From what guilt do we have to be redeemed?
In the story, the Dutchman relentlessly tries to round the cape during a storm. He challenges nature, going against the energy of the universe, in order to prove his personal power. This is more important to him than his own wellbeing and that of his entire crew. He is resisting the energy of the universe, separating himself from the flow of life. This is the ultimate form of Ego. Because of this, he is then doomed for all eternity, symbolically showing us that there can be no salvation through Ego. Due to attributes we most often associate with male principals, he inflicts suffering on himself and creates turmoil in his soul, which is metaphorically reflected in the stormy sea.

What offers us salvation?
An often-overlooked aspect of the story is the fate of the countless women who did not keep their vow. In his first aria, the Dutchman bitterly wonders if the angel who offered him this path to salvation was only mocking him. Why can’t he find a faithful woman? Is it their fault? Or are they repulsed by him when they find out who he is? As we learn from the Dutchman’s lines in Act III, the fate of the unfaithful women is “eternal damnation.”

What distinguishes Senta from the other women? She seems obsessed with the legend of the Dutchman, while the other characters are all worried for her mental health. There have even been productions where the entire story takes place in Senta’s schizophrenic imagination. However I don’t see Senta as insane, in fact completely the opposite. She is the only one who sees clearly that she has to save the Dutchman. She knows it instinctively and her motivation is a quality we most strongly associate with feminine principles: Compassion.

There is one more thing that is different with Senta. It is the first time the Dutchman puts the salvation of the woman above his own, and releases her from her vow. Having seen her compassion, he then shows compassion for her. He reintegrates feminine principals into his actions, which ultimately contributes to his own redemption.

When Senta dies, she is united with the Dutchman in Heaven. Feminine and masculine have been reunited. They are one again. If we look at the couple as a representation of our entire collective humanity, we may interpret Wagner’s opera as a suggestion that our salvation as a species may lie in the reintegration of female principles into a world heavily dominated by male concepts. We have a chance to change our realty, which is largely created by egoic thinking, through the power of compassion.

Wagner's first mature opera, The Flying Dutchman, should be considered in the context of developments in German opera during the first stirrings of Romanticism. Works like Marschner's Der Vampyrand Weber's Der Freischütz (The Freeshooter) were a definite influence on the young composer, with their fascination with the supernatural, a generally melancholic atmosphere, depictions of the power of nature and religious sentiment. Wagner, however, seeks to express these elements in quite specific ways, particularly in depicting the emotions of his characters, which are graced with psychological depth and a sense of dramatic reality.

The overture foretells the opera's Romantic tendencies, beginning as it does with the depiction of a violent storm. It easily conjures the impression of a great ship being tossed about in the waves and wind, blowing as it does from virtually "every page of the score" (so said one of the early conductors of the work). The storm, both metaphorical and real, reflects inner and outer dramas, not to mention the maelstrom that first caused the Dutchman’s dilemma.

Much is made of Wagner's leitmotif system, a musical device he used in later operas to bring unity to these sprawling works, but there is some historical controversy over the perceived use of leitmotifs in Dutchman. (The German word Leitmotiv, incidentally, was coined after Wagner’s time). Musicologists of the first half of the twentieth century tried to attach a name to musical themes to show how Wagner represented characters, objects, emotional or psychological states. But the development of these themes, alongside the psychological development of the characters in these operas, is the true hallmark of Wagner’s genius. Der Ring des Nibelungen, for example, is fascinating because there is a vast amount of character development across its span of four separate operas. The development of the leitmotifs provides a musical thread that delineates characters’ internal and external actions as the narrative progresses. 

The Flying Dutchman doesn’t yet show this level of motivic development; Wagner’s system had not yet coalesced, so any attempt to establish the identity of these themes with any certainty is ultimately doomed to failure. Some of the themes, however, tend to be associated with certain characters or objects in the opera. For instance, the broad horn theme from the beginning of the overture is generally associated with the character of the Dutchman, as it appears most often when he is either on stage or when he is referred to in the text. After the initial bluster in the overture subsides, a lovely new theme appears in the winds, associated with Senta. But whether it is actually a 'signature' tune, or evocative of her love and devotion for the Dutchman, is open to debate. The theme could also be broader than either solution and more a general expression of Senta's desire to be the Dutchman's salvation, or the Dutchman's desire to be saved by her. 

