Philip Glass's 'Satyagraha' at the Met

Satyagraha— or "truth-force"— was the watchword of Mohandas Gandhi's non-violent demonstrations against discrimination in South Africa from 1893 to 1914. The second act of Philip Glass's opera is a particularly compelling amalgam of simplicity, subtle gradations and powerful emotion. To judge from the cheering reactions of people who paid up to $345 for tickets to see it at the Met, as well as most critics, Satyagraha is a masterpiece.

In contrast, patrons who saw the HD live transmission in movie theaters sat in stunned near-silence. Their faces reminded me of Mel Brooks's aghast audience watching "Springtime for Hitler" in The Producers, uttering exclamations like, "Well, I never!"

This seems to be a case of class-based differences of opinion. Erudite musicologists praised what common folk hated. In this case it's possible to empathize with both sides.

The music in Satyagraha is certainly more expansive than Glass's norm, using a large cast and an orchestra of strings and woodwinds. He creates a world where change happens slowly, with subtly changing harmonies, just as in Gandhi's world. In Act II, Glass's music turns powerfully dramatic, then softly mesmerizing, sometimes insistent and sometimes soothing.

Homage to Tolstoy and King

While the opera has no plot, each act is named for a historical figure associated with Gandhi. Act I is presided over by the spirit of Leo Tolstoy, whose writings, Gandhi said, "overwhelmed" him and led to his first discovery of the doctrine of nonviolence and to Gandhi's founding a commune called Tolstoy Farm near Johannesburg. Act II is for the Bengali writer Rabindranath Tagore; it ends with a vivid mass burning of identity cards by Gandhi's followers. Act III is for Martin Luther King Jr., who based his tactics on Gandhi's philosophy.

Unfortunately, Glass's elitist approach to humble opera-lovers flies in the face of Gandhi's approach to the underprivileged. Gandhi sought to bond with the poor, adopting their attire and explaining, "Only after they are fed and dressed should I consider my own clothing." Gandhi also wrote extensively and published a newspaper for decades in order to spread his message.

By contrast, the Satyagraha libretto by Glass and Constance DeJong is written in Sanskrit. (It's the Bhaghavad Gita, which Gandhi recited each day to inspire his activities.) Fully 20 minutes of singing passed before the first of the Met's normal English captions appeared. Hardly any more captions appeared over the next three hours.

Host Eric Owens explained during the first intermission that this omission was intentional: Glass wanted the opera to make its impression through picture and sound rather than text. As a result, audiences listened to beautiful, hypnotic music and watched unusual visual elements without knowing their meaning— the antithesis of the real Gandhi's use of words and actions.

Like a bar mitzvah?

One defender of Satyagraha, Daniel Mendelsohn in the New York Review of Books, decried people who object to the Sanskrit but "happily sit through a Te Deum or bar mitzvah while understanding little of the text." But of course there's a big difference between a religious/social occasion and a theatrical, communicative performance that people have paid big bucks to see.

The stage imagery included plenty of symbolism— some of it relatable and some not. In Act II, finely dressed people— presumably South Africa's white elite— laugh and crumple up pieces of paper, probably Gandhi's publications, then throw them at Gandhi. In Act III we see a rear view of Martin Luther King, arms raised, making a speech. Clearly, this image is meant to show Gandhi's influence on future civil rights leaders. Indian people unspool yards of sticky tape, presumably to symbolize their bureaucratic oppression.

But many other stage effects defied comprehension. The use of puppets was eye-catching, and characters floating in air were spellbinding, but who knew what they signified?

Fans of Satyagraha say that you should just go with the mood, and let the message transport you. This mindless approach recalls the 1960s, when hippies took consciousness-altering drugs before attending screenings of Walt Disney's Fantasia.

Mantric repetition

Musical problems arise in the long third act. As Gandhi sings an ascending minor-key scale of eight notes over and over— perhaps a hundred times— the scale never varies, although the accompaniment behind it does. Perhaps this practice indicates Gandhi's determination; I found it annoying.

In the East, mantric repetitions of music are a meditative medium for achieving spiritual heightening. In that respect, Glass's style is appropriate. But you can't blame audience members for feeling they've been subjected to someone else's religious ritual.

Richard Croft was perfect as the humble Gandhi, using colorful mid-range timbres to create a mood of devotion. Rachelle Durkin spectacularly projected high-flying soprano lines as his secretary. The chorus, under Donald Palumbo, sang with passion. Dante Anzolini conducted with dedication. Barbara Willis Sweete directed effectively for the big screen.

Mass audience vs. niche

Perhaps Glass's music would better be served with a clear and simple staging of Gandhi's career. But this ethereal music needs otherworldly staging. If that approach leaves many audience members behind, so be it. Let this opera draw a special niche following.

I'd still prefer the use of full captioning with an option for home viewers to turn it off, as they now do on DVDs and Blu-Rays, not to mention at the Met itself for all other operas. If Gandhi was inspired by the words used in Satyagraha, we should have the right to see them.

Still, I was sufficiently captivated by the Met's Satyagraha that I hope to attend the encore screening in movie theaters. But I might not stay past Act II.