Height of Passion: the play in Oberammergau
Once a decade, the villagers of Oberammergau stage a re-enactment of the Easter story. Their profound dedication moved William Cook
Christmas is coming, and where better to spend Advent than in Bavaria – a place that feels as if it were made for Yuletide, with its fir trees, crisp white snow, Lebkuchen and Glühwein.
And where better in Bavaria to spend Advent than in Oberammergau, one of Germany’s most beautiful villages, home of the world’s most famous Passion Play?
In the cosy living room of his quaint old house, on the green edge of the village, Peter Stückl is showing me his treasured photos of his appearances in this biblical epic. Peter made his debut when he was seven, back in 1950. Since then, he’s been in every production of this ancient play, which has been performed here (and only here) every ten years since the 17th century.
In 1950, he appeared in the same production as his grandfather. Next summer, he’s appearing in the same production as his grandchildren. ‘Every child is proud when they can be in the Passion Play,’ he says.
I first came to Oberammergau 20 years ago, to see Peter play Caiaphas, the man who condemns Jesus – a riveting performance, full of rage and angst.
This time, he’s playing a smaller role, but even after 70 years his enthusiasm still burns bright. Peter’s family have appeared in this play for generations; in Oberammergau that’s not unusual. Ask anyone in this Alpine village and they’ll tell you the same thing: taking part is a precious privilege, reserved for people who were born here (or have lived here for at least 20 years). It makes no difference whether you’re playing a bit part, or Christ himself. Only 5,000 people live here, and almost everyone is involved. It’s a unique link with kinfolk long dead and kinfolk yet unborn.
The origins of Oberammergau’s Passion Play stretch back nearly 400 years. In the 1630s, in the aftermath of the Thirty Years’ War, a vicious plague swept through Bavaria, carrying off many survivors of that murderous religious war. The inhabitants of Oberammergau vowed to God that if He spared them, they’d enact the Easter story every ten years for evermore.
At first it was just a local spectacle, but eventually it grew into an international attraction. Thanks to Thomas Cook & Co, it became especially popular with British travellers, for whom it was part pilgrimage, part jolly package holiday.
Oberammergau came through the two world wars more or less unscathed, but Hitler left an awful legacy. He’d been a big fan of the Passion Play, on account of
its negative portrayal of the Jews. Any historical enactment of the Crucifixion was bound to incorporate some antiSemitic elements but, after the horrors of the Holocaust, these elements came under increasing scrutiny. Bowing to pressure from international Jewish groups, the villagers revised their play and today, in my opinion, it’s no longer anti-semitic in the slightest – at least, no more than the Gospels on which it’s based.
The driving force in the play’s recent evolution is Peter’s son Christian, who directed the last three productions, and is directing the 2020 production too.
Although Christian is a professional director, his cast are all amateurs (most of them have day jobs – Peter Stückl runs a Gasthaus), but there’s nothing am-dram about this extraordinary show. The play is performed 100 times a season, over several balmy midsummer months. There are 5,000 seats in the open-air auditorium – yet most performances still sell out.
It’s an incredible experience: the last week in the life of Christ, from Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday, squeezed into six hours (with a break for dinner), performed by a cast of hundreds against a backdrop of Alpine peaks.
The actors insist it’s just a play, not a religious rite, but if you’re remotely religious you’ll find it profoundly moving.
And it’s not just the show that’s special – it’s the place itself. Oberammergau is a charming spot, a cluster of Hansel-andGretel houses in a lush green valley in the foothills of the Alps. ‘In big cities,’ says Peter, ‘they’re always in a hurry. We’re not.’
Getting here is fairly easy (it’s 60 miles south of Munich – about 90 minutes by train or car), yet once you’re here, the modern world feels far away. Until 1990, married women were forbidden from appearing in the Passion Play, as was any unmarried woman over 35. (Until that rule was rescinded, the man playing Jesus was sometimes older than the woman who played his mother.)
Arriving here, you’re reminded that Germany is a pious place. Unlike the C of E, the German Church is funded directly by the taxpayer and, in rural areas like Oberammergau, the clergy maintains a major presence. The Bundesrepublik has always been pretty evenly split between Protestants and Catholics (formerly a large minority; now a small majority).
And although the vast majority of the play’s performers are Catholic (like the vast majority of Bavarians), most foreigners who come to see the play are Protestants – mainly from Britain, Scandinavia and America. Maybe Catholic countries have enough religious rituals of their own.
Every ten years, Oberammergau is invaded by half a million of these pilgrims, as it will be this coming summer, filling every Gasthaus (and spare bedrooms in private houses). But most of the time, it’s a sleepy place – a great base for exploring this picturesque corner of Bavaria. The surrounding area is a nature reserve, protected from development.
Whether you prefer a bracing hike or a gentle stroll, it’s ideal for walking. The ornate baroque monastery of Ettal is only a few miles away – an easy walk through woods and meadows. If you’re out of puff when you arrive, you can return by bus.
A few miles further is Linderhof, one of several fairytale castles built by ‘Mad’ King Ludwig – and my favourite, by far. It’s not quite as spectacular as Neuschwanstein (his most famous castle, the model for Disneyland) but it’s far more intimate, with only a fraction of the tourist traffic. The schloss is a weird pastiche of a Louis XIV château, surrounded by fountains, waterfalls, and grottoes inspired by Wagner operas.
Back in Oberammergau, I meet up with Anton Burkhart (a forester by day) who played a passionate, pugnacious Jesus in the Passion Play I saw here 20 years ago (this time, he’s playing Joseph of Arimathea). His brother has played Pilate. His sister has played Mary. I ask him whether playing Jesus changed his life. ‘Yes,’ he says, with simple clarity. On the train back to Munich, I think about my German grandmother, who came to see the play as a teenager. I always assumed she’d seen the 1930 production, but it turns out there was a special production in 1934 to mark the play’s tercentenary, attended by Hitler.
Now I wonder whether that was the one she saw. Maybe that’s why she never talked about it. I wish I’d asked her what she saw. It’s too late now. She died 20 years ago, a few months after I came to see this show.
If you can get a ticket, do come and see it. You won’t regret it. You’ll never forget it. The journey is a kind of pilgrimage, and it’s more than just a play.
Double rooms at the friendly, four-star Hotel Böld (www.hotel-boeld.de) start from €120, including breakfast. Lufthansa fly direct to Munich from £82 return. For details of the Passion Play, visit www.passionsspiele-oberammergau.de