What we can know is that unlike the leitmotifs in the Ring, Wagner does not musically develop these thematic ideas. The Dutchman's theme, and that of Senta, remains unchanged. This attachment of themes and groups of themes to certain characters, then, is still in its infant stage in The Flying Dutchman, a simple precursor to a much more elaborate scheme that unfolds in later works such as Tristan und Isolde and Die Meistersinger.

Wagner's use of themes in Dutchman is not terribly different from Verdi's use of the maledizione or 'curse' theme in Rigoletto. Verdi simply brings the theme back, either in the vocal part or in the orchestra, whenever Rigoletto refers to the curse of Monterone slung at him by the hapless father at the beginning of the opera. It is a case of 'thematic reminiscence', not a true leitmotif, because like the Dutchman themes, the 'curse' theme never changes. 

Wagner’s style differs from Verdi in that there are more themes, and they are utilized on a more regular basis and on a more structural level. Indeed one can say that Wagner devised an entire music drama using only ten or twelve themes. An entire unified fabric of thematic material tells the story in a relatively simple and elegant way. Though the process intensifies with later operas, it is a groundbreaking achievement even at this early point in the composer’s career. 

Courtesy of San Diego Opera’s Operapaedia

b Leipzig, 22 May 1813; d Venice, 13 Feb 1883

Richard Wilhelm Wagner was born in Leipzig. Karl Friedrich Wagner, a local police official, was married to Wagner's mother, Johanna, at the time, but there is much evidence that a close family friend, Ludwig Geyer, was in fact Richard's father. Karl Wagner died when Richard was six months old. Geyer married Johanna within the year, and six months later a daughter, C&aauml;cilie, was born. In addition to a letter written by Wagner to C&aauml;cilie in later years, referring to "our father, Geyer," Wagner's close physical likeness to Geyer and their mutual devotion and attachment lent credence to the Geyer paternity. 

Geyer, an actor, writer, portrait painter and lover of great literature, had a profound influence on Wagner. Richard's formative years were spent in a household filled with love of culture and the arts. Literature, rather than music, was his first love. His interest in the Homeric epics caused him to study Greek in order to read them in the original. His love of Shakespeare induced him to learn English. At age eleven, he was writing poetic drama filled with characters that die and reappear as ghosts. 

Wagner's first piano lessons were highly distasteful to him. His latent love of music was first aroused by a performance of Weber's Der Freisch&uauml;tz. When he heard the Beethoven symphonies at the Gewandhaus in Leipzig, and soon after that heard a performance of Fidelio, music became an obsession. All school work was neglected. He borrowed a book on musical theory from Friedrich Wieck, father of Clara Schumann, and began acquiring a few tools of composition. He was encouraged by his mother to continue his academic education, but at the University of Leipzig he was more concerned with rowdy extracurricular activities — gambling, dueling, drinking and women. Music was his most serious endeavor. 

Wagner began composing, completing two orchestral overtures. He tried to write an opera. The overtures were received with either anger or derision, and his second attempt at opera was not to be performed until five years after his death. 

In debt from gambling and involved in troublesome love affairs, he escaped to the small town of Magdeburg and became conductor of the local opera house. It was a theater with poor facilities and on the brink of bankruptcy, but Wagner stuck to it because he was in pursuit of an attractive actress, Minna Planer. It took him two years to overcome her apathy toward him, but in the end he was victorious; they were married in 1836. From the moment the marriage was sealed Wagner regretted the act. She was pretty, but he said her bourgeois mentality bored him. 

The lives of Richard and Minna Wagner were constantly beset by creditors, who confiscated his passport. He and Minna fled the country by a smugglers' route. They ended up in Paris, living in abject poverty and sometimes on the verge of starvation. On two occasions he was imprisoned for debts. Wagner was humiliated as a man, rejected as a composer, and Minna was reduced to taking in boarders and shining shoes. 

