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One opera seems perfect for this New Year’s Day. It portrays a triumph over tyrannical abuse and an affirmation of the dignity and worth of human beings against a backdrop of hope and love. It is Ludwig van Beethoven’s “Fidelio,” op. 72, completed in its final version in 1815. “Fidelio” is a tale of love, intrigue and of political prisoners. It is based on a historically verified incident that occurred during the French Reign of Terror in Tours in 1790. The work’s hero is a woman, Leonore, who disguises herself as a man (Fidelio) to gain entry to a prison, where her husband, Florestan, is being held for political crimes. Through her tireless efforts, Florestan is sustained, emotionally and physically, and ultimately gains his freedom. Beethoven portrays the facts of his times, in which petty monarchs could and did imprison all they suspected of opposing them without any semblance of process. Here a couple of choice scenes from the wonderful Metropolitan Opera performance from 2003 under the baton of James Levine, Ben Heppner sings the role of Florestan and Karita Mattilla sings Leonore/Fidelio.
In the moving finale of the first act, Fidelio, without the permission of the prison warden, lets the prisoners out to experience a few minutes of sunlight and fresh air as she searches through their ranks for her husband.
Florestan is an advocate of freedom and democracy who refused to bend to the demands of a petty tyrant, who ordered him locked away. He sings of his misery in prison, where his jailers hope to crush him and his spirit, but his somber tones turn to defiance and a resolve to seek freedom, the word “Freiheit” rings repeatedly through the last lines.
Shortly before the work’s conclusion, Florestan is set free by his wife Leonore, and they sing a duet, “O Joy Without Name,” which the stress falling on the word “Freude,” an suggestion of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony with its concluding hymn drawn from the Schiller Ode.
The rousing finale: the prisoners are set free, and they emerge into the sunlight and the promise of a new day. The prison guards come again: Don Pizarro, the intriguer who falsely sent Florestan and many others to prison, is himself hauled away to await a restored justice.
As Wilhelm Furtwängler reminds us, “Fidelio” often seems less an opera than an act of religious devotion. Beethoven’s music is a ringing appeal to the human conscience, a reminder of the essential role of freedom in a society worthy of humanity and a sharp admonition of the collective duty of care and fairness that society as a whole bears to those who are imprisoned in its name. It is an opera for the age of Bush. Our march to the sunlight still awaits, on January 20.
More from Scott Horton:
Six Questions — October 18, 2014, 8:00 pm
Nathaniel Raymond on CIA interrogation techniques.
Mark Denbeaux on the NCIS cover-up of three “suicides” at Guantánamo Bay Detention Camp
From the June 2014 issue
For the past three years my dosimeter had sat silently on a narrow shelf just inside the door of a house in Tokyo, upticking its final digit every twenty-four hours by one or two, the increase never failing — for radiation is the ruthless companion of time. Wherever we are, radiation finds and damages us, at best imperceptibly. During those three years, my American neighbors had lost sight of the accident at Fukushima. In March 2011, a tsunami had killed hundreds, or thousands; yes, they remembered that. Several also recollected the earthquake that caused it, but as for the hydrogen explosion and containment breach at Nuclear Plant No. 1, that must have been fixed by now — for its effluents no longer shone forth from our national news. Meanwhile, my dosimeter increased its figure, one or two digits per day, more or less as it would have in San Francisco — well, a trifle more, actually. And in Tokyo, as in San Francisco, people went about their business, except on Friday nights, when the stretch between the Kasumigaseki and Kokkai-Gijido-mae subway stations — half a dozen blocks of sidewalk, which commenced at an antinuclear tent that had already been on this spot for more than 900 days and ended at the prime minister’s lair — became a dim and feeble carnival of pamphleteers and Fukushima refugees peddling handicrafts.
One Friday evening, the refugees’ half of the sidewalk was demarcated by police barriers, and a line of officers slouched at ease in the street, some with yellow bullhorns hanging from their necks. At the very end of the street, where the National Diet glowed white and strange behind other buildings, a policeman set up a microphone, then deployed a small video camera in the direction of the muscular young people in drums against fascists jackets who now, at six-thirty sharp, began chanting: “We don’t need nuclear energy! Stop nuclear power plants! Stop them, stop them, stop them! No restart! No restart!” The police assumed a stiffer stance; the drumming and chanting were almost uncomfortably loud. Commuters hurried past along the open space between the police and the protesters, staring straight ahead, covering their ears. Finally, a fellow in a shabby sweater appeared, and murmured along with the chants as he rounded the corner. He was the only one who seemed to sympathize; few others reacted at all.
Number of U.S. congressional districts in which trade with China has produced more jobs than it has cost:
Young bilingual children who learned one language first are likelier than monolingual children and bilingual children who learned languages simultaneously to say that a dog adopted by owls will hoot.
An Oklahoma legislative committee voted to defund Advanced Placement U.S. History courses, accusing the curriculum of portraying the United States as “a nation of oppressors and exploiters.”
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“He could be one of a million beach-bound, black-socked Florida retirees, not the man who, by some odd happenstance of life, possesses the brain of Albert Einstein — literally cut it out of the dead scientist's head.”