Right Left Whatever

An Opera of the Heart

From our seats in the fourth row from the stage -- my Mom and I Wednesday night saw the Los Angeles Opera’s production of Madama Butterfly by Puccini. We were ecstatic.

Of all the concerts I’ve witnessed in my life -- popular or classical -- this was the most moving.

(My wife, Wanda, and I bought a pair of mini-series tickets to this year’s season. Wanda and Mom already saw Nicholas and Alexandra starring Placido Domingo in September.)

Here are a few notes….

First, on a philosophical theme -- the story of Madama Butterfly is sad and tragic in a searing kind of way. (If you're unaware of the story, you can find a synopsis here.) Why does it fascinate? Because it doesn’t flinch.

Every one of us has a history of secrets no one knows. We’ve had desperate dreams, hopeless loves, gnawing yearnings -- all strangled. We intuit that our deepest suspicion is probably true. Our hidden craving -- our soul’s strongest desire -- has almost been murdered. Time has passed. We’ve eaten bitter earth. I can trust you when I say you’ll never speak of this. Good music arouses memories of all that. THAT’S where great art gets its power.

The opera starred the soprano Veronica Villarroel as Butterfly and tenor John Matz as the male lead, Pinkerton. In charge of this opera’s production was the theatre director, designer, and lighting designer -- Robert Wilson. The conductor and music director was Kent Nagano. (Placido Domingo is the permanent Artistic Director of the LA Opera.)

Robert Wilson’s production was hyper-modern, stylized, and almost bizarrely spare. Though visually abstract and mannered -- this did not detract. If anything, the effect on the music was to render it intensified.

Instead of using “realistic” lavish costumes and sets, the stage was nearly bare. Behind -- the entire back wall comprised a giant screen, displaying changing hues resembling the sky (without actual clouds or recognizable features).

The costumes were one-color gowns or coats; all dropping in straight featureless lines towards the ground so feet were surrounded in “tents” that reached maximum diameter at the ground. Feet were not visible. People moved without signs of taking steps -- so the effect was as if the singers were floating. Each figure loomed up out of a groundless space.

The audience gazed towards an outdoors eternal dream-horizon in the background. The drama could have taken place anywhere. Obviously, the director meant it to be within our minds.

(To see some LA Opera photos of the set, go here.)

The “love scene” at the end of Act 1 had the lead singers facing the audience with Pinkerton behind Butterfly (with her back to her lover); they both stood in set positions like statues -- glowing white in the spotlight, boiling with passionate song. Amazingly, the more control and detachment the artists portrayed, the hotter the effect. The audience was transfixed.

The music director avoided pauses between songs so that a “wall of sound” created a cinematic effect; like an old movie with the constant hissing/rushing of the sound track and the slightly vibrating frame -- contrasting with the exotic glow of the image.

The director ended the opera the exact moment Butterfly died; Pinkerton turns sharply at front-stage-left to stare beyond the audience with a quick gasp -- the spotlight flashing on him one second blindingly -- and the lights go out.

Domingo has played this part many times (in other productions), and has said that he imagines the character living and suffering the rest of his life with this moment burned in his mind. When we see it, the bright image of the shocked face stays in our brain long after the auditorium turns black.

Often when I attend live concerts or plays (of any kind of music or theater) I’m aware that I'm in an audience watching a performance; and usually I become impressed with the technical ability and talent of the artist and “take in” the public event as a spectacle.

My mind then wanders over the subject of “excellence”: how I’m looking at and listening to a real live genius, here; and wonder how some people reach this level -- and how most of the rest of us don’t. I question whether this is a result of fate or of our own inability or unwillingness to achieve. Even though I enjoy the show, I become cowed. I leave the place chastised. I shudder, muddle on home, and forget myself in sleep. (Does anyone else ever do this?)

But at this opera -- I was not focused on the brilliance of the singing. Instead, I was taken away with the music itself, with Puccini’s composition. Much of the time I forgot where I was.

(How often I find popular music to be engaged in a BATTLE with myself to see who will win: will my irritation with the demands of its noise and sentimentality and cheap lyrics beat me to the ground so I finally concede defeat? -- say “Yes, I admit it: you’re catchy, you’re unforgettable ((for an hour, for a minute)); you’re clever!”)

Two more notes:

I was made aware of how Puccini reminds me of Mahler: the flowing and surging, like a natural force. It’s partly romantic, but on the cusp of the modern. This opera was only first performed a hundred years ago (1904). The modern staging of this production seems to fit. Despite its extreme emotions, Butterfly is too bracing to be just another love story.

Finally, most people find opera to be made of uncontrollable “shrieking” and “wailing.” On most household sound-systems, with the low dynamic range they usually have, that’s what you get. But live, in a large concert hall, the operatic voice -- without amplification -- fills the space; if anything, it’s not loud enough! The music would have us desire even more.

It becomes obvious that opera singers are filled with the physicality of the music. The difference between the popular voice and the operatic one -- is the difference between walking around the room and climbing a mountain.

Opera singers are ENGORGED with the vitality of the music. The music is moving through them. They can barely contain it.

My Mom once observed the inordinate passion emoted from a few successful opera singers -- comparing this outpouring to the many affairs, riches, travels, and achievements they’ve actually had in their real lives. They've had it all -- and yet they still sing as if first love really matters, as if a dream of even greater accomplishment was possible, as if a new shining day of youth were inspiring them. Ridiculous! What are they really singing for?

They don’t know. It just comes out of them. The music drives from their center…wherein is the real hunger.

Listen for a while to some good opera. Now, turn to popular musical voices, any, even the best ---

With the popular songs, you notice that the notions, the images, the concepts -- are cheap. The fantasies are…self-conscious. The believability is…nil. After hearing opera, the amplified popular voice appears affected, remote, trite…

Insipid.

Posted by Rick Penner at February 20, 2004 01:36 AM