The big one.

Salzburg, Austria WELL, this is the big one, Elizabeth (as Fred Sanford used to say). (Note to the very young or unschooled: He was a TV-sitcom character.) For many years, this city has been preparing for 2006, the 250th anniversary of Mozart's birth. And Salzburg, of course, is the little guy's hometown.

The city gained other worldwide fame last century, when Rodgers & Hammer-stein penned The Sound of Music. (It is set here, as you know.) But Mozart is unquestionably the main deal. His bust greets you at the airport, which is, in fact, called the W. A. Mozart Airport. (I don't think his descendants get royalties.) And Mozart never stops looking at you, wherever you go in the city. You never stop looking at him, either.

At the Salzburg Festival, every year is a Mozart year, just as it is in the musical world at large. But 2006 is a stunner. Virtually every program at the Festival--orchestral, chamber, recital--includes at least some Mozart, and often a lot of Mozart. And the only operas staged are Mozart's--22 in all.

According to Festival officials, never before have all of the composer's operas, or semi-operas, been presented all at once. These works range from juvenilia (Bastien und Bastienne, La finta semplice) to the last, glorious gasp: La clemenza di Tito.

Of course, the Salzburg Festival being the Salzburg Festival, not all of these operas are Mozart's own. That is, avant-garde stage directors toy with them and warp them until they are barely recognizable. But Mozart usually finds a way to out. I have long inveighed against the completeness craze in music, and I was opposed, in the run-up to this summer, to the all-22 concept, which I considered an unnecessary stunt. But I was wrong, I'm happy to say. To have the operas complete is an educational and exciting experience.

There's this to consider, too: One of the founding spirits of the Festival, Richard Strauss, said that Mozart ought to be honored in his hometown. And honored--doubly and triply honored--he is.

Amid the concerts, operas, parties, and scandals, the Salzburg Festival Society is holding a series of seminars or talks, moderated by ... an interloper from NATIONAL REVIEW. One of our guests is Rene Pape, the German bass and a huge star on the international scene. It is not entirely common for a bass to be such a star--a soprano, a mezzo, a tenor, and even a baritone, yes, but not the lowest guys. We can think of exceptions to the rule--Chaliapin, Pinza, maybe George London (who in any case was a bass-baritone)--but not many.

Pape grew up in Dresden, and he is now 41. That means he was in his mid-20s when the Wall came down. His mother was a hairdresser, his father a cook. ("So you were always well fed," I say. "Yes," he answers, "and my hair looked good, too.") He was a member of Dresden's boys' choir, called the Kreuzchor. I ask what Pape, as a little soprano, sounded like: chirpy and piping, or more like Rene Pape? "I have always sounded like Rene Pape," he says sternly, to the audience's laughter.

I further ask what his boyhood hopes and dreams were. And I'm quickly made to realize what a careless question this is. There weren't many hopes and dreams in a Communist state. Pape reminds me, and the rest of us, how grim it was, how deprived and bleak. When he first came to Salzburg, he says, it was "like coming to heaven": the color, the food, the freedom. Amazing that one can forget about Communism, even a short 15 years later.

Pape is famous as a King Mark (Tristan und Isolde), as a Sarastro (The Magic Flute), and in several other roles. One he will tackle shortly is Hans Sachs, from Die Meistersinger. It is a difficult role, he says. Why? Because, for one thing, it requires a lot of waiting around, offstage. "And what will you do during these periods?" I inquire. "Make out your grocery list?" Yeah, he says--"and smoke."

Pape is an enthusiastic and unapologetic smoker, following the tradition of Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau. I ask him who other great smokers among singers are; and he protectively declines to name any of his current colleagues. He settles for, "Fischer-Dieskau and me--we are the greatest."

Throughout our discussion, Pape is terse, somewhat sardonic, and even a bit surly. But something surprising happens when he talks about the role of Boris Godunov, and what an emotional toll it takes. His eyes fill with tears. This seems to confirm what you hear about him: that, despite a tough exterior, he is highly sensitive, a deep-feeler. (And you hear this in his singing as well.)

Toward the end of the hour, I toss this out: Ever thought about a concert or recording with (the soprano) Renee Fleming, to be titled "Renee and Rene"? Pape's response is opera-star perfect: But, given the different spellings, whose name would come first?

A couple of days later, we have a movie--yes, a movie in Salzburg, and not The Sound of Music. This is The Salzburg Festival: A Brief History, Tony Palmer's latest. Palmer, a Brit, has made over 100 films, most having to do with the performing arts. And he has been widely honored for them. His new film is chockful of interviews, angles, and that marvelous stuff known as "rare footage": We see Backhaus at the piano, Knappertsbusch on the podium--everything. Any critic would have his objections to this film, but Palmer has accomplished (another) tour de force.

It has not sat well with the Festival brass, however--and I'm not talking trumpeters and tubists. Speaking to an audience at the Kino Theater, Palmer jokes (or at least I take it as joking) that he arrived at Mozart Airport in a false mustache, hiding amid "American tourists." (Why the tourists have to be American, I don't know. There are millions of tourists here, from every corner of the earth--but "American tourists" is meant to be comical, isn't it? Lucky for pathetic European economies that such tourists exist.)

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The complaints of the brass, in brief, are that Palmer dwells too long and harshly on the Nazi period, and that he spots his film with factual errors. As for the first complaint, I maintain that Palmer has bent over backward to be understanding of Salzburg and its principal figures (e.g., Karajan, who joined the Nazi party twice, the first time when it was illegal). As for the second, these are not necessarily clear-cut. Moreover, I believe that, when initial passions have died down, the Festival will count this film as a feather in its (traditional, forest-green) cap.

The morning after the movie, we welcome an old favorite, Thomas Hampson, the glamorous and brainy baritone from Spokane. He has a lot to say, as usual, particularly about music and advancing technology. Hampson is a techie, and in particular a Mac user--he seems as knowledgeable as the geekiest geek. I'm quite sure he would rather read Wired magazine (which he does) than Opera News. (Don't know whether he reads that.)

In due course, I draw him out on bizarre, self-indulgent, and destructive opera productions--as I see them, I mean. Hampson is typically thoughtful. He neither excuses the relevant stage directors nor condemns them. And he relates a story about Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, the great German soprano who died on August 3. Hampson knew her well, having studied with her. One season, he invited her to Salzburg's Don Giovanni (in which he sings the title role). Schwarzkopf left at intermission, telling Hampson later, "How can you lend your talent to such a production? How can you participate in it?"

Obviously, Hampson disagrees with Schwarzkopf, else he wouldn't be singing Don Giovanni here. (The same production is still in place.) As for me, I have always had the highest regard for Schwarzkopf, musically and artistically. (We might discuss her Nazism later.) And she has now climbed even higher in my estimation.

One more guest: He is Clemens Hellsberg, a violinist in the Vienna Philharmonic, and that orchestra's chairman. (The Vienna Phil. has an exceptional form of governance.) At the end of a wide-ranging, fascinating hour, he talks about his love of Mozart, which is supreme. No, he hasn't tired of him, in this year of Mozart mania. He says that, in the afterlife, his first question will be, "Where's Mozart?" He has much he wants to ask him.

I must say that I gritted my teeth for this Mozart year--Mozart at 250--which began in earnest on January 27, the Birthday. I feared oversaturation, even burnout, even disgust. In the past eight months, I have attended, and covered, endless Mozart concerts and festivals. And you know what? I love the little guy more than I ever have. My appreciation of him has actually deepened. I say, believe the hype: Mozart really was--is--that great.