In 1841, Wagner began work on Der fliegende Holl&aauml;nder (The Flying Dutchman). Later he wrote, "Everything went easily, fluently. I actually shouted for joy, as I felt through my whole being that I was still an artist." Soon after this time, the Dresden Opera presented his opera Rienzi. Wagner left Paris on borrowed funds to attend the premiere. Following its huge success, Dresden agreed to present The Flying Dutchman under Wagner's direction. It was a complete failure. 

Wagner always lived in grand style far beyond his means. In 1843 he was appointed Kapellmeister of the Dresden Opera at a comfortable salary, but his creditors from all over Europe descended on him, and he was unable to pay. He continued to write operas during this period, completing Tannha&uauml;ser and, three years later, Lohengrin. The Dresden Opera, however, turned down Lohengrin, and Wagner was unable to attend its 1850 premiere, in Weimar. An extreme political radical, Wagner took part in the abortive Revolution of 1848 and was forced to flee his homeland, first to Paris and then Zurich. 

In Zurich he became acquainted with a wealthy merchant, Otto Wesendonck, and his wife, Mathilde. Wesendonck provided Wagner and Minna a house to live in on his estate. Wagner immediately began a wild love affair with Wesendonck's wife, and it was during this passionate episode that he wrote the score of Tristan und Isolde. Minna left him in 1861 and returned to Dresden, where she died in 1866. 

Wagner subsequently began a relationship with Cosima von B&uauml;low, the daughter of Franz Liszt. Her husband, Hans von B&uauml;low, a pianist and conductor, was a great admirer of Wagner's musical genius. The love affair was carried on openly. Cosima gave birth to two daughters and a son fathered by Wagner before she left von B&uauml;low and went to live with Wagner. She finally divorced von B&uauml;low in 1871 and married Wagner. 

During the years in which Wagner lived in exile, he began to formulate his new ideas about opera. He rejected the old and formal traditions and wrote numerous articles and pamphlets attacking the obsolete techniques of Italian opera, at the same time organizing his own theories of music and drama. He then began the monumental task of executing his ideas musically: Der Ring des Nibelungen. The massive project would absorb his energy and efforts for a quarter of a century. 

Upon completion of the Ring cycle, no venue for presentation could be found to meet Wagner's grandiose specifications. A plot of land in Bayreuth, which Wagner described as being "unsurpassably beautiful," was given to him on which to build an opera house worthy of his music. The erratic King Ludwig II of Bavaria, a steadfast friend and patron, contributed large amounts of money to the project. Richard Wagner societies sprang up in all the principal cities of Germany and soon spread to Milan, Brussels, London, and New York. The Bayreuth Festspielhaus was completed in 1876, and in the month of August Wagner saw the dream of his life, the staging of his complete four-opera cycle, become reality. 

Cosima and Richard had 13 years and two months together before his death. She admired, adored and applauded him, and devoted her life to serving his needs until the day he died. Life with this musical genius was not always easy for Cosima, although Wagner loved her and told her repeatedly that she alone gave him the strength and the will to continue his work. "The only God I believe in is my love for you," he said. 

Toward the end of his life Wagner suffered from frequent illnesses, stomach pains, swollen legs, insomnia, eczema and a series of heart attacks. On February 13, 1883 he died of a heart attack in Venice, where he had taken Cosima and the children. His body was brought back to Bayreuth and he was buried to the music of Siegfried's death.  

Every new piece of information added knowledge and piqued my interest, but the core question was as yet unanswered. What is this opera really about, and why should we, as an audience of this time and place, care?

Each day as I listened to the score and continued my research, the media buzzed about the Arab Spring. As my knowledge of ancient Egypt increased, each day provided more awareness of modern Egypt. And there, in that synchronicity, was my answer.

Akhnaten was not Mubarak. His leadership did not purposefully limit the freedom of his citizens nor was he brutal to his people. However, he was a man who became increasingly uncaring about the daily needs of his country. While he was history making in his declaration of monotheism, he allied himself more with God than his citizens. Constructing a utopian city, surrounded by mountains and bordered by the Nile, he became philosophically, and literally, isolated from his people. As in modern-day Egypt, an historical populace continually marginalized by its leadership becomes a populace who will revolt.

The original work of Philip Glass concludes the opera with a modern look back at the Akhnaten era during the Ruins scene. I have added another modern scene during the opera’s Prelude and extended the Ruins scene—with a current reflection on life—as the opera concludes. Through the use of projections and present-day action, I invite you to consider the parallels of these two significant eras.

