Why I Like Opera

I went to La Boheme on Friday night with my usual opera going friend and another friend who hadn't been to an opera before. La Boheme is the most played opera in the US, but I've never seen it live. I like Puccini as much as the next person, and have listened to La Boheme quite a bit, but I'd never realized that 1. parts of it are pretty funny, and 2. parts of it are gut-wrenchingly sad. It also made me quite nostalgic, as I listened to it a lot right before I went to Paris for a few days in the fall of 2007. My friend Jess and I stayed in the sketchiest hotel ever (no, really, she can corroborate this--there were a lot of hijinks that trip, in point of fact) but what mostly stuck with me about the hotel, other than the broken elevator and the winding staircases, was this view, from our tiny bathroom.
As I looked out the window, I remember thinking that this must have been what it was like to be in La Boheme, minus the consumption. I wanted to live in a garret, be a starving artist, and be able to look out at the city every night.

Well, the opera was awesome, as these opera performances tend to be--I'm so, so glad I go to a school with a world-renowned opera program. Almost better than the music, which was great, was the SETS. I've never seen such sets. The sets were such that one of my friends punched me in the arm at one point because we both were so pumped. The sets rotated as they were singing--the balcony of the Parisian garret turned and became the dingy interior of the poor artist and poet's apartment.
Most impressively, this rooftop apartment moved offstage, the lights dimmed, a rumbling could be heard, and a NEW set moved forward. Suddenly there was a cafe scene, complete with a bridge, and a marching band, at least 50 cast-members, and even vendor's carts. The audience burst into applause. Check out more of the sets here.
One of the reasons why I like operas is because they force you to suspend belief. Over the course of 2 1/2 hours, I had to believe that people could fall in love instantly, that hearts could be quickly broken and mended, that bohemians lived together by conning their landlord, and that sometimes things just end in sadness no matter how much we want them not to. When Mimi died, it was unnoticed by the other protagonists for a little while, but the audience knew--the girl behind me hissed, "NO!" And when Ridolfo notices that his friends can't meet his eyes (they've realized she's died) he exclaims in this extraordinary, anguished outburst. My Italian isn't good enough to translate it exactly, but even if you'd never heard Italian before it wouldn't matter, you just know that it sounds like loss, like pain, like anger. And then he stalked outside, and stood in what suddenly had become the chilly Parisian air, with snow falling, and just stood there as the curtain went down. I had chills, one of my friends was crying, and the entire theater was silent.

Other music doesn't have this affect on me, and I don't know what it is about opera that causes me to have a more emotional connection. And I know it's not like this for all people--I've heard the argument that it's too flashy, too substantial, too earthly to really be something transcendent or moving. And I suppose in some ways that is true. I think perhaps there is a corollary between those of us who like Baroque Art and those of us who also like opera--a longing for something so excessively beautiful that it sometimes hurts. You feel too much, if that makes sense. There are parts of Marriage of Figaro that are so stunningly perfect that they make me tear up, not because they're sad, but because they are so lovely that they make you feel something, deeply.

I don't know that much about opera, truth be told. I can tell bad singers from good ones, and I'm getting better at hearing differences in different versions (like I can now--sort of!--do with wine) and different singers approaches. I really can't name any favorite singers, other than Jussi Bjorling, but to me that's not really the important part. The important part is that for 2 1/2 hours, the whole audience was transported to Paris, to a garret full of starving artists and a cafe full of wine and song. To see a relationship come together and fall apart, to hear declarations of love and heartbreak. So much pathos, and so much beauty.

Here are two scenes from movies that evidence my feelings pretty perfectly, Philadelphia and the Shawshank Redemption. I remember once, my sister and I went to see Cosi Fan Tutte, and the old man next to us was so delighted by everything that was happening that he'd laugh for a good 10 seconds longer than everyone else, which was cracking ME up. There was a great set change there too, and he spontaneously started clapping, just like people did this past Friday. I glanced over at him, and his face was so happy. That's why I like opera.