{"id":76898,"date":"1983-04-01T00:00:00","date_gmt":"1983-04-01T00:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/article\/opera-in-germany\/"},"modified":"2024-03-22T08:50:58","modified_gmt":"2024-03-22T12:50:58","slug":"opera-in-germany","status":"publish","type":"article","link":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/article\/opera-in-germany\/","title":{"rendered":"Opera in Germany"},"content":{"rendered":"

A<\/span>merican music critics writing on opera are thought by most European critics to be distressingly parochial. The attitude of fidelity to the composer\u2019s wishes, scenically and dramatically as well as musically, is considered by continental critics as quaint, certainly pass\u00e9, and not a little na\u00efve\u2014adjectives which have been regularly applied to Americans by those from older and wiser civilizations.<\/p>\n

At a time when European ideas of opera production are being seen more often on American stages and\u2014more the point\u2014European ideas are being widely disseminated through television (e.g., the Jean-Pierre Ponnelle stagings of Monteverdi operas, or the Ch\u00e9reau staging of Wagner\u2019s Ring<\/em>) and movies (the Hans J\u00fcrgen Syberberg Parsifal<\/em>), it seemed to me that it might be productive to journey to Germany to see such productions in situ<\/em>. Thus, one week, and five operas.<\/p>\n

First of all, the disclaimer. What I saw was only a fraction of what is being newly produced; though that fraction is, I was told, typical of the best, and the work of stage directors who are highly regarded. In addition, that fraction is only a minimal percentage of the annual dose of performances in German opera houses, which are among the busiest in the world.<\/p>\n

In Germany no less than in any European country, there is a pervasive cultural chauvinism, which dictates not only that the native works are forever kept before the public, but that it is the task of the state, be it on the federal, state, or local level, to provide funds for the dissemination of art. This chauvinism is seen at its narrowest in the presentation by German directors of works by German composers and playwrights in German-inspired stagings. The \u201cculinary theater\u201d\u00a0of Max Reinhardt and others has disappeared, but the influence of Brecht and Piscator on stagings, in terms of simplified settings, work lights, discrete playing spaces, and an emotional distancing, remains pervasive. Yet this approach, though reinvigorated by directors from East Germany, has become mannered through over-familiarity. The force that Brecht, Piscator, and others provided through their opposition to the then-current popular taste has become dissipated through the obviousness of its symbolism and the calculated ugliness of its settings.<\/p>\n

The significant difference between opera in Germany and in the United States is one of focus. American opera companies\u2014even the smaller ones\u2014share the nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century viewpoint that the three criteria for opera are voice, voice, and voice. This viewpoint extends from the management through the attitude of the critics to that of the audiences, and persists even in the face of the lesser singers that most American companies can afford, and in the face of the \u201censemble production\u201d\u00a0in which singing is placed within the context of staging.<\/p>\n

Opera in Germany has different priorities. Central is the idea of the concept production, which is strongly under the control of the stage director. Insofar as German opera houses make their artistic statements in terms of new productions, it is through the concept and not through the choice of voices. Directors demand and get six to eight weeks of rehearsal.<\/p>\n

Opera houses in Germany are, even at their largest, much smaller than opera houses in the United States. They are venues in which the text can be clearly heard and the singers clearly seen. The Frankfurt opera house, home of one of Germany’s major opera companies, seats 1,380, and that is typical.<\/p>\n

The outstanding difference between the earlier audience and that of today is the latter\u2019s far more developed sense of the visual, which has replaced the auditory as the primary sense gratification. Most audiences are unaware of this change. One explanation for this may be the pervasiveness of movies and television.<\/p>\n

In opera, this has led to an almost universal spoken-theater practice known as \u201ccasting for type,\u201d\u00a0which is the casting of singers for visual rather than vocal aptitude for the role. The look of the stage, in terms of sets and movement of people, is far more carefully thought out than phrasing or dynamics.<\/p>\n

W<\/span>hy do directors feel compelled to reinterpret the classics? This is a knotty question compounded of a genuine spirit of inquiry, a dogged need to philosophize about a work of art, and perhaps a perceived necessity to do something different. Certainly the Germanic heaviness of approach, with its buttressing apparatus of the thick program book filled with articles on the opera, on the production, and on its history (with poetry and painting thrown in) tempts one to find an Erik Satie to reply. Nonetheless, the prevalence of these concept productions strongly suggests an attempt to prize open past history\u2014the given of a nation\u2019s cultural heritage\u2014to re-examine it in the light of present concerns. This procedure quite consciously skews the work under scrutiny.<\/p>\n

