Aida is set in Egypt because people like seeing exotic things without getting off their couches. That’s why there are so many operas about hookers. This one’s not about a hooker. It’s about the captain of the Egyptian guard, Radames, who is in love with an Ethiopian slave, Aida. Aida is the slave of the Egyptian Princess Amneris, who is in love with Radames.

The Ethiopians are coming and Isis tells Radames to go  conquer them. Isis isn’t actually in this opera. She’s working flex time and telecommutes.

The Ethiopian army is lead by Amonasro, king of Ethiopia. Amonasro happens to be Aida’s father, which everyone in Egypt would know if they had read the synopsis in their programs. Aida does not know which team colors to wear.

Radames comes back victorious, trailing several captors including the man he would like to call his father in law. Amonasro is dressed as a captain and although Aida greets him as his father, they still don’t know he’s king. The people all say to have pity on the captors. The priests say that sounds like a good idea and they’ll get right on it after they’ve had them killed. The king of Egypt congratulates Radames and invites him to marry his daughter. Considering what kind of mood the priests are in, Radames doesn’t mention his preference for Aida.

Amonasro, who is kind of a jerk, reminds Aida that Radames just killed a bunch of her friends and conquered her homeland. She’s unphased by this logic.

Radames had figured that if he conquered the Ethiopians, he’d be able to come home and marry Aida. He’s just not that into Egyptian princesses (especially kind of bitchy ones). Aida suggests they run off together and Radames spills the beans that the Egyptian army will be going through a super secret pass the next day so it will be unguarded and they can go that way. The king of Ethiopia then blows it all by triumphantly announcing to anyone who will listen that Radames is a traitor and the Ethiopians will now sneakily attack them in the super secret pass, because no one had invented or cracked the Enigma yet. Or figured out how to read ahead in the programs, for that matter.

Radames is tried as a traitor and the priests, who are still in a mood, announce that he should be buried alive. Radames goes into his brandy spandy new tomb which they’ve prepared for just such an occasion and as they push the big stone closed over his head, he notices that Aida is in the tomb with him. She snuck in the night before and no one thought to stop her because who wants to be in a tomb that’s about to be sealed if you’re not actually dead yet?

The next bit requires some stage trickery because Aida and Radames are singing in the tomb while Amneris et al are above, wringing their hands (or toasting themselves, depending). Everyone sings and then - you know I spoil all the surprise endings, right? - they die. For good measure, Amneris comes around just in time to be equally miserable (but less dead).

Salome is perhaps the reason I like opera.

When I was in high school, a french horn player named Michael Gast played Salome for me. He explained what was happening in the music as well as the plot. It was like watching a hockey game with someone who not only knew about hockey, but knew rude stories about all the players. There are a lot of rude stories about the players in Salome.

Watching it now, there’s something familiar about this opera but I can’t quite put my finger on it. There’s lingerie and death and sex and more sex and death and cryptic innuendo and… sweet baby Elmo, I’m watching a Lady Gaga video.

As with many of the best sex and violence operas, Salome is a Bible story. It’s the story of King Herod, his prisoner John the Baptist/Jokanaan and his stepdaughter Salome. Herod recognizes that John/Jokanaan is in tight with God and doesn’t especially want to turn him over for execution because, you know, plagues of locusts, 40 days 40 nights, whale indigestion, blah blah blah. Herod is also a lecherous ass.

The whole opera takes place on one set, which probably pissed the union right off. In the middle of the set is a grill covering a pit which leads to the green room in which Jokanaan hangs out. He sings up through the grill just often enough to make everyone nervous.

Narraboth, the captain of the guard, starts the ball rolling with his wing man, the page. The page warns him about Salome, but Narraboth’s eyes go all twirly and he won’t shut up about her until Jokanaan starts bellowing biblical prophecy. Note: do not invite prophecy-spewing guests to parties and leave the opening to their prisons where people can hear them.

Salome comes away from the feast because she can’t stand how Herod looks at her. She hears Jokanaan and asks who he is. She quizes the guards about him, and then asks to see him. The guards are not down with that and, since they are probably eunics, don’t give in. Narabaath is not a eunic.