When belief becomes obsession and rulers become myopic, the citizens will determine a new fate for themselves. History, as they say, certainly does repeat itself.

Philip Glass’s music counters the distance of this fragmentary history with recognizable, even traditional operatic traits. At the time ofAkhnaten’s premiere, Glass was increasingly engaging with Western operatic traditions. In his earlier, more avant-garde theater works such as Einstein on the Beach (1979), Glass had even explicitly avoided the term “opera.” But Einstein would eventually be tied together withSatyagraha (1981) and Akhnaten (1984), to form a trilogy of historical “portrait” operas. While the first two had originally been independent works, written without any cycle in mind, only Akhnaten was conceived from the start as part of a “trilogy,”and, as such, it is far more deliberate in drawing together motives from the previous two works to create a complementary whole.

Almost inevitably, Akhnaten’ssense of grand historical-mythic sweep drew comparisons to Romantic opera, especially Richard Wagner’s Ring Cycle. But instead of a Wagnerian libretto, which would have given dramatic dialogue to historical or mythic characters, Akhnatenmarks out its themes and historical trajectory entirely with “found texts,” conveying an estranging sense of historical distance. Excerpts from a group of religious documents traditionally called the “Pyramid Texts” set the scene for the funeral of Akhnaten’s father. Dating from nearly a thousand years before the opera is set, they convey the traditionalism of the ancient priesthood, which the newly crowned Pharaoh will soon forcibly suppress. Glass suggests this shift of power through recognizable musical tropes. The music of the old order is percussive and primitivist, suggesting an archaic tribalism from which the “purified” music of Akhnaten will emerge.

A new era is established by texts dating from the Amarna period itself, in which Akhnaten and his family overthrow the priesthood of the sun god Amon and establish a city consecrated to the “Aten,” a transcendent, ineffable deity. Glass characterizes the young Pharaoh through dramatic instrumentation. The role of Akhnaten is written for countertenor, and his singing is always accompanied by a solo trumpet, in much the same way that a string “halo” surrounds the words of Christ in J. S. Bach’s St. Matthew Passion. Thus Glass marks Akhnaten apart as strange and different, befitting both his unconventional spirituality and his vast historical distance from the modern audience. Perhaps implicitly, Akhnaten’s high voice is also reminiscent of the heroic male lovers of Baroque opera, often performed by castrati (castrated adult male sopranos). The gender ambiguity implied in this connection perhaps links Akhnaten’s strangeness to a theory, contested by many scholars, that the young Pharaoh was sexually androgynous, perhaps even a hermaphrodite.

The libretto’s historical texts are sung as they were written, in the ancient languages of Akkadian, Ancient Egyptian, and biblical Hebrew. The only exception to this distancing linguistic archaism is Akhnaten’s Act II “Hymn to the Sun.” The libretto instructs that this declaration of faith, traditionally ascribed to Akhnaten himself, should be sung “in the language of the audience,” a technique Glass described as imparting a sense of sudden, intimate communion with Akhnaten’s thoughts. Following the Hymn, we hear a choral setting of the biblical text of Psalm 104, echoing its themes and drawing our attention toward an often-speculated historical connection between Akhnaten’s monotheism and that of the later Abrahamic faiths.

Several aspects of Akhnaten’s biography, especially several taboo sexual imputations, may have originated in later Egyptian sources that, following the restoration of the traditional priesthood, essentially engaged in a historical smear campaign against the usurper. Nevertheless, Akhnaten’s legacy still contains complex, even troubling aspects for modern audiences. As a monotheist, Akhnaten was both an idealist and an absolutist, and his destruction of the images and worship of the old gods was ruthless—leading us, perhaps, to see him less as a rebellious spiritual hero defying a conservative order and more as a prophet of modern religious intolerance.

Another such dilemma is played out musically at the opening of Act III. In Glass’s sharp juxtaposition of the royal family’s dreamy, wordless singing against the denunciations of the people, we might hear represented an inherent paradox in the mystical experience, whose withdrawal from everyday reality is both its blessing and its curse. Led by their spiritual imaginations, Akhnaten and his family move beyond words into a purely musical, transcendent realm, but also become increasingly insular and alienated from the very real empire that their negligence of duty allows to decay and crumble.