The procedure is arrogant, as it inserts another creator into the equation. The work of an opera director, of course, is creative in its realization on stage of what the composer and librettist wrote. Quite often this realization departs from the letter of the text in search of a \u201csubtext\u201d\u00a0or in spotlighting one aspect of the work. Sometimes this effort is a thoroughgoing recension, which nevertheless seeks to illumine the spirit underlying the work.<\/p>\n

But increasingly, today, the work of the director goes beyond even these broad limits and actively creates anew, taking as basis the specifics of the text, the music, and the dramatic envelope but emerging largely independent of these specifics. A new work has thus been created within and around the old. Concept productions exist as variations on an original theme, variations that become far more important than the original.<\/p>\n

The resulting entity is schizophrenic. It is schizophrenic in that, in every case, the specifics of the text and of the music are left intact, and are indeed treated as sacrosanct (the music is played uncut), yet what transpires visually is sharply at odds with what composer and librettist intended.<\/p>\n

This is disturbing. For, by leaving the music and the text alone, a wedge of distance is driven between the two aspects of the performed entity. This wedge does produce a dramatic tension, but it equally prevents a full and empathetic relation with the work. The underlying idea, which is that the production is played as counterpoint to 1) the opera as it is remembered in its pristine form and 2) the music and text as faithfully rendered, is essentially ratiocinative\u00a0and intellectual. It substitutes a continuous byplay of variation for what should be, in stage terms, both immediate and gripping on a musical and dramatic emotional level.<\/p>\n

I found this to be the case with three of the productions I saw: Wagner\u2019s Parsifal<\/em> in Frankfurt, Berg\u2019s Lulu<\/em> in Hanover, and Weber\u2019s Der Frtisch\u00fctz <\/em>in Stuttgart. All are masterpieces of German-speaking opera. All are well known to the intellectual German\u00a0music public; Parsifal<\/em> and Der Freisch\u00fctz<\/em> are known to the general German audiences. They are all, therefore, fodder for concept productions.<\/p>\n

The Parsifal<\/em> (the production dates from November 1982) was directed by Ruth Berghaus, a renowned East German director. It entirely eliminated the religious symbolism of the original, replacing it with a symbolism based loosely on sexuality (the twentieth-century religion?). The Grail was a lighted circle, the Lance an oversized red arrow. At the third-act climax, Parsifal lugged the arrow onstage and drove it into the circle, Berghaus saw Parsifal as a pure fool, in its literal meaning. He seemed barely aware of what he was doing, at any time, and spent much of his time crawling around the stage. (Crawling, indeed, seems to be endemic to current German stagings: it also pervaded the Lulu<\/em>.) Parsifal fled the sexuality of Kundry, preferring her in a motherly guise, and when he brought back the lance in the first scene of the third act he fled away from it, crawling upstage away from its threat. At the end of the opera he entered the circle with the lance, and stood there crookedly, wearing Amfortas\u2019s red crown and a goofy expression. Visually, the moment was one of uncomprehending infantility, but one strongly suggesting another operatic stage moment, similarly located at the end of another opera: that of the Simpleton in Boris Godunov<\/em>.<\/p>\n

The opera\u2019s visual element was reinforced by the use of primary colors\u2014red, yellow, and blue\u2014in the stage design, a device which worked to best effect in the Flower Maiden scene in Act II<\/span>. Axel Manthey\u2019s sets combined brutalism (the first-act edifice looked like the side of a boiler) with studied drabness (the immense block, peeled back at its edges, which dominated the second act and which was turned to reveal new perspectives). This drabness carried over to the costumes: Parsifal throughout wore a crumpled jumpsuit spray-painted red, while Klingsor sported a business suit, befitting an evil presence. The lighting was largely without subtlety.<\/p>\n