He brings out Jokanaan, who launches into a tirade about Herodias - Salome’s mother/current wife of Herod. Herodias richly deserves his wrath. Salome listens and thinks he’s a total dreamboat, or at least her kind of effed-up. Jokanaan asks who she is and when she identifies herself as the daughter of Herodias he tells her to go to the wilderness and eat nuts and berries until she’s redeemed of the Lord. She counter-offers with a suggestion to just do it right here, right now. Narraboth is all kinds of jealous and kills himself. No one notices. Salome keeps begging Jokanaan to kiss her.

“I’ll be in my dungeon if anyone needs me” Jokanaan mutters over his shoulder, descending back into the pit/green room and pulling the grate shut behind him.

Herod and Herodias appear and Herod asks for Salome in a manner inappropriate to their stepfather - stepdaughter relationship. Herodias may or may not junk kick him and tell him to stop being such an a-hole.

Jokanaan puts in his two cents. Herodias tells him to zip it and taunts Herod for being afraid of him. Herod waxes theological, Nazarenes talk of miracles, Herodias is annoyed and the choir dozes. On a roll, Herod asks Salome to dance for him, summoning her stripper pole. She says no. He says “please oh please I’ll give you a pony.” She says no. He says “anything you want! I’ll give you anything you want! Pleeeeeeeze…..?”

“Promise?”

He promises on a stack of lunch meat. Salome dances. There is nudity. And then she asks for the head of Jokanaan on a silver platter. Herod faints. Herodias cheers. She gives his ring to the soldiers and issues the command.

In the dungeon the soldiers are all drawing straws. Salome waits, tapping her watch. Finally the head appears.

Salome takes the head, reminds it of the refused kiss, and snogs the severed head of Jokanaan.

Herod screams like a little girl and tells the soldiers to kill her. They do.

The end.

If you are wondering what has gotten into us, we are posting fast and furiously because Trout Towers is hosting Opera Hell Week: Seven Days, Seven Operas and the Trouts’ friends need all the help they can get. The seven operas are: La Fille du Régiment, La Bohème, Tosca, Romeo and Juliet, Salome, The Barber of Seville and Magic Flute. Feel free to follow along.

They’re watching streaming HD from the Metropolitan Opera’s Met Player. It’s cheap and there are tons of operas to watch.* We at Opera Betty maintain that HD opera broadcasts are a gateway to hardcore live opera use. First one’s free.

And now, to Tosca!

I love Tosca because the first video I ever watched of it featured a not particularly attractive or svelte Tosca and when she threw herself from the ramparts she did so with the finesse and grace of a rhino on fire. It was truly hilarious and I rewound it mercilessly.

Tosca also has some of my favorite music - Scarpia’s “Va Tosca” (with the Te Deum in the background) and the scene in which Tosca is heard singing outside Scarpia’s window. Listen for it.

Act I takes place inside a church in Rome. Angelotti, an escaped political prisoner, rushes in, finds a hidden key and ducks  into one of the gated chapels. Mario Cavaradossi is painting a fresco of the Madonna in the church and returns to work soon after Angelotti’s arrival. Recognizing Mario as a fellow Bonapartist, Angelotti reveals himself. No, not like that.

Mario locks the door to the church and offers Angelotti help. The locked door rouses the suspicions of the already jealous Tosca, a famous opera singer. Opera singers are like that. He manages to shoo Tosca away, but not before she notices the Madonna looks like someone she knows. She leaves,  a ticking bomb of jealousy. The woman Mario is painting as the Madonna happens to be Angelotti’s sister but neither Tosca nor Mario know that. The only reason it’s important is the sister left clothes for Angelotti because he likes dressing in women’s clothing when he’s escaping from prison. Angelotti leaves his sister’s fan behind because it doesn’t match his eyes.

Angelotti and Mario hear the cannons signaling an escaped prisoner and dash off together. Angelotti will hide at Mario’s pad. Wearing his sister’s dress. Oh, the indignity.

Tosca comes back to find Mario gone.

