I have a heavy confession to make. I have sat through quite
a few operas and while I enjoyed some of the music and some of the singing, I
would not feel greatly deprived if I never see another. What’s the problem? To
name just three, the convention is too artificial, the pieces are too long and
the libretti are too absurd to attract
me to this much-vaunted form of artistic endeavour.
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| Brunhilde lets them have it |
Let’s face it, there is scant rationality in people bawling arias at each other as a way to tell a
story. If it is done tunefully, it is just about bearable but much of the
recitative is garbled and hasty providing no pleasure at all. And the stories themselves!
Who can possibly have approved such rubbish? Flying Dutchmen, Japanese
prospective brides, Chinese imperial courtiers – the more exotic the better –
and do you remember Il Trovatore,
serial balderdash involving gypsies, switched babies, mistaken identity and
taking poison to avoid the stake? Too
much rigmarole to endure just to hear The
Anvil Chorus!
All operas are at least one hour too long (Wagner’s more
like 2 hours). I revere Mozart but even lovely Figaro has its longeurs
before the glorious reconciliation scene “Contessa
perdone”. Mozart achieved perfection as regards timing with the tuneful and
bright “Il Seraglio” but it was not
quite an opera, rather a Singspiel,
and much the better for it. As for Cosi
fan Tutti, Don Giovanni and The Magic
Flute, I fear I echo Emperor Joseph II “Too many notes, Mr Mozart!”
One of my most trying operatic experiences was Wagner’s Die Walkure at a Berlin opera house in
1959. With a good friend we had hard seats in a remote balcony. I think the
opera lasted 5 ½ hours of sheer torture: if the thumping orchestra gave you a
break you still received loud and clear the screaming soprano of some well-fed
Teutonic diva. I know there is a
class of aesthetes calling themselves Wagnerians; Die Walkure cured me of any temptation to join them and the fact
that Adolf was a great fan was hardly a recommendation either.
I have had privileged operatic opportunities – Aida in Rome, Fidelio in Vienna, La
Traviata in Verona, lots from the old Carl Rosa Company, Sadler’s Wells
Opera and Scottish Opera at our then family-owned His Majesty’s Theatre in
Aberdeen, later plenty of corporate entertaining at the ENO and Covent Garden
in London. Yet if truth be told, my greatest pleasure was from the D’Oyly Carte
operettas by Gilbert and Sullivan – like The
Mikado, The Gondoliers and Iolanthe, lovely music and brilliant comic
libretti. These pleasures were occasionally leavened by Puccini’s fluent La Boheme, Handel’s Semele with stunning static tableaux at the end of each act,
Bizet’s Carmen replete with
show-stopping numbers and the aforementioned delight Il Seraglio. My brow remains resolutely
low!
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| Timothy Spall as The Mikado |
The trouble is that you wait so long (or not long enough) for
the high-spots. I recall seeing Bizet’s The
Pearl Fishers and to my dismay the famous tenor and baritone duet Au fond du temple saint is in Act 1, so
you had to tolerate hours of unrelieved subsequent nonsense. In Aida there are great arias and choruses as
Pharaoh’s army leaves to fight the Ethiopians (Celeste Aida, Ritorna Vincitor) but it all ends rather dismally
hours later among pyramid tombs and self-immolation.
I will not dwell on modern opera. I once inflicted Britten’s
ghastly Billy Budd on my dear parents
and it is still on my conscience. What was I thinking? I would not wish Berg’s Wozzeck or Lulu on my worst enemy. Stravinsky’s Oedipus Rex and Bartok’s Bluebeard’s
Castle were played in a double bill (I lost forever a girl I once took to the
former and I can imagine the horror of the cacophonous latter).
Of course the critics love all this kind of thing and try to
persuade us of its merits. Do not be led astray. No doubt many performers were
or are talented singers - Maria Callas, Kiri Te Kanawa, Nellie Melba, Pavarotti
or Caruso but the flattery lavished on these artistes is usually wholly
disproportionate. I much prefer my Night
at the Opera to be madcap fun as dispensed by Groucho, Chico and Harpo in
their iconic 1935 movie, (with Allan Jones and Kitty Carlisle contributing
snippets from Il Trovatore, if you
insist).
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| Opera is Fun with the Marx Brothers |
1.06.14
Text Copyright Sidney Donald 2014
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