and half-sister who sit on the throne of the Gibichungs, at will, just as he will manipulate Siegfried, the newcomer. Siegfried, who has grown up in isolation, rather like Kaspar Hauser, comes into contact here with human society for the very first time, knowing nothing of its rules. It is therefore easy for Hagen, with the help of a “potion of forgetfulness”, to make Siegfried forget where he comes from and who he is, and to turn him into his instrument. Only Brünnhilde, who has long since emancipated herself from her father Wotan, possesses the strength, intelligence and independence needed to stand up to Hagen’s machinations. But by the time she finally understands what is happening, it is too late.

Nous sommes notre mémoire,
nous sommes ce musée chimérique de formes inconstantes,
ce monceau de miroirs brisés.
Jorge Luis Borges, Cambridge

“In Götterdämmerung, the world we have followed over the course of these four evenings disappears, and perhaps humanity disappears with it,” says director Calixto Bieito of the opera’s ending. “But the universe has not necessarily come to an end. Something could come after it, something post-human, natural, technological, or something else for which we do not yet have a name. With Götterdämmerung, our aim was not to present yet another apocalyptic work. We are already constantly surrounded by images and narratives of catastrophes, collapses and extinction. Yet the final bars of Wagner’s music, more ambiguous, stranger and deeper, provide us with no answers.

“What happens in the final music of Götterdämmerung – its surge, its clarity, its liberating atmosphere – is, in our production, pierced by a black hole, like a paradox: the music soars, the world collapses; harmony rises, memory disappears; beauty remains, the universe goes dark. This anti-human ending, in all its desolation, is profoundly human. Everything disappears: matter, humanity, post-humanity, narrative, culture, memory, identity. Nothing remains to be passed on. And, as memory gradually disappears, silence reigns.”

In her recently published book, The Rise and Fall of the Artificial State, American historian Jill Lepore warns us not to allow machines, or the corporations that own them, to control our social and political lives. She challenges us to recognise that, since this imbalance is the product of history and human actions, it is up to us, as human beings, to work towards transforming it. Lepore’s critical analysis does not lead to an apocalypse or a catastrophic scenario, but rather to a call to action: we must reclaim our collective capacity for judgement, our human responsibility, our power to make decisions, democracy and respect for nature.

For Calixto Bieito, Wagner’s Ring will remain as relevant as ever: “The Ring contains a number of fundamental human contradictions: our thirst for power and possession, our capacity to love and destroy, our need to create systems and our tendency to remain trapped within them. Wagner offers us no comforting moral lesson. The Ring does not tell us where we are going. It confronts us with who we are, who we have been and what we might become. All the questions remain unanswered.”

The characters in the Ring Cycle are primarily inspired from Medieval transcriptions of Norse and Germanic mythology, and more particularly from the 13^th century German saga The Nibelungenlied (The Song of the Nibelungs). As he developed the librettos of the four operas which make up The Ring of the Nibelung, Richard Wagner brought those legends and their variations closer to his other sources of inspiration—namely Greek tragedy and Shakespearian drama—and added his own interpretations.

Wagner retained seven gods from the pantheon of Norse mythology. These gods represent the highest order of beings in the universe. In Siegfried, where he appears as the Wanderer, Wotan describes his fellow deities as "light spirits who inhabit the cloudy heights ". Their mad quest for absolute power, represented by gold forged into a ring will lead them to their own destruction.

The god of the gods—Odin or Wotan, depending on Norse or Germanic mythology—is the god of the dead, victory and knowledge. Left blind in his left eye after he sacrificed it in exchange for knowledge, he can be identified by his spear and the presence of two crows at his side—Huginn and Muninn (who respectively embody “thought” and “memory”). These attributes are replicated in the character created by Wagner. Wotan appears as the archetypal man of power: insatiable, unscrupulous and hypocritical. He is the master of Valhalla, a castle fortress perched on top of the mountains; a dazzling manifestation of his power. His power over the world is based on laws and covenants which will progressively be undermined and erased. Throughout the libretto, his authoritarianism gives way to growing insecurity. The husband of Fricka, he is also the father of the Valkyries as well as of Siegmund and Sieglinde.