Scarpia, the chief of police, wants Tosca in a not particularly healthy relationship kind of way. He finds the fan and uses it to get Tosca in a twist about Mario and Angelotti’s sister. She storms off to find Mario and Scarpia sends a spy after her. This is when he sings the “I love it when a plan comes together” aria, accompanied by a bunch of choirboys.

Act II is in Scarpia’s apartment. He’s having dinner by himself because everyone hates him. His window is open and this is when you hear Tosca singing below. He sends a message to her to come up when she’s quite finished.

The spy he sent to find Angelotti returns, without Angelotti. To appease Scarpia, he’s brought Mario instead. The two bicker about where Angelotti is long enough for Tosca to arrive. And then Scarpia sends Mario off to be tortured.

Eventually Tosca can’t stand the sound of Mario being tortured and she spills the beans. Mario is brought out and told that Tosca gave up Angelotti’s hiding place. He is displeased. They usher him off to prison.

Tosca asks Scarpia what his price is to release Mario, which is a big mistake. Scarpia cannot resist a woman who hates him and absolutely cannot wait to get his hands on Tosca. He tells her as much. She sings “Vissi d’arte” which is quite famous and is about how she’s dedicated her life to art and love and a hell of a lot of good it’s done her.

Scarpia says, “I’m having him executed, so, uh, what do you think? You? Me?”

Tosca says “you are one seriously creepy dude so make it quick and make sure Mario and I have travel papers to Bermuda.” Scarpia tells his henchman to make it a mock execution and gives him the signal about what kind of mock he means.

Alone with Tosca, Scarpia writes the requested letter and signs it just as Tosca, seriously grossed out at the thought of him, spots a knife on his table. And kills him. You go, girl.

Tosca then scampers to find Mario in prison, where he’s already singing about how much he loves her. They sing together and she tells him she killed Scarpia. He thinks that’s totally hot. She tells him not to worry and brings him up to speed on the mock execution and the trip to Bermuda.

The guards come get Mario. He’s very brave since they’re not really going to kill him. After the firing squad has mockly executed him and gone off to breakfast, Tosca tells Mario he can get up. He doesn’t get up because they left out the mock part when they executed him.

There’s a kerfluffle as Scarpia’s minions discover she’s killed him and they come for her. Since Mario’s already dead and there’s nothing to live for, she tosses herself over the wall - either to her death or into a gorse bush. It’s hard to tell how high up they are.

and…. curtain.

*this is, sadly, a neither paid nor requested endorsement.

La Fille du Régiment is the story of an abandoned child who narrowly escapes becoming the Duchess of Krakenthorp. No one wants to have to introduce herself as the Duchess of Krakenthorp. It’s a bitch to spell.

Marie, the non-Duchess of Krakenthorp, was found and adopted by the 21st regiment. I don’t even want to know what that entailed. I’m sure it was honorable.

The opera starts out with the Marquise of Berkenfield (who we do not know is Marie’s mother) and the butler (who did not do it). They are traveling to their castle and are concerned about the fighting nearby. Sulpice, the 21st regiment sergeant, arrives to escort them.

A prisoner, thought to be a spy since he’s been trailing the regiment, is brought to Sulpice. Marie identifies him as Tonio, a Tyrolean local who once saved her life. She is in love with him. He’s in love with her. They are doomed doomed doomed because she has to marry someone from the regiment. He joins the regiment and sings the tight underpants aria.*

Meanwhile, Sulpice is putting together the name Berkenfield with the name on a note left with the orphaned baby. The marquise claims that Marie is her niece and was left in her care until she was accidentally forgotten on the bus/eaten by dingos/abandoned in a cave. Her niece cannot possibly marry a soldier, so she takes Marie to her castle, scrubs her up, teaches her to play the harpsichord and prepares her to marry the Duke of Krakenthorp. It’s very much like My Fair Lady, except not.

Marie does not want to marry the Duke of Krakenthorp because she is an ungrateful little regiment hussy who doesn’t know where her cake is buttered. Poor Marie. But then! The 21st regiment arrives, bringing Tonio. They are reunited! Tonio demands the marquise allow them to marry.

The Marquise of Berkenfield says “not while you’re living under this roof, young lady!” and forbids Marie to marry Tonio. She then admits to Sulpice that Marie is not her niece. Marie is her own illegitimate daughter, who she abandoned for fear of dishonor. Abandoning your baby is way classier.

