encore, encore
Thursday 28 June 2007 | I like a cookie
Last night the Brujo and I drove up to Tesuque in a fabulous thunderstorm to take in La bohème—the first time I’ve ever been to the SF Opera, the second time I’ve seen that particular opera, and the only opera I’ve ever seen live. What is it with me and Puccini? But I preferred this production to that of Covent Garden in 1996 (where Nej, in one of the supremest acts of generosity I have ever experienced, said, “You’ve never been to an opera?! That’s criminal—we’re going tonight,” and promptly paid for my £120 ticket); its director had a sense of humor, and Musetta was funny, and the tenor who played Rodolfo was in amazing voice, and even the Brujo was so caught up as to kiss my hand during “Che gelida manina.” The other difficulty with the Covent Garden production was that I started crying when the curtain came up and sobbed all the way through, so hard that my cotton dress was wet in front by the end. This time I didn’t weep during the entire thing which made it easier to pay attention to niceties of plot (though there aren’t many) and cadenzas and so forth. And it was a dress rehearsal so we got to see some things twice, including the children running after the toy cart, an irrelevant musical interlude onto which the B. latched with glee, and has ever since been warbling under his breath, “Parpignol Parpignol Parpignol!”
While the orchestra was tuning for the second half, I confided that as a teenager I’d wanted to be a flyweight coloratura like Lily Pons. I somehow instinctively disliked the turgid mezzos popular at the time, like Kiri Te and Renata Scotto and even Jessye Norman, and sought out ancient Met recordings from the public library, with Pons and Bidú Sayão and (talk about hefty) Kirsten Flagstad. Whenever my parents left the house to go to the feed store or the cattle auction or the vet’s office, I’d rapturously sing along to Donizetti’s La fille du regiment, Rossini’s Il barbiere de Siviglia, the Queen of the Night’s second aria from Die Zauberflöte, or the mad scene from Lucia di Lammermoor, even though I didn’t know the words. We agreed that the mad scene is a very freaky piece of music, with Lucia standing covered in blood, clearly out of her gourd, but singing this unsettlingly perky tune. The B. then told me that back in the day, when the scene was over, there used to be not only applause but the soprano would step out of character, take bows, blow kisses, collect the roses thrown onto the stage, and then very often do the whole scene again from top to big finish. “They didn’t have VCRs, so they couldn’t rewind,” I justified. We further agreed that opera is intrinsically weird, all by itself, just as a form, in the same way that all plays by Shakespeare are problem plays. Then we huddled together and watched lightning fork the sky open from black to purple as Rodolfo (Asshole Personality Disorder) ditched Mimi (Doormat Personality Disorder), who then left the viscount and rejoined him in time to breathe her above-the-stave last. “These people are nuts,” muttered the Brujo.
(Check out, by the way, his review of the new Theater Grottesco production—and better still, go see Fortune. Grottesco’s always relatively pricey at $25, but I maintain that quite frankly I would rather watch John Flax sleep than see anyone else do anything else on stage in Santa Fe. It’s astonishingly well-cast, tightly directed, hilariously choreographed (with, among other percussive items, plastic trash can lids), and if the second half has some floppy script moments, well, I was only too happy to forgive them for the pleasure of watching six actors, all wearing identical mustard-yellow grandpa sweaters and miming props, give identical news broadcasts in six different European languages, simultaneously. You don’t get that a lot in this town—or maybe anywhere.)
Speaking of encores, oleoptine’s done it again, and I’m so glad. The way she pulls all my recent bemused musings together, from James Agee to CS Lewis with Franny & Zooey en route, is exciting and relieving and permission-giving and funny and smart and I want her to start blogging again, dammit—and don’t give me any of that lame-ass I-have-a-family-to-raise-and-a-life-to-lead excuse! At any rate, don’t miss her comment—consider it today’s post. Because today I absolutely have to rewrite the final draft of the bloody book because if I don’t finish it soon I may be the first person in the history of humanity to actually die from procrastination. I’ve read all the Lydia Davis I own, have packed everything else and sealed it with tape, have eaten everything there is to eat and watched all the Tori videos on YouTube that the DSL will allow. I’ve watered the plants. I’ve called my parents. I’ve clipped my nails. I’ve even done the dishes. The time has come. I can avoid no longer. No more bioterrorism-comedy screenplays, no more idle piano noodling, no more compulsive cat-grooming, no more charming notes, no more reading everyone else’s blog, no more thrashing around and moaning in terror. I’ve run out of Tofutti Cuties and clever evasions. So this is the last you will hear from me until I have a hundred pages on the joys of death under my belt.
Unless, of course, something terribly important happens about which I have no choice but to tell you immediately. This could range from the cat’s getting a ridiculous haircut to my having an otherwise unremarkable thought of some description or another. Some interruptions, you can’t help. For if you cut us, do we not blog?
post your glowing encomium (or bitter philippic) »
Follow this heated, lively discussion through its very own feed; also, you can pingback or trackback from your own doubtlessly much more interesting site.