Loge, the demigod of fire, is an amalgam of two mythological figures: Logi and Loki. While both embody fire, the latter also personifies cunning and trickery. In the Ring cycle, Loge retains this duality: he appears as both the god of fire and Wotan’s masterly advisor ultimately enabling Wotan to take possession of the ring. He is also one of the rare characters who is truly free. He alone will be able to distance himself from the system that Wotan has created, and he alone will resist the lure of the ring. A calculating character, Loge takes pleasure in playing with the gods and he possesses a perceptiveness that his peers lack. Throughout the Ring cycle, he forsakes his human persona to appear in his elemental form: fire.

Fricka, the wife of Wotan and sister of Freia, Donner and Froh, is a divinity inspired by the goddess Frigg (or Frigga) from Norse mythology. In the Ring cycle she is the personification of lawfulness and fidelity. Tired of her husband’s infidelities, Fricka trys to make Wotan settle down and urges him to build Valhalla, a divine abode for them to live in. While Fricka is eager to defend the institution of marriage, she seeks above all to preserve the original values of divine society: respect for law and morality. In Die Walküre, she confronts Wotan with his own contradictions by reminding him that the guarantor of laws should not support Siegmund.  

Freyja is a key divinity of Norse and Germanic mythology. A creature of incredible beauty, she is the goddess of love and fertility. In the Ring cycle, Freia is the sister of Fricka. In Valhalla, the gods are blessed with eternal youth thanks to her cultivation of golden apples. Coveted by Fafner and Fasolt in Das Rheingold, Freia serves as a bargaining chip for Wotan who promises her to two giants in exchange for the construction of Valhalla. Without Freia, the gods find themselves deprived of their source of eternal youth and begin to waste away.

The personification of Strength and power, Thor (also known as Donner) is one of the most popular gods in Germanic mythology. His hallmark is his hammer which is the source of thunder and lightning. Present only in Das Rheingold, Donner nevertheless occupies a strategic place among the other characters. He embodies the figure of a military leader who thinks in warlike terms to counter the threat posed by Alberich. His hammer, evocative of violence, is a symbolic counterforce to the inherent lawfulness represented by Wotan's spear.  

Along with Odin and Thor, Freyr is one of the three major gods in Germanic mythology. The personification of fertility he is also the brother of Freyja. Known as Froh in the Ring cycle, he only appears in Das Rheingold. His perseverance in defending Freia and the words he has for her reflects the closeness of the two characters. 

It so happens that, like Rossini, I am Italian. Is that the reason why I appreciate his art so much? I don’t think so. It is not a question of nationality, of consanguinity, but of affinity. I love the brilliance that constantly shines through in his music. I love the burlesque vein of his orchestration. The characters in The Barber of Seville are deeply rooted in the tradition of the commedia dell’arte and its types: the old man in love with a young girl (Pantalone), the ingenious servant (Arlecchino), Colombina, Il Dottore… These masks originated in Venice. This is not the only link between Rossini and Venetian theatre: some of his works – one-act operas, farces such as La scala di seta (The Silken Ladder) or Il signor Bruschino – were composed for the Venice Carnival.

I myself come from Venice. My family was very deeply rooted in this region which, until I was twenty, was my living environment, my horizon: I drank in this atmosphere, I absorbed it. This world, these characters are therefore very close to my imagination, to my fantasy.

That said, there is no question for me of simply putting a mask on the faces of the performers. I prefer to approach Rossini’s works by drawing on entirely modern references, because I am convinced that they speak to us about our world and that we need to draw on our everyday lives for the means to tell his stories.

I always start with an atmosphere: in the case of The Barber of Seville, that of a contemporary working-class neighbourhood in Spain. This image, which comes to me, is not connected to any precise representation of Spain. It could be a neighbourhood in any Mediterranean country. Above all, it is a pretext for getting to the heart of the libretto and bringing its characters to life.

Of course, everything that belongs to my personal culture comes through in my productions. Almodóvar, undoubtedly, since his cinema is for me an inexhaustible source of inspiration. But these cultural and artistic references are not primary in the creative process. At first, it is important for me to base myself solely on the libretto and the music. It is only afterwards that this framework is enriched with elements drawn from my imagination, which make it possible to nurture and give greater depth to the characters.

