“Ich will nicht!”
“I will not!”
Altruism has never been the strong suit of mankind. As selfish creatures, we often put our needs above all else. But the dictionary definition of the word humanity is selfless emotion – compassion, benevolence, empathy. Perhaps, to become truly human, one has to give up what they desire and embody these ideals.
This is the core of Strauss’ opera Die Frau ohne Schatten, known in English as The Woman Without a Shadow. Spanning around four hours, the main themes are humanity, and interestingly, fertility.
The plot of Frau is eccentric, drawing inspiration from works such as Mozart’s Die Zauberflöten (The Magic Flute) and Arabian Nights. It is a notoriously difficult production to perform. The five lead roles require substantial vocal endurance, and the orchestra calls for 164 musicians.
The production first premiered at the Vienna State Opera in 1919 to a crowd of unenthusiastic critics. They found the premise of the Frau strange, but it was simply ahead of its time, both in theme and plot. Working with famous playwright Hugo von Hofmannsthal, who was described as “mystic” and “modernist,” Strauss had looked to create a stir with Die Frau ohne Schatten. Together, the pair combined unconventional ideas with dramatic music and libretto. And upon completing the project, Strauss felt he had accomplished his mission. In 1948, he wrote of his success: “[It] has made a deep impression… and music lovers in particular consider it to be my most important work.”
The Metropolitan Opera in particular only showcases this opera once every decade or so, and each time, it becomes more striking. Their rendition was catapulted to new heights in 2001, when Herbert Wernicke took over as director. The New York Times, that same year, called his end product “an engrossing, visually beautiful and musically distinguished realization of one of opera’s most problematic works.” Wernicke died shortly after his revival premiered, but his ideas are still incorporated throughout the production, even two decades later.
Wernicke’s work with sets is especially stunning. Previously unheard of in the world of classical opera, immense mirrors line the set for the world of the spirits, top-to-bottom. The mirrors create a dramatic effect, but their true value is in their underlying meaning. Mirrors are reflective by nature, and let no shadow manifest – as is the whole premise of Die Frau ohne Schatten (The Woman Without a Shadow). Ideally, mirrors provide pure internal focus, granting the chance to fix all flaws and achieve perfection. But the irony is clear–the spirits inhabiting the world of mirrors are selfish, acting only in their own interests. In the end, it seems that a shadow, representing one’s flawed humanity, is the pinnacle of good.
The storyline of Die Frau ohne Schatten follows two childless couples: one in the spirit world and one in the mortal. It begins in the grand heaven of spirits — a realm of mirrors — but the atmosphere isn’t light or joyous. Instead, a shadowed figure appears in the back, the background behind it drenched in an ominous red. As the figure approaches, the orchestra plays a dramatic melody, accompanied by pounding drums.
The figure is revealed to be a messenger of the ruler of the spirit world, Keikobad, and a message is delivered to the Nurse: if the Empress fails to cast a shadow within three days, her husband, the Emperor, will be turned to stone. This is the first couple.
The Empress is in a unique position. As the daughter of Keikobad herself, she was once purely supernatural. The mortal Emperor captured her, with the help of a red falcon, and took her to be his wife. They have been together for a year, but Keikobad grows tired of his daughter blurring the line between god and mortal. So, she must either acquire a shadow and become fully human, or return to her father as a supernatural being.
“Does she cast a shadow?” the messenger asks.
In this story, to have a shadow is to be completely human – and for a woman, it is representative of her fertility. The Nurse tells the Empress that she bears no unborn child in her womb and, therefore, does not gain her humanity. The Empress then vows to find a shadow, and she and the Nurse travel into the human world.
In the human world, we are met by Barak and his Wife. The couple is poor, and the Wife has a seeming resentment towards this fact, feeling trapped. As she fears having children will confine her even more to this life, she refuses to conceive. Barak is portrayed as kind and generous, trying to mend their relationship in spite of the Wife’s bitterness.
The sentiment of the Wife is extremely applicable to today. The fertility rate in the U.S hit the lowest on record in 2023, in part because women are no longer having children at the same rate that they once did. This choice is extremely personal to each individual. Perhaps they look to prioritize their careers, or maybe they simply want to be free from the immense responsibility that raising a child requires. It’s a monumental decision that women all over the world must make – and makes the Wife’s situation particularly thematic.
The Nurse knows how difficult this predicament is, and takes advantage of the Wife, coaxing her to trade over her shadow with a promise of luxury, riches, and passionate love. She characterizes motherhood as a burden. “Your breasts withered, beauty destroyed…” But during this, the voices of the Wife’s unborn children rise from a boiling pot. “Let us come home…” they echo.
Despite this, the Wife agrees to give up her shadow, and the Empress and the Nurse return to the world of spirits. The Empress, having finally acquired her one desire, can now save the Emperor from his fate of stone – and the Nurse is overjoyed. But in an unexpected change of heart, out of pure guilt and shame, the Empress rejects the Wife’s shadow. “I will not!” she cries, marking the climax of the production.
Yet, in the end, the Empress still gains a shadow because of the morality and empathy she displayed in her choice. Humanity, after all, encompasses emotion. The Emperor is saved, and Barak and the Wife are a happy couple.
Called the “problem opera” by Strauss himself, the concept of Die Frau ohne Schatten is complicated and hard to grasp – to say that the audience has utter clarity would be a lie. Aside from the unconventional plot, strange figures grace the stage consistently, nonverbal yet present. Whether it be the red falcon dancing towards a dignified death, marked by an orchestral trill, or the unborn children writhing on the ground, these encounters are both horrifying and beautiful.
These strange encounters, however, aren’t without a purpose. The red falcon, for instance, appears as a link between the Empress and her yearning for humanity, donning the color red because of the love and passion it represents. The crawling black-and-white beings that appear on the ground with the Empress towards the end are her unborn children, imploring her to take the Wife’s shadow and bring them to life. These images are stark and vivid.
Aside from the imagery, the aforementioned themes themselves are quite hard to bear. On the surface, there couldn’t be a worse time to communicate themes of motherhood and child-rearing. Abortion rights, feminism, and the declining birthrate are all hot topics of discussion, and it seems that this production humanizes mothers and dehumanizes those who remain childless, as many critics of the opera have noted.
But it’s important to remember that this opera was written during a different political and social era. It is simply too broad a statement to label the premise of the opera as “pro-life.” As Henry Rose writes for the Commonweal, “’pro-life’ and ‘pro-choice’ cannot describe the sweep and complexity of Die Frau ohne Schatten. Only ‘pro-humanity’ can.” The storyline does not seek to make a political or social statement, as many do today – instead, it goes back to the essence of mortality: emotion, life, and creation.
A peculiar production with a down-to-earth core, Die Frau ohne Schatten is a masterpiece both in theme and staging. Far from the simple love stories we associate with opera, it instead explores the central questions of humanity, creation, and sacrifice.
As the two couples sing out to the audience in their final act, they declare with joy:
“All is fulfilled! Light flows through space! The work is done!”
Ideally, mirrors provide pure internal focus, granting the chance to fix all flaws and achieve perfection. But the irony is clear – the spirits inhabiting the world of mirrors are selfish, acting only in their own interests. In the end, it seems that a shadow, representing one’s flawed humanity, is the pinnacle of good.