Glass and his collaborators on this operatic trilogy were aware of the complexity of their subjects.Einstein on the Beach, for example, presents Albert Einstein as a beacon for scientific possibility, but also puts the physicist on symbolic trial for his role in developing the theories that would make possible nuclear warfare. Five years later in its genesis, and three millennia earlier in its subject, Akhnaten is likewise a work with no simple “message.” At the opera’s conclusion, a more recent “found text”—an early twentieth-century tourist guide—further reinforces the opera’s sense of distance and ambiguity by reducing the great world-changer and his family to ghosts wandering through the ruins of their lost world.
In a groundbreaking strategic partnership, Indianapolis Opera is pleased to present IU Opera Theater’s new production  of Glass' seminal opera.  With an internationally renowned artistic team and world-class singers from the Indiana University Jacobs School of Music, this production is not to be missed. Click here for more inf

A note about the inspiration for Amahl and the Night Visitors from Gian Carlo Menotti:

This is an opera for children because it tries to recapture my own childhood. You see, when I was a child I lived in Italy, and in Italy we have no Santa Claus. I suppose that Santa Claus is much too busy with American children to be able to handle Italian children as well. Our gifts were brought to us by the Three Kings, instead.

I actually never met the Three Kings—it didn't matter how hard my little brother and I tried to keep awake at night to catch a glimpse of the Three Royal Visitors, we would always fall asleep just before they arrived. But I do remember hearing them. I remember the weird cadence of their song in the dark distance; I remember the brittle sound of the camel's hooves crushing the frozen show; and I remember the mysterious tinkling of their silver bridles.

My favorite king was King Melchior, because he was the oldest and had a long white beard. My brother's favorite was king Kaspar. He insisted that this king was a little crazy and quite deaf. I don't know why he was so positive about his being deaf. I suspect it was because dear King Kaspar never brought him all the gifts he requested. He was also rather puzzled by the fact that King Kaspar carried the myrrh, which appeared to him as a rather eccentric gift, for he never quite understood what the word meant.

To these Three Kings I mainly owe the happy Christmas seasons of my childhood and I should have remained very grateful to them. Instead, I came to America and soon forgot all about them, for here at Christmas time one sees so many Santa Clauses scattered all over town. Then there is the big Christmas tree in Rockefeller Plaza, the elaborate toy windows on Fifth Avenue, the one-hundred-voice choir in Grand Central Station, the innumerable Christmas carols on radio and television—and all these things made me forget the three dear old Kings of my old childhood.

But in 1951 I found myself in serious difficulty. I had been commissioned by the National Broadcasting Company to write an opera for television, with Christmas as deadline, and I simply didn't have one idea in my head. One November afternoon as I was walking rather gloomily through the rooms of the Metropolitan Museum, I chanced to stop in front of the Adoration of the Kings [also know as Adoration of the Ma by Hieronymus Bosch, and as I was looking at it, suddenly I heard again, coming from the distant blue hills, the weird song of the Three Kings. I then realized they had come back to me and had brought me a gift.

I am often asked how I went about writing an opera for television, and what are the specific problems that I had to face in planning a work for such a medium. I must confess that in writing "Amahl and the Night Visitors," I hardly thought of television at all. As a matter of fact, all my operas are originally conceived for an ideal stage which has no equivalent in reality, and I believe that such is the case with most dramatic authors. —Gian-Carlo Menotti

What does “family friendly” really mean?

It is somewhat rare to have an opera production that is family friendly – opera more often than not, involves a great deal of violence, romance, death and other adult subject matter, not to mention the usual three hour running time. So you might be wondering, “What do they mean, exactly, when they say Amahl and the Night Visitors is a ‘family friendly’ show?”

Is there a recommended age range?
We encourage parents to use their best judgment when choosing to bring their child to the opera, but in general, we think children elementary school age and older will enjoy Amahl and the Night Visitors.

How long will my child have to sit still?
One of the reasons this production is kid friendly is because it is only 50 minutes long, from the time the first singer comes out on stage until the last note is sung. That being said, plan on 15 minutes of sitting before the show begins, and another 5 minutes of applause at the end.