In The Barber of Seville, Rossini succeeded in creating a synthesis of a micro-society. The characters are so strongly defined that it is almost a caricature of opera: this makes it a delicate work to stage. To this must be added the intimidating number of renowned directors who have taken it on. In the production I have conceived, above all I wanted to move beyond stereotypes and emphasise the humanity of the characters: to tell the story as faithfully as possible, without overcomplicating it, without seeking a double meaning – so that my message is accessible to a broad audience – while preserving the rhythm of the score.

Rhythm is fundamental in Rossini, whether in the arias, the ensembles or the concerted sections. This is as striking in The Barber of Seville as in La Cenerentola. In order to maintain this rhythm, we imagined a complex stage device that develops in a crescendo throughout the performance: a set design that follows the accelerations and breathing spaces of the work.

I work with Paolo Fantin, who has designed the sets for all my productions. Starting from an initial idea that I communicate to him, the two of us then play a real game of tennis, with very intense exchanges, in order to arrive at an absolutely homogeneous whole. The aim is to intimately combine set design and staging, so that no one can say what comes from him and what comes from me.

That is my conception of opera: not an individual approach that seeks to translate an artist’s imagination, but rather an amalgamation of different talents in the service of a work…

For this Barber of Seville, for example, I imagined that the whole production would revolve around Bartolo’s building. That was the starting point. But starting from this principle, how do you sustain it over the whole performance, manage to tell the whole story without ever running out of steam, without ever giving the impression that you are repeating yourself, while managing to renew it with every scene?

After completing my studies in directing at the Paolo Grassi School of Dramatic Arts in Milan, I first directed prose theatre productions with small companies, before beginning to work in the world of opera.

Opera and theatre are two very distinct worlds. Actors and singers are psychologically very different. The former have the text as their only basis for their work, without a conductor or music. They have to create their own score, based on rhythm and intonation. The latter, on the contrary, sometimes protect themselves behind the score. My entire work is then to lead them to free themselves from this artificial protection, to step out of their musical shell in order to build a stage presence.

Do I have a personal style, a signature that would recur from one production to the next? It is difficult to say. The productions follow one another but are never alike. Each new production presents me with a new challenge. I like starting again from scratch, as if it were the very first opera I were directing.

Ultimately, this question does not interest me. I am wary of artists who claim to have a style. I prefer to speak of temperament: because a production is first and foremost about my relationship with the performers. I am facing them and I communicate my ideas to them, with my personality. I try to establish clearly the direction in which I want us to go. Then I encourage them to find their own way to get there.

To use a metaphor, it is a little as if I asked you to go to Milan, but you could go there by train, by car or by bicycle… What matters is simply getting there.

I tell them: “Feel free, let your imagination and your desires run free.” The singers I work with have already embodied these characters in other productions. They have played them countless times. Above all, I do not ask them to wipe the slate clean. It is important to make use of what is already there, to draw on this awareness.

I want everyone to feel responsible for what they are doing. In the end, they are the ones who will go on stage, not me. So I tell them: “You must be satisfied with what you are doing, proud of what you are doing, and enjoy yourselves.”

More than anything, I hate it when a performer finds themselves on stage without knowing why, when they do something simply because the director has asked them to.

That is what I mean by style: it is this relationship that I try to establish with the singers that determines the way I tell stories.

Driven by his father’s spectre to avenge his death, Hamlet emerges as a great tragic character, unable to exist on his own and to build a life independent of his parents and their fate. His impossible liberation from the father figure complicates his bond with his mother. As his father’s heir, Hamlet is confronted with the Freudian situation of Oedipus, torn between filial love and sexual desire.

Rossini was just 24 years old when Duke Francesco Sforza Cesarini, impresario of the Teatro Valle in Rome, commissioned him to write a new opera. The young Italian composer, who had already written some fifteen operas was obliged to work to an extremely demanding schedule: the premiere was supposed to take place just two months later.

By the time the librettist Cesare Sterbini had signed his contract only a month remained, during which time Rossini wrote the music in parallel with the text as fast as the very best transcribers.