When Marie finds out the marquise is her mother, she has a sudden change of heart and stops refusing to marry Krakenthorp. Wedding guests arrive.

The marquise, in turn, has a change of heart (remember, she’s the one who got knocked up in the first place by some hot scoundrel) and gives Marie and Tonio her blessing. This is a comedy, so they all live happily ever after. Is there anything funnier than the concept of living happily ever after?

*La Fille du Régiment is famous for the tenor’s aria “Ah! mes amis, quel jour de fête!” which entails nine high Cs. Although it entails nine high Cs, it is not a drinking song because there is no everclear.** To sing it, the tenor in question would do well to wear my son’s Buzz Lightyear underpants, size 4T, although that might make him somewhat less desirable to Marie and cause all sorts of trouble within the regiment.

**Everclear does not sing this opera.***

***Can you even have an asterisk within an asterisk? And why do people say “asterix?”

I’m not going to tell you how to pronounce Il Barbiere di Siviglia because it’s kind of like ordering Mexican food. I mean, if you’re at La Scala, you should probably brush up on your Italian but otherwise it’s perfectly okay to just order the chicken burritos.

If that did not make sense to you, this opera is only going to make it worse.

Let’s start with the characters. Count Almaviva is in love with Rosina. Rosina is the ward of Dr. Bartolo. Dr. Bartolo wants to marry Rosina. Rosina wants to marry Count Almaviva. Figaro helps make it all happen. Figaro is the Barber of Seville.

Almaviva arrives with his servant Fiorello and a band of musicians. They stand beneath Rosina’s balcony and Almaviva serenades her at dawn. Late sleeping Rosina does not appear. The musicians, telling each other to be quiet, wake the whole town.

Almaviva pays them and sends them away. He sticks around, hoping to see Rosina and have a word with her. He hears Figaro approaching and ducks into a doorway. Figaro is a loudmouth.

Figaro arrives and sings the Bugs Bunny aria.

Did you know that if you search online for Rabbit of Seville, the only videos you find are in Spanish? It’s true.

The Barber words are slightly different from the Rabbit version. This one is about how resourceful he is and how everyone is always asking him for something and calling him.

“Figaro! Figaro! Feeeeeee-ga-row!”

He goes on and on about how great he is and how nothing gets done without him. It would be annoying if he weren’t so darn charming.

Figaro and Almaviva recognize each other and Figaro asks what brings the Count to town. Almaviva explains about stalking Rosina.

Rosina appears on her balcony holding a note. Just as she sees the Count Almaviva, Dr. Bartolo comes out and demands to see the note. Rosina convinces him she’s just written out the lyrics to an aria from a popular opera. Dr. Bartolo does not like opera, the people who watch it, or the people who perform it. She accidentally drops the note and asks Bartolo to get it, knowing he won’t bother. She signals to Almaviva that it’s for him.  Bartolo shoos her inside.

The note says that Rosina has noticed Almaviva and she thinks he’s kind of cute. Bartolo will be going out soon and she hopes Almaviva will introduce himself.

Bartolo does go out, and Rosina appears on the balcony. Almaviva sings to her, calling himself Lindoro so she doesn’t fall for his title and wealth. It’s like Coming to America except they don’t come to America. He tells her he can’t offer her anything but his devotion. She swoons. He swoons. She hears someone coming and goes inside.

Almaviva hires Figaro to help him marry Rosina.

Bartolo has conscripted Basilio to help him finagle a marriage to Rosina. Madness ensues. The Count arrives as a soldier and again as a substitute music teacher (Alonzo). Bartolo tricks Rosina into thinking that Lindoro is  tricking her into marrying Count Almaviva and he does not love  her at all. Rosina agrees to marry Bartolo and confides that Lindoro/Alonzo/Almaviva and Figaro are planning to sneak in that night. They plan to trick them when they arrive.

