
In this production, director Phelim McDermott and associate director and designer Julian Crouch tweak or forego some of Glass' original stage directions, and the success of their alternate vision is a testimony to the opera's durability -- this is a work that can stand up to a variety of interpretations. Most significantly, they've ignored Glass' original conceit that the events of the opera transpire in a single day, from dawn until night. This production begins in darkness and ends with a bright blue sky. It's a political statement and an optimistic assessment of the world, given the fact that Gandhi's vision of peace is so far from being realized, but it's all the more poignant because it points to the fact that his message is no less needed today than it was a century ago.
The stage design is very much integrated with the opera's concern for the liberation of the poor. The primary materials of the set are corrugated iron and newspaper. Instead of using flashy stage effects, the directors have many of the opera's most memorable moments created by Skills Ensemble, a troupe of actors, puppeteers and acrobats who use newspaper, straw baskets and clear tape to construct settings as well as gigantic animals and human figures.
Each of the three acts is presided over by a figure who inspired or was inspired by Gandhi's philosophy -- Tolstoy in the first act, Rabindranath Tagore in the second, and Martin Luther King, Jr. in the third. For most of the opera, the back of the stage is lined with panels of corrugated iron, creating an atmosphere of poverty and virtual imprisonment, in which Gandhi and his followers work out their strategies of liberation. In the final act, we see prophetic images of the American civil rights movement, with police in riot gear savagely beating peaceful protesters, and Gandhi's followers being arrested and led away. The iron panels drift away, revealing an expansive bank of roiling gray clouds. Gandhi remains onstage in front of a huge pillar at the top of which King, his back to the audience, is preaching to unseen crowds. Accompanied by some of Glass' most serene and ethereal music, Gandhi goes up to the pillar and touches it, as if in benediction. The sky turns to brilliant blue and the clouds begin to dissipate -- it's a genuinely breathtaking moment. It's spoiled a little when an image of Gandhi's followers is projected onto the sky, presumably listening to King, (a detail that actually is in the libretto), but mercifully it doesn't last long. In spite of that misstep, the final moments of the opera are a satisfying resolution of the struggles that preceded them.
The most frequent complaint about Glass' music is that it's too repetitive, and on a superficial level it can sound like the same thing over and over. On closer listening, though, Glass is in fact continually shifting the details of orchestration, meter, and dynamics so that the music is in a constant state of flux, giving it a larger architectural complexity. When allied with the apparent sameness of the surface, this complexity creates a synthesis of principles analogous to satyagraha's combination of the principles of truth and strength. This deep structural connection between Glass' music and the opera's theme makes the subject the perfect vehicle for the composer's aesthetic vision, and is one of the elements that gives the opera its emotional impact and sense of integrity.

The difficulty of its music is a serious obstacle to it ever becoming a repertory work, however. Satyagraha is Glass' first "real" opera, coming after Einstein on the Beach, which he had written for his own devoted (and small) ensemble of new music specialists, and the demands on the orchestra and chorus are staggering. It's not a question of technical difficulty, because in small increments, the music isn't generally hard, but it requires an almost superhuman level of sustained concentration that most orchestras and choruses aren't used to. It's the rhythmic element that's the killer -- its constantly changing meters of nearly-but-not-quite identical patterns are fiendishly difficult to keep track of. For the chorus, which has an unusually large role in this opera, there's the added element of having it memorized, as well singing in a difficult language that has no relationship to any European language. Much credit goes to Chorus Master Donald Palumbo for his thorough preparation; the chorus sang with crispness and intensity, and with careful attention to details of dynamics. At the April 14 performance, in the first scene of the second act, the men's treacherous laughing chorus threatened to teeter out of control, but a few brave souls hung tight and soon everyone was back on course. Dante Anzolini, making his Met debut in this production, led the orchestra of strings and winds in a luminous performance; he was absolutely clear in his beat, but he also had the flexibility to let the music breathe. His tempos in the slow sections tended to be especially broad, all to good effect. The last act, particularly, in which all the stage action is enacted in slow motion, benefited from his expansive approach; there were transcendent stretches where time felt suspended.

Even if you're not in New York, there's a chance to hear a performance. Satyagraha will be aired on the Met's Saturday broadcast this week at 1:30.