Is the show interactive?
While the subject matter of Amahl is appropriate for children, this will still be a traditional theater experience. Unlike a play you might see at the Children’s Museum, talking, moving around and interacting with the singers is not encouraged.

Will my child understand the plot?
Again, we ask each family to use their best judgment, but the plot of Amahl and the Night Visitors is fairly simple and incorporates characters and concepts your children may already know, like the Three Wise Men and their journey to visit the newborn Christ child.

Any time you are attending an opera you are unfamiliar with, we encourage you to visit our website and read over the synopsis – we promise it won’t spoil the experience! Opera is the only art form that incorporates singing, acting, set design and live orchestra – there’s a lot going on in the theater and having a good idea of the general story is often helpful. Try talking the story line over with your children before you attend so they can follow along more easily.

Isn’t opera usually sung in a foreign language?
Most, but not all opera is sung in the language of the composer. Amahl and the Night Visitors, originally commissioned by NBC in 1951 and was written in English for American television audiences. It aired every Christmas season from 1951 until 1966.

Are there any kid friend activities planned before or after the show?
We think attending the opera should be a full experience, even for kids! Check out our calendar to view all of the great things we have planned surrounding the production, including a visit from Santa, holiday treats, carolers and more.

Want to learn more about the opera?
Check out our informative and amusing First Timers Guide for all the opera basics.

Indy Reads Books is an independent, non-profit, community bookstore. And, it is the only bookstore located in downtown Indianapolis. The store features a beautifully designed space which celebrates literacy, and features a stage area for author events. Inventory consists mainly of very reasonably priced used books of all types, as well as new books from the best-seller lists. All proceeds from the store benefit the adult literacy programs of the Indy Reads organization.

Bring your new or gently used books (no magazine's please) with you to Amahl and the Night Visitors to be donated to Indy Reads Books.


Check out www.indyreadsdbooks.org for more information about this great organization.

A ghostly ship lands on shore and the disillusioned Dutchman sets foot on land for the first time in seven years.

Daland wakes up and meets the mysterious stranger. During their conversation the Dutchman offers Daland a rich treasure if he will shelter him in his home. When the Dutchman learns that Daland has a daughter he asks him for her hand in marriage. Tempted by the gold, Daland agrees having no idea about the Dutchman’s true identity. The southwind blows and both vessels leave for Daland's home.

- Intermission -

Act II
Back home the women are waiting for the return of the sailors and entertain themselves by singing during work. Senta, Daland’s daughter does not participate because she is mesmerized by a portrait of the Flying Dutchman. Her Nurse Mary is scolding her for her obsession with the old legend. Annoyed by the girls’ song, Senta sings the Ballad of the Flying Dutchman and gets so carried away by compassion for the poor sailor that the women get scared. Just when Senta cries out that she wants to be the one women to redeem the Dutchman, her former boyfriend, the hunter Eric, enters with the news that the sailors have returned home.

The women rush out to greet them, but Eric holds Senta back to talk to her about their relationship. He is worried for her and tells her about a dream he had in which Daland returned with a mysterious stranger, who carried her off to sea. Again she reacts with enthusiastic excitement and Eric leaves in horror and despair.

Daland enters with the Dutchman. He shows Senta the treasures he had received and tells her that he would like for her to marry the generous stranger. Then Daland leaves the two alone.

In a special, almost surreal moment, both Senta and the Dutchman express wonder in the fulfillment of their longings. Senta believes to recognize in the stranger the destined sailor from her portrait and the Dutchman sees in Senta his final chance of salvation. In spite of the Dutchman’s warning that she would face a grim fate if she could not keep her word, Senta swears to him eternal faithfulness.

Daland returns and Senta repeats her vow in front of her father who happily makes arrangements to prepare the engagement celebration.

Act III
At the port, the festivities have started. Only the crew on board the Dutchman’s ship doesn’t join. Offering them food and drink, the townspeople call the crew to join them in celebrattion. As they receive no answer they joke about the ghostly ship and mockingly connect it to the legend of the Flying Dutchman. All of a sudden the ghost ship comes to life in a frightening scene. Provoked by the mocking, ghostly apparitions of dead sailors scare the townspeople away.  They leave in horror after unsuccessfully trying to stand their ground by singing merry songs.