Except when they arrive, Lindoro/Alonzo/whoever-the-flip-he-is tells Rosina he’s actually Count Chocula. Wait, no, Count Almaviva. She is tickled pink. A notary arrives to draw up the marriage contract between Bartolo and Rosina. Figaro has the notary make the contract between Almaviva and Rosina. The Count asks Basilio to be a witness. Basilio obliges. (Ballistics and bribery may or may not have been involved. )

Bartolo arrives, but it’s too late. There’s much rejoicing. The Count lets Bartolo keep Rosina’s dowery, which makes everything right in Bartolo’s world. Chorus sings. Curtains close.

The end.

I have to admit, I went to the Metropolitan Opera’s HD broadcast of Orfeo ed Eurydice because there were Isaac Mizrahi costumes involved. My friend went for the Mark Morris choreography. We were both pleasantly surprised by the music. Costumes, choreography AND singing? Heavens to Betsy, it’s our lucky day.

The role of Orfeo (Orpheus) was sung by a mezzo-soprano, who is not a man. Why, you ask, is the role of Orfeo sung by a woman? Because there’s a shortage of castrati these days. And Jimmy Somerville, to the best of Wikipedia’s knowledge, does not sing opera. When Gluck wrote the music, the title role was intended for a man who had been, ahem, altered, so that his voice would not change at puberty. I hope you are sitting. Opera is a sordid affair. In short, no one at the Met can sing that high except for the women and the prepubescent boys. And we should all be grateful for that. Especially the prepubescent boys.

Where was I?

The first scene opens on Orfeo, some shepherds, and a handful of nymphs (the woodland kind, not the teenage rock show kind). Eurydice is not there, because she’s dead. There is much wailing and singing of sadness until finally Orfeo tells the nymphs and whatnot to zip it because they are making it way worse and they weren’t married to her anyway so what’s their problem? Meanwhile, the god of love, Amor, has heard all the cacophony and takes pity on this poor musician. Amor tells Orfeo that Jove feels kind of bad and will allow Orfeo a visit to the underworld to retrieve Eurydice. The catch is, Orfeo cannot look at Eurydice and he can’t tell her why he won’t turn around. You can see where this is going, can’t you?

The second act is of Orfeo battling furies and dead dudes. He sings to them and they let him through the gates of Hades and on to the Elysian Fields. Were you asleep during your high school mythology class or are you keeping up? In the Elysian Fields, the dead heroes and heroines bring Eurydice to Orfeo, and off they go.

In act three, Orfeo leads Eurydice through the underworld. At one point she thinks he doesn’t love her anymore (go figure). He turns to reassure her, which of course sends her back to the underworld - dead again. Orfeo sings “Che farò senza Euridice?” which is Italian for “where are my sleeping pills?” Not wanting yet another overdosed musician in the underworld, Amor stops Orfeo from killing himself, revives Eurydice and gets them a nice place in the Hamptons where they live happily ever after. I may have taken some liberties with the details, but you get the idea.

(Orfeo ed Eurice - pronounced Or-FAY-oh ed oo-ree-DEE-chay. You get extra points for trilling the “ree.”)

I am sorry if you missed the high def broadcast of the Met’s Lucia di Lammermoor. You made a wretched mistake and we shall not dwell on it.

Okay we might dwell on it a little bit. Among other things (specters! Filial deception! Russian and Polish people singing in Italian while acting Scottish!), you missed a 20 minute mad scene in which Anna Netrebko, arguably the hottest diva in all of opera, goes nuts. Suffice it to say that going back to your wedding reception after knocking off your brandy spandy new husband is likely to get noticed and no one will want to dance with you.

You missed a doozy. BUT! You can redeem yourself on March 7th! The Metropolitan Opera is doing yet another high def broadcast. This time it’s Madama Butterfly, which is equally depressing even though it has 50% fewer deaths than Lucia.

My sister and I were dragged to see Madama Butterfly when we were kids and all we remember is how horribly we behaved. That and how boring it was watching her sit around and wait for Pinkerton to show up. Oh, if we had only known what we were watching. And if only there had been subtitles. And if only we had appreciated that anything involving geishas is kind of awesome. We would have been much, much better.

So. Madama Butterfly is temporarily married off to an American Lieutenant at the turn of the last century. She’s a geisha, but she’s young and naïve and doesn’t realize it’s a temporary thing. He leaves after knocking her up, and she waits for his return.

