(~5 minutes to read)
…is like a lifetime in any other place (to paraphrase the lyrics of a 10cc song).
I admit it. I hate opera. Like the musical, it’s a pointless and unrealistic art form. Grown-up people singing at the top of their voices to someone standing not three feet away (or worse, in their arms)—declaring undying love (thus telling us they’ll be dead before the end of the act) or bemoaning unrequited love and informing all who can hear (and at that volume it’s a lot of people!) that they’re about to top themselves, and four minutes later they’re still singing. “Do it!” I say. “Now! Save yourself the effort and us the pain.”
Storylines are phantasmagorical and incredible, frequently lifted from mythology, fairy tale or some holy scripture. Body counts can compete with an Arnie movie. The stage sets of some operas make Hollywood’s efforts seem futile by comparison.
And all so hundreds of people can watch a story that they already know unfold in songs written in a language they may or may not understand.
Yes—I’m being antagonistic here. I’m inviting righteously indignant rebuttal. I do want to understand what the big deal is. But merely wanting to understand isn’t sufficient motivation for me—I need a rowdy mob of opera-goers in their best bib-and-tucker and pearls pursuing me with tallow torches, pitchforks and other clichéd weaponry, threatening to burn me for a witch for uttering such opinions. Then, and only then might I be sufficiently motivated to learn the appeal of opera (and maybe of musicals too). (Okay—please don’t take this literally!)
I’ll also admit that I’ve never been to the opera. I have, however, been exposed to opera on countless occasions, courtesy of my parents and Mrs. H, all of whom enjoy (past tense in the case of my parents) a good dose of warbling—nay, ululating— sopranos and villainous tenors strutting their stuff.
But let me draw your attention to the word “exposed” up there. The same word is used in the context of radioactive contamination. Opera. Radioactive substances.
Both are hazardous to health. Both leave the victim damaged. I still have opera bouncing around in my head two weeks after Mrs. H stopped listening to a particular piece over and over and over (a piece that her choir is rehearsing).
What is the half-life of opera?
On the other hand, I’ve had many, many x-rays in my life, and as far as I know, I haven’t been harmed (I certainly don’t feel moved to write about any ill-effects). The thing is, there is no safe level of exposure to opera; even the merest soupcon of an aria can embed itself in the skull of those susceptible to such damage.
And so it must have been in Buitenveldert, a southern area of Amsterdam, a few weeks ago. Police were called to a house by a neighbour who was concerned about the “terrifying screams” emanating from the house. Police responded in true life-at-stake fashion—they kicked the front door in—and found a man singing along to opera. He had the “tunes” cranked up on his headphones and was obviously oblivious (at last! An opportunity to juxtapose those two words!) to the infernal din he was making.
The names of the opera and the singer were not released, presumably to protect the reputation of the composer. But my imagination conjures up a big bearded guy dressed in full Brunnhilde regalia, wearing the biggest Bluetooth headphones that his Viking helmet could accommodate, threatening the coat stand, the grandfather clock and the torchière with his spear. I’m sure it wasn’t like that at all, but the image does make me smile a little.
Back to opera and musical as art forms though. The two go white-gloved hand-in-hand for me. And as I research for this article, I find that the line between them really is grey/blurred/dotted.
In 2011, The Guardian newspaper (UK) hosted a question on its website; “What distinguishes opera from musical?” Some of the responses were hilarious—here’s a sampling.
“About £50 a ticket”; “Opera singers weigh more than those performing in musicals”; “When someone starts singing after being stabbed, it’s an opera”.
Are these answers a reflection of the social status of Guardian readers, the senses of humour of Guardian readers, the need for Guardian readers to seem smart and funny, or are the answers truly representative of a more widely-held opinion? (Rhetorical question folks)
As someone who enjoys making and listening to music, writing, acting and watching plays, and experiencing (passively or actively) other art forms, I should be more open to opera and musicals. One of the reasons I struggle is the total surreality of it all. We don’t warn people of their impending demise in song (would a deathogram be the right term?); warrior leaders don’t sing instructions to their second-in-command while in their death throes; and in the case of musicals, fifty long-legged dancing girls don’t appear to reassure the demure miss of the male lead’s honourable intentions in the matter of his wooing her.
I realize that it’s all part of that suspension of disbelief that has to happen in the performing arts. But for some reason, I can suspend my disbelief of coincidence, ball games on flying broomsticks, 100mph horseback chase sequences, and the survival of the hero following machine-gun bullet hails, explosions and F5 tornadoes. But a tenor singing for several minutes with what might be a punctured lung?
Being the personality I am, I have to assume that it’s some defect in my upbringing or personality that prevents me from enjoying this highest of high-brow entertainment forms. Like millions of others, I can enjoy excerpts from many operas—arias that get airplay on radio stations for example. Does that make me a philistine? I don’t think so.
Despite liking the music of The Who, I have yet to see Tommy or Quadrophenia. I’m pretty sure the “rock opera” tag has deterred me, but maybe one day I’ll sit and watch the movies, and see if they resonate with me.
There’s one excerpt from an opera that I have loved ever since I first heard it in the late 60s. It’s title is Excerpt from a Teenage Opera, although many would call it Grocer Jack. A Teenage Opera was a musical project that produced a soundtrack, but I’m not aware that the opera itself was ever performed. A quick browse on the wonderweb yielded nothing live or recorded other than the soundtrack.
Which is probably why A Teenage Opera is my favourite opera.
Ah well—no ticket to Valhalla for me with the views I’ve just expressed. But that’s okay if it saves me from Brunnhilde!