The Grail knights were seen as zombie androids, their eyes blacked, feral in petty viciousness and dressed in long black trenchcoats. (The unbelted trenchcoat reaching to the shoetops is a pervasive German symbol of evil, summoning up images of the German General Staff.) They came to the \u201cconsecration\u201d\u00a0of the Grail carrying briefcases, and their reaction to its sustenance was to surround it and open their coats (which were yellow on the inside), thus becoming a coven of flashers, whose devotion was one of impotence. Again, it was the visual referents and not the music that were meant to produce the emotional responses.<\/p>\n

Berghaus\u2019s ideas did not coalesce, except intermittently, though the pictures were often striking. What emerged from this production of Parsifal<\/em>, both in the staging and in the antiseptic reading by conductor Michael Giclen, was the condign mundaneness of the event. This Parsifal<\/em> was deliberately non-emotional (except for Amfortas\u2019s melodramatic anguish), deliberately a-religious, non-transcendental. All sentimentality was banished with all uplift. It was a basilisk-eyed Parsifal<\/em>; a stage-consecrational festival drama of the late twentieth century.<\/p>\n

The German press (judging from the eighteen reviews published in the Frankfurt Opera magazine Musiktheater Hinweise<\/em>)\u00a0were highly favorable\u2014\u201ccine grosse Sache\u201d\u00a0(Hans-Klaus Jungheinrich, Frankfurter Rundschau<\/em>) sums them up. The audience, subscribers and students, gave enthusiastic applause: the performances were all sold out.<\/p>\n

T<\/span>he Lulu<\/em> (which I saw on its first night, in January 1982) in Hanover was more naturalistic. It was the work of the young, highly regarded German director Herbert Wernicke, who also designed the unit set\u2014two huge blood-red walls stretching upward and meeting upstage at a black slit. The stage floor itself, widening from upstage to downstage, was constructed on one of the steepest rakes I have seen and was treacherous for everyone, especially the Lulu, who in one scene had to wear high heels. Wernicke provided a long \u201cProtokoll\u201d\u00a0of explanation with the program.<\/p>\n

Again, there were changes from the Berg original, which was played in the Friedrich Cerha-completed three-act version. Film was not used at the place Berg indicated; instead, at various pauses between scenes there were films of close-ups of the singer who played Lulu, Cynthia Makris, taken in repose, in anger, while making up, in sexual ecstasy.<\/p>\n

Yet the production, far from being saturated in sexual vibrancy, was dispassionate and clinical. Dr. Sch\u00f6n\u2014that central role was never allowed to develop as a character. He exited as neutrally as he entered (and was not seen again, as Berg wanted, as Jack). His final words\u2014\u201cDer Teufel!\u201d\u2014directed at the Countess Geschwitz, were here directed to empty air. His son Aiwa was so busy writing his opera that he played the love scene with Lulu from behind his desk, scribbling away while Lulu lounged upstage. The powerful penultimate line of the scene, crooned by Lulu as she relaxes into Alwa\u2019s embraces\u2014\u201cIsn\u2019t this the sofa on which your father bled to death?\u201d\u2014was delivered from upstage, as Aiwa crawled to the sofa. Schigolch was never characterized, as wheezing derelict or as malign force, but existed as an animate lump. The final scene, one of the strongest culminations in operatic dramaturgy, was treated as anti-climax, with the sex (onstage, rather than behind a door, and downstage) graphic and ice-cold, and Geschwitz a puppet.<\/p>\n

The production\u2019s strengths lay in the visual rather than the characterizational. Lulu\u2019s variety of wigs and costumes suggested exactly that combination of women (Eva, Mignon) each person saw in her, to the extent that it took a few minutes before one realized who Lulu was onstage. Yet this very chameleon approach effaced her own intense being. She existed as six unrelated people rather than as one suggesting multitudes.<\/p>\n

What Wernicke gave the audience was a technically slick and visually glamorous simulacrum of Lulu<\/em>.<\/p>\n

The Freisch\u00fctz<\/em> in Stuttgart was a diametrically different type of production. Originally staged in October 1980, it was successful enough to have been presented on German national television, and it continues to attract capacity audiences. It is the work of Achim Freyer, a painter turned set designer turned director.<\/p>\n

The emphasis again was visual. Agathe\u2019s pose for the Leise, leise<\/em>\u00a0scene, where she opens the shutters to disclose a starry sky, was modeled on Caspar David Friedrich\u2019s painting Frau am Fenster<\/em> (thoughtfully reproduced in the program book), and the singer sang the first verse looking out, with her back to the audience. One of the goblins in the Wolf\u2019s Glen scene was given a mask that copied Edvard Munch\u2019s Scream<\/em>.<\/p>\n

