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The Underwear Festival
National Review, Sept 15, 2003 by Jay Nordlinger
I think of something Bill Buckley once said about Norman Mailer: "If only he would lift his gaze from the world's genitals." Yes, if only. But when people like me -- when "conservatives" -- lodge a complaint, we're apt to be told that we are "hung up." In truth, it is the directors themselves who are hung up, and should get over it. As an acquaintance of mine says -- thinking about Osmin and that kitchen mixer (or whatever) -- "Shouldn't we have been through with that by age 14 or so?"
There are other productions on offer here: the late Herbert Wernicke's Don Carlo, for example. It contains no nudity, no underwear. Eboli does have an eyepatch, making Olga Borodina, the great Russian mezzo, look like Moshe Dayan. David McVicar compensates for this relative squareness, however, by purveying -- in his new Tales of Hoffmann -- naked, bloody flagellation, in addition to a string of rapes. How 'bout that?
Don't get me wrong. Salzburg, as usual, is full of magnificent things, magnificent music-making. In a world chock-full of summer music festivals, it is still king, by a wide margin. But this has been an undeniably weird season: the weather, these productions, the dress and undress. A distinguished lady in town informs me that one of the festival's sponsors is Palmers, Austria's leading underwear manufacturer. Isn't that perfect?
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