Senta arrives ready to get married, but Eric has followed her and tries to convince her to change her mind. He is in disbelief how she could agree to marry a complete stranger. Senta seems determined until Eric reminds her of the day when she swore her eternal faith to him.

The Dutchman, overhearing that moment, interprets Senta’s pity for Eric to be affection, and believes this is end of his hopes. He orders his crew to make ready to sail and although Senta desperately tries to reassure him of her faithfulness he is determined to leave. He wants to save Senta from her awful fate of eternal damnation and since she hasn’t taken her vow yet in front of God he is able to release her.

Revealing his true identity to the horrified bystanders, the Dutchman sails off. In a final act of ultimate sacrifice, Senta throws herself from a cliff swearing to the Dutchman faithfulness until death. Finally the curse is broken and the moment of redemption has come for the Flying Dutchman.

Coronation
Akhnaten, the son of the late Pharaoh, receives the double crown of Upper and Lower Egypt from the High Priest Amon, General Horemhab, and Aye, a government advisor.

The Window of Appearances
The new regime is formally announced as Akhnaten, his wife Nefertiti, and his mother, Queen Tye, sing a hymn of acceptance and resolve from the Temple windows. This is the first time we hear the voice of Akhnaten, a role sung by a countertenor, musically illustrating the unusual aspects of the coming era—the Amarna period of Egyptian history.

The Temple
It is eight years into the reign of Akhnaten, and, in the Temple, the priests are worshipping the traditional Gods of Egypt. Akhnaten, Nefertiti, and Queen Tye arrive and engage in a wordless debate with the priests, declaring a new monotheistic order of religion. The Pharaoh’s former name, Amenhotep IV, will be abandoned in favor of Akhnaten, meaning son of Aten, the Sun God. The Temple is destroyed and the sun enters to light the way for the new, revolutionary Aten order.

INTERMISSION

Akhnaten and Nefertiti
The second half of the opera begins with the Scribe reading a poem from an ancient tomb inscription. Repeating this poem in song, the words become an illustration of the love between Akhnaten and Nefertiti. In the background, we see Queen Tye, who realizes her time of power has passed, as she thinks of her husband Pharaoh Amenhotep III’s funeral procession journeying to the land of Ra.

The City
Using a text from the Boundary markers of the Amarna period, the Scribe illustrates the changes in Egypt’s power and Akhnaten’s plan to build a new utopia, Akhetaten. Meaning the horizon of Aten, the city is to be a place of openness and light.

The Dance
As Akhnaten consults with his architects, we see the city of Akhetaten being built by the joyful citizens.

Hymn
At a defining moment of the opera, Akhnaten sings a “Hymn to the Aten.” Determined by the composer that this music is to be sung in the language of the opera’s audience, Akhnaten praises the Sun God and speaks of himself as one with him. Following the Hymn, the chorus sings Psalm 104 from the Old Testament in Hebrew, a direct musical influence from the time of Moses in Egypt.

The Family
It is year 17 of Akhnaten’s rule, and he is with wife Nefertiti and their six daughters inside their palace. Increasingly isolated from the outside world, the family revels in their own utopian ideals.

Attack and Fall
Outside the palace, the citizens have grown restless over the neglect of the country’s needs. As they gather, the Scribe incites their anger by reading letters chronicling the years of myopic rule. As their distress increases, the mob surrounds and enters the palace, carrying the Pharaoh and his family away. The scene closes with the Scribe announcing the end of Akhnaten’s rule.

The Ruins
The Scribe describes the return of the Amon order, with the ascendancy of Tutankhamen, a son of Akhnaten by a lesser wife. King Tut ordered the destruction of his father’s city and monuments and oversaw the rebuilding of the temples that Akhnaten had destroyed. The scene then transitions to present day, where we see the ruins of the city Akhetaten, the site of the few archaeological remnants of Akhnaten’s rule. The Scribe, transformed into a twentieth-century tour guide, tells the modern visitors the story of what once was.

Epilogue
In a timeless juxtaposition, we see the ghosts of Akhnaten, Nefertiti, and Tye, and the citizens of modern Egypt amidst the ruins.