This Freisch\u00fctz<\/em> was produced as a nineteenth-century morality play of good versus evil (the point reinforced by a puppet show onstage in the first scene) acted on some rustic circus stage of the time, with the single set decorated with the type of na\u00eff painting on wood one sees in provincial towns (and, latterly, at auction houses). Photographs of na\u00eff painting filled the program book.<\/p>\n

Freyer carried this studied na\u00efvet\u00e9 through the entire production, often directing singers to assume operatic poses out of some album of past opera stars. The rustic conceit of the production was suggested throughout the theater: tapes of woodland noises could be heard in the corridors, and various artifacts\u2014toadstools, trees, etc.\u2014were scattered about. Strings of bulbs festooned the theater, to be lighted when \u201cgood\u201d\u00a0was in the ascendant and turned off when Samiel and his minions were in control.<\/p>\n

There was a good deal of genuine inventiveness and charm in the production, not least in the Wolf’s Glen scene, which was staged with the effects the libretto asks for, but in na\u00eff style. Certain moments were memorable: the girls\u2019\u00a0chorus shyly entering to serenade Agathe, or the hunters in Act III<\/span>, all dressed individually, as they would have been in life, posing for the famous Hunters Chorus as if for a group photograph. (Prince Ottokar, the benevolent ruler who appears in the lasi scene, was presented in his current German guise as a fat, effete decadent.) The opera was played super-complete, with all the dialogue and including the explanatory first scene between the Hermit and Agathe, which was written into the libretto but which Weber discarded. This scene has had a current vogue, for it is considered crucial to the understanding of the opera as a morality tale, and it was performed prior to the overture. The scene certainly aids our understanding, as well as complementing the Hermit’s only other appearance, in the last act, where he plays the role of deus ex machina<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Der Frtisch\u00fctz<\/em> is an extremely difficult opera to stage successfully today, because of the obviousness of its effects and the creakiness of its plot. Certainly the faux-na\u00eff approach sideslips many of the difficulties, particularly when allied with Freyer\u2019s visual sense and inventive wit. It results in a show which appeals both to adults and to children, who were much in evidence in the audience.<\/p>\n

Yet, though the grumbles of some German critics that a national treasure was being defaced are exaggerated, there was again about this concept a distancing from the original. We were being tacitly told that we today could no longer accept what Weber and Friedrich Kind had created, and therefore had to see it through a mannered filter. The romanticism which is at the heart of Freisch\u00fctz<\/em> (c.f., the in this case wise old saw that \u201cthe Romantic Age rode in on the horns of the Freisch\u00fctz<\/em> overture\u201d) had to be transformed into quaintness in order to be made palatable. There was a deliberate avoidance of the idea that, difficult as it may be to stage, Freisch\u00fctz<\/em> could be done straight-forwardly. In this respect, the Gotz Friedrich staging for Covent Garden (generally dismissed by the English critics) was more successful\u2014though less inventive\u2014in its straight forwardness.<\/p>\n

I<\/span> have not mentioned the music in any of the three operas, neither the singing nor the playing of the orchestra. This is deliberate.\u00a0Music in all three cases was subordinate. This is not to say that the music was sloppily done. The Hanover pit orchestra had been very thoroughly rehearsed, and delivered a strong performance, Cynthia Makris was likewise an effective Lulu. But, if there were no disastrous voices in any of the operas, there was also precious little individualized singing. In part this was owing to the directors\u2019\u00a0control and in part to the youth (or lesser vocal stature) of the singers involved. It also derived from a conscious attempt to underplay the \u201ccanary fancier\u201d\u00a0side of opera. Audiences in Germany do not look for singing as a primary goal. The Kundry in Parsifal<\/em>\u2014the American Gail Gilmore\u2014had a good enough voice, but it was severely taxed by Wagner\u2019s writing and by the end of the second act had curdled. The audience did not seem to care: they accorded her an ovation, on the strength, I hope, of her acting.<\/p>\n

