Maybe you are asking why I am talking about music again
when this blog’s first name is “Murder?” Well, murders happen in opera quite
often. Off the top of my head, for
instance, you might categorize Tosca as
Noir. In that story, a powerful man
offers to spare the life of a painter if Rome’s most popular stage performer
will trade her lover’s life for sex. She
agrees, but she demands that the villain stop her lover’s execution in advance. When she thinks her lover is safe, instead of
submitting to Scarpia, she stabs the SOB.
Even after his death, his henchman kill her lover. She commits suicide. NOIR, in capital letters. But in the middle of it all, there is
powerfully gorgeous music. Like this:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OIExoUb8jk&list=RD_OIExoUb8jk
And at the same time, nothing beats it for spectacle. Here is the opening of Act II of the Metropolitan
Opera’s production of Aida. I have seen
this live at least eight times. I would
run, if you told me I could see it again right now. Multiply what you see on your computer screen
by a thousand, and imagine enjoying it with 4000 other breathless people. The very definition of spectacular.
Some of you know what a dyed-in-the-wool romantic I am. And what a sucker for the long ago and far
away. How could I not treasure a story
that begins with a couple falling in love at first sight in a garret in Paris
at the end of the 19th Century.
What living, breathing woman would not be a goner if a guy introduced
himself like this:
There are Youtube versions “Che Gelida Manina” that show
this aria in staged performance. But
they have subtitles with stilted translations.
Let me tell you what is happening and what Rudolfo is saying—
Not really accidently,
her candle went out and she dropped her key.
As they groped for it in the dark, not really by chance, his hand
touched hers. “What a cold little hand,”
he said. “Let me warm it up. We’re never going to find that key in the
dark. But luckily, it’s a moonlit night,
and we’re up here near the moon.” She
started to move away. He wanted her to
stay. “Wait,” he said, “let me say a
couple of words about who I am and what I do, how I live.” With a gesture, he invited her to sit
down. “Would you?” he said softly. She did.
“Who am I?” he began. “I’m a
poet. What do I do? I write.
How do I live? I am alive! I’m rich in rhymes and love songs. When it comes to visions and castles in the
air, I’m a millionaire. But your
beautiful, thieving eyes just dissolved my dreams. I’m not angry that you robbed me. You’ve given me something better to hope
for. Now, tell me about you. Whatever you’d like to say.”
That thud you just heard was my heart hitting the floor for
the 2749th time.
Opera is not just romantic, it’s sexy. Many years ago, my friend Stan Molner
described it perfectly. He and I were in
the kitchen of the country house making tortellini
al carne from scratch. It took all
day. We listened to music to keep
ourselves going. When he heard me sigh
listening to Pavarotti sing the following aria, he laughed and said, “This
music goes right up your skirt, doesn’t it?”
Yup.
This man is singing about heaven and earth, and golden
dreams. Those words at the end are
“Come. Come to the kiss of life, and of
love. I am waiting for you. Come, woman.
Come to the kiss of love. Yes, of
love.” I am ready for the ice bucket
challenge now.
If you are not convinced, if you still think opera is
foreign territory for you, that you have no connection to it, I dare you to
listen to this and not start singing along.
Keep listening. At minute 2:07, you
WILL start singing. Maybe not out loud,
but you will.
I rest my case.
Annamaria - Monday
Posts
I'd love to go to the opera with you, Annamaria. You make it come alive!
ReplyDeleteAllan, it's the singers and musicians and the myriad other artists it takes who make opera come alive. But it will not take a cast a thousands for us to see an opera together. One day we will be in the same city at the same time. But I warn you: seeing it live can easily become an addiction.
ReplyDeleteIn honor of Caro's imminent arrival, may I ask where's it goes if you're wearing a kilt?
ReplyDeleteMy brother, I am sitting here eating my oatmeal and drinking my cappuccino--a breakfast I have nearly everyday of my life, when at home, a kind os half-Scottish, half italian repast. I know there are lots of Scots of Italian descent. I met my first one, a waiter at the old Lindy's on Broadway, when I was ten years old. His name was Scotty DeFelice, born in Edinburgh. He spoke with a lovely Scottish burr, and I still have the little green cream pitcher he gave me that evening. I wish he were still around so I could ask him to answer your question. Lacking a proper male witness, I can only report what I know about a skirts.
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