Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny

Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny by Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht underwent many changes between 1929 and 1931 as it opened in various German cities. Nazis and other fanatics staged violent protests; defenders proved equally adamant. If its predecessor, The Threepenny Opera, was a "songspiel" (play with music, or musical comedy), the latter work is designated "epic opera," by which was meant something closer to a traditional opera, only more historical or political.

It is the story of a city founded somewhere in Florida by a trio of scoundrels: the widow Leocadia Begbick and her sidekicks, Fatty the Bookkeeper and Trinity Moses, whose name is part of the satirical allusions to the Bible, which constitute one layer of the work. The city is a magnet to the rootless and restless from everywhere, and first tries to function by some strict albeit inhuman laws.

A foursome of loggers from Alaska, led by Jimmy McIntyre, now come to this "city of nets," i.e., entrapment and exploitation, to which Brecht gave this name presumably as a comment on the Nazis' brown shirts. It is promptly settled by, among other riffraff, prostitutes, chief among them Jenny Smith, who becomes Jimmy's girl. A devastating hurricane threatens the city but, apparently because of Jimmy's leadership, bypasses Mahagonny. Now a whole new set of hedonistic laws sets in: as long as it fills the pockets of Leocadia and her henchmen, anything goes.

But our four fellows' luck and money aren't limitless; owing to indulgences of various sorts, two of them bite the dust. Jimmy, who was always generous to others, now can't pay for three bottles of liquor he drained, and neither Jenny nor Bank Account Bill, the last of his fellow loggers, will pay his bill. He is condemned to death and executed.

During the development of Mahagonny, a few changes were made for censorship reasons, others for dramatic effect, still others to accommodate singing actors rather than opera singers. Even the names of the characters changed: in some versions they were German; in others, more aptly Anglo, albeit Jimmy Mahoney had to be accented incorrectly on the first syllable. Therefore the Los Angeles Opera production, recorded live in March and now available on DVD, changed it to McIntyre.

Michael Feingold's English version is eminently respectable, but verse almost always loses something in translation, and even more when it has to fit preexistent music. Nevertheless, this is a powerful work that will not be trivialized or invalidated.

Some years ago, the Metropolitan Opera offered a powerful mounting of the work directed by John Dexter, sung in German by a distinguished cast. The Los Angeles Opera production, directed by the far inferior John Doyle, and with an uneven cast, fares less well. Though elaborate scenery is not required, Mark Bailey's is a bit overstylized and militantly minimal. Ann Hould-Ward, a dependable costume designer, has here been made to provide the women with unduly gaudy costumes. Thomas C. Hase's lighting does what it is supposed to do.

Two of the leads are not up to snuff. Opera's Anthony Dean Griffey, though he can sing, is much too flabby and unappealing as Jimmy, and not enough of an actor. Patti LuPone, though good in the right role, is a too monochromatically humorless Begbick and lacks some high notes. Audra McDonald, however, is a compelling Jenny. Not only can she sing and act the part, she also infuses it with a troubling inner life: Under the slick, sexy facade, there lurks something tormented.

Minor roles are decently taken, but Doyle's staging doesn't help. This director made it on a British regional Sweeney Todd, where, to save money on an orchestra, he had the cast members play various instruments. The novelty of it worked, more or less, even on Broadway. But when Doyle tried this seemingly one trick of his on Sondheim's Company, the revival failed.

Doyle, moreover, practices "director's theater," the new fashion whereby vainglorious directors disregard fidelity and logic and impose on the text bizarrely far-fetched ideas, the weirder the better. So in Company, Doyle had two wrestling spouses foolishly shadowboxing from opposite ends of the stage. Here he stages a prizefight with the boxers never making physical contact.

Another example out of many: When the menfolk of Mahagonny queue up outside the brothel, Dexter sensibly made the sex invisible inside a shack, the sad joke being that the transactions were pathetically brief before the next customer crowded in. Doyle's sex is stylized out of recognition and in the open, without the hasty, hidden huggermugger that Weill's music underlines with melancholy beauty.

But don't get me wrong. However mismanaged in some respects, Mahagonny is still a masterpiece that can be impaired, but not destroyed. Missing out even on this version (staunchly conducted by James Conlon, who also contributes a useful commentary) is a greater evil than consuming it—perhaps even than condoning it.