Stuttgart was the only house in which I heard what could be termed international Met-caliber singers. (In Germany, the Munich Opera is considered the most old-fashioned in this respect, and is looked down on by the avant-garde.) The single vocal prize culled, as being distinctive, from the five operas I saw (which included a routine run-through, with one scene cut, of Hindemith\u2019s Mathis der Maler<\/em> in Wiesbaden) was Catarina Ligendza\u2019s Leise, leise <\/em>scene. Here was truly responsive singing, displaying technique (an effortless shading from piano to forte), a fine sense of phrase floated on the breath, and a transmitting of the emotions of the character through the voice\u2019s handling of the music. It was applauded, but no more than anything else in the production. My companion compared the performance unfavorably to Elisabeth Gr\u00fcmmer\u2019s recording and to various other Agathes, including the earlier Ligendza herself. Quite true. Ligendza\u2019s voice, from years of singing Isoldes and Br\u00fcnnhildes, has developed an unsteadiness, and\u2014though it is large enough to handle the role without giving it the soubrette overtones sometimes heard, thus making it into a second \u00c4nnchen\u2014it lacks the easy amplitude of breath for the concluding strctto. Here nonetheless was something of the vocal art. Makris may have sung the notes (no mean feat) as Lulu, Manfred Jung may have sung a manly, gruff-voiced Max and Walter Raffeiner a properly juvenile, fresh-sounding Parsifal, but only Ligendza distilled character into the music in her two arias. Wally Toscanini, in a prefatory note to Lanfranco Rasponi\u2019s book The Last Prima Donnas<\/em>, says; \u201cToday [the prima donnas] no longer exist, for they have become traveling robots . . . their personality squashed by stage directors.\u201d\u00a0The comment, Deo gratias<\/em>, is not entirely true.<\/p>\n

Paradoxically, the only production to depart musically from what the composer asked for was the one which came closest to the spirit of the opera. This was Bernd Alois Zimmermann\u2019s operatic setting of J. M. R, Lenz\u2019s Die Soldaten<\/em>, also performed by the Frankfurt company in a production dating from June 1981. Zimmermann\u2019s opera is fiendishly difficult to mount, for, even in the \u201ceasier\u201d\u00a0version the composer wrote (the\u00a0visionary Ur-Soldaten<\/em>, which requires its own playing spaces, apparently has not survived), there are directions for movies, for various orchestras on various levels in the auditorium, and various stages. Michael Gielen, Zimmermann\u2019s friend and musical champion, who conducted the opera’s premiere in 1965, has since the composer\u2019s death in 1970 fashioned (with Zimmermann\u2019s widow\u2019s approval) a version of the opera which can be played on one stage with one pit orchestra (and a jazz band onstage). Speakers surrounding the auditorium and onstage play both electronic and amplified instrumental and vocal sound. This version eliminates the movies.<\/p>\n

The version focuses the intensity of the opera. Lenz\u2019s tale of the degradation of a petit bourgeois<\/em> girl at the hands of the military in an eighteenth-century barracks town is seen by Zimmermann as a condemnation of the military (and the aristocratic) mind and, by extension, of militarism, which ultimately degrades everything with which it comes into contact.<\/p>\n

There was not one director listed, but a \u201cproduction team\u201d\u00a0of five (including Gielen), and they created a dynamic, vital force, proceeding from both pit and stage, which moved forward inexorably from first to last. Again, a angle dominant set was employed: this one of a playing space surrounded by risers on which were piled heaps of old clothes. A six-foot lucite slipper suggested high-class decadence, and the walls behind the risers, which at first looked like slats, became a visual force when they sprang alive, for they were banks of white fluorescent lights. They lit up at the appearance of the barracks soldiers, who were not dressed in eighteenth-century uniforms but in an anonymous adaptation of current German military garb. This updating extended to others: the Countess de la Roche was costumed in a dress from the proper period (thus suggesting the aristocracy) but with a lace bodice from the nineteenth century and a cloche hat from the 1920s.<\/p>\n

The scenes in which the soldiers appeared\u2014notably the first scene of the second act\u2014were superior examples of the harnessing of the totality of stage forces to one purpose. The depersonalized, jejune brutality of the barracks soldier was brilliantly presented, both in its covert menace and its overt \u201cmacho\u201d\u00a0silliness. It played directly from within the context of the current German intellectual pacifist (and not a little nihilistic) position. The stage crackled with an energy I saw in no other production.<\/p>\n

