The Problem with Opera
A persuasive contemporary-art-world-type friend convinced me to go to Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte last weekend. Mind you, I’m not that interested in opera per se, but I found myself agreeable to this invitation, mostly due to the fact that the tickets were purchased many months in advance and this proverbial “night at the opera” seemed so painlessly off in the distance. But as rearview mirrors warn us: Objects are closer than they appear. And before I knew it, the overture had begun. Goodbye, Saturday night.
It’s a little strange to admit that this was actually my first-ever full-fledged real opera. Sure, I’ve been to operas before—Robert Ashley and the likes—but this thing was written centuries ago and has flashy arias and bitchin’ visual design. I have to say that it was shocking to witness the mob scene outside the Brooklyn Academy of Music as people looking for tickets found those who were selling them while a steady stream of taxis and drivers dropped patrons off at the front door. And this wasn’t even opening night. Funny thing is, I wound up at this three-hour affair not because of the music or the performers, but to see this particular production because the director happens to be a very famous South African visual artist. I suspect that many others in the audience made the trek from Manhattan for the same reason. Presenters take note: Names like William Kentridge, and not Puccini or Mozart, pack the house.
Still, with all the pomp, glamour, and video projections, I just don’t get opera. I didn’t find myself thrilled or swept away, and with a weak-voiced Queen of the Night, the whole experience was made even more depressing than necessary. However, a nearby kid in the audience was actually into the on-stage shenanigans. Even if that eleven year-old boy was dragged to the theater by his parents, the fact remains that he cheered in excitement at the happy ending’s final climax.
I guess my expectations are just way too high for opera. If I’m going to invest a few hours into a work, the way I figure things is that I deserve a little exaltation in return. It’s not a matter of scale or pacing here. I can watch flicks by Béla Tarr and Gus Van Saint—except for Gerry—and somehow feel rewarded afterward. Perhaps it the fact that opera was the popular entertainment of its time, and if we’re going to sing something in German nowadays, maybe we can update things a little and cast Fergie in the lead role. Her trashy-freshness might work well in the genre. She may not have the whole bel canto thing going on, but so what. And the part of Papageno should go to Ludacris hands down. While we’re shaking things up here, let’s use amplification, you know, so the folks in the cheap seats can hear what’s going on.