Z<\/span>immermann\u2019s music is extremely accomplished. Die Soldaten<\/em> is considered in Germany the best opera in that language since Lulu<\/em>, and it is hard to argue against that estimate. (The only production in the United States\u2014in Boston in 1982, by Sarah Caldwell’s Boston Opera\u2014was close to a travesty.) It is true that some of the devices of the early Klangfarben<\/em> school\u2014the intermixing of electronic and \u201clive\u201d\u00a0sound, the attempts to graft jazz onto an operatic-symphonic texture, and the numbing welter of sound for its own sake\u2014sound a bit dated today. It is also true that Die Soldaten<\/em> is too tied to the apron-strings of Wozzeck<\/em>. It is a look at barracks life from the underside, in which the individual is isolated and ground down by alien forces. Character is exaggerated into psychosis, and the central role, the young girl who becomes the camp whore, is named Marie. Zimmermann writes a requiem for her, as Berg wrote one for Wozzeck.<\/p>\n

Nonetheless, Zimmermann has written an opera of musical and dramatic stature. The composition is carefully crafted, and the expressive portions beautiful. Zimmermann resembles Berg in that he can bend the most intractable serial formulae to his own uses, and he manages to handle the disjunct vocal line with case. The scene between the Countess de la Roche and Marie at the end of the third act docs for this type of music what the trio at the end of Strauss\u2019s Rosenkavalier<\/em> did for that. Finally, Zimmermann has employed the technique of \u201ccollage,\u201d\u00a0which he was among the first composers to popularize, with consummate skill. The various imported items sound integral and not pasted on, yet Zimmermann\u2019s keen sense of orchestral balance and color shades the music constantly, giving echoes of other musics without reproducing them.<\/p>\n

The power of the opera, which is cumulative, was realized by the performance, and if Die Soldaten<\/em> is, as has been suggested, an epigone, its merits are no less, and those merits were captured.<\/p>\n

But more, I think, was captured. For the first time I was gripped less by a concept or an idea\u2014though both were present\u2014than by the thing itself. There was a directness and a unity, extending from score to pit to stage to audience. No scrims of reflection intruded. One could doubtless realize this opera a dozen other ways, but at the time this way provided an immediate, sustained presence.<\/p>\n

It may come down to a question of belief. This production team obviously believed deeply in the message of Zimmcrmann\u2019s work, in a way that none of the other directors believed in theirs, except as representative of established German classics. Their efforts, then, were reflexive, and not dynamic.<\/p>\n

In a conversation with Eckermann (May 6, 1827), Goethe said, \u201cThe Germans are really strange people. With their profound thoughts and ideas, which they seek everywhere and project onto everything, they make life harder for themselves than they should. Oh, that at long last you had the courage for once to yield yourselves to your impressions<\/em>, to let yourselves be delighted, let yourselves be moved, let yourselves be elevated, yes, let yourselves be taught and inspired and encouraged for something great; only do not always think that everything is vain if it is not some abstract thought or idea!\u201d<\/p>\n

Perhaps the perversion of this directness of emotional response in the Germany of the 19308 has led to the reinforcement of the constipated attitude Goethe describes; perhaps the Germans cannot divorce idea from action and idea has taken over in their manic scrabbling to understand and exorcize their own past. Whatever the explanation, there is an intellectual gulf which stands between\u00a0creator and audience. It has produced, in opera, a strange hybrid in which the work exists pristine, and its interpretation twists it into something else.<\/p>\n

We may be on the threshold of the next, necessary step. That is the one in which the work itself will be treated with exactly the same creative daring that has up to now been accorded only to the visual. (Wieland Wagner made a tentative step in this direction in his last years at Bayreuth by daring to cut G\u00f6tterd\u00e4mmerung<\/em> to suit his purposes. Peter Brook likewise eliminated Bizet\u2019s exquisite orchestration and fashioned his own sound for his Carmen<\/em>.)<\/p>\n

If so, at least then the director would have the courage to take onto himself fully the onus of creator, so that the opera could then be judged as his, and not as some variation of the standard. And perhaps, finally, this would generate a vitality of purpose and a directed energy which, all too often, was absent in all but one of the productions I attended.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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