And she waits.

And she waits.

And then he shows up! But he’s with his legit wife. The non-temporary, non-Japanese one. Let me here insert that historically, Americans have shown themselves to be Real Wankers sometimes. I fully intend to throw things at Pinkerton, à la Rocky Horror Picture Show. Don’t worry, theater owners, I throw like a girl.

I don’t want to ruin the ending for you, but let’s just say it doesn’t go well.

Yes, there’s some waiting. It’s not exactly like Waiting for Guffman, in that it takes place in Japan, has nothing to do with amateur theater and has a humming chorus. A humming chorus! Also, the part of the little boy is played (portrayed?) by a puppet. I was leery of this at first because the puppet in question looks like an artist’s mannequin and I figured it was just a budget cut. However, it’s Japanese puppet theater and I have heard on the streets that that little block of wood will break your stone cold heart.

I dare you to show up and not weep like a humming chorus baby. Please note that if you want to take me up on my dare, you have to get tickets soon. Those people who didn’t miss Lucia are already lining back up at the box office. Even though there’s 50% less death.

photo: Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera

Dr. Atomic at the Met

(This is a reprint of something I wrote for the November 2008 issue of C.O.D)

In the event that you are unable to imagine what the love child of Schoolhouse Rock and the Barber of Seville would look like, the Met’s HD production of Dr. Atomic is rebroadcasting next week in a theater near you.

Yes, it’s the Met – as in the Metropolitan Opera, not The Mets. But just hold your horses because it’s not what you think. There are no lines like “oh Brunhilda, you’re so lovely.” Instead there are lines like “we surround the plutonium core from 32 points spaced equally around its surface….” I’m not kidding even a little bit. Do you know how totally weird it is to hear a full chorus sing that? And who knew? About the 32 points, I mean. I learned a lot about nuclear physics, let me tell you.

I also learned that you can write a libretto by plagiarizing from such diverse sources as Baudelaire, Bhagavad Gita, traditional Tewa songs and U.S. government documents. I could totally write a libretto. And imagine my surprise when I discovered that Peter Sellars had written this one! Like “The Sleeper” and “Mighty Aphrodite!” That rocks. Except that it’s Peter Sellars, not Peter Sellers. Close – but close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades and atom bombs.

So. The opera opens with all these scientists standing in scientist-sized cubby holes arranged like the periodic table, or a long Hollywood Squares. They are the scientists working at the Manhattan Project Laboratory, in Los Alamos, New Mexico. They look very, very smart, and they sing about things like turning matter into energy and the morality of using the bomb against Japan when Germany has already surrendered. Dr. Atomic is J. Robert Oppenheimer (Gerald Finley).

The scene skips from the lab to Oppenheimer’s home, where his wife, Kitty, is not so sure all this atomicness is a good idea. The role of Kitty is sung by the very lovely Sasha Cooke. Good thing she’s lovely, because when those HD cameras go in for close-ups they are not messing around. If you are wondering if opera stars floss before performances, I am here to say it looks as if they do.

From here we go to the “Trinity” test site, at Alamogordo, New Mexico. Factoid: Oppenheimer named the site Trinity after a sonnet by John Donne. The aria at the end of the first act “Batter my heart, three-person’d God,” is also based on that sonnet and was my favorite bit of music. La di da.

And then there’s an intermission, but instead of dashing right off to the restroom, we watched an interview with Gerald Finley and John Adams. Adams is the composer and he said many illuminating things about the opera which I can’t tell you because when I referred to my notes all it said was “John Adams: Olive-gold plaid jacket with pink and blue striped shirt. Am dizzy. Surely the projector is not correctly color balanced?”

Back to the Oppenheimers’ house, which is 200 miles away from Trinity. Kitty and her maid are watching the sky for the explosion in the dead of night. Kitty gets a little lit. I wonder if there was a cocktail shaker on everyone’s nightstand in the mid 1940s.

Finally, back to the test site where the explosion is scheduled for 5:30a.m., in the midst of an electrical storm. The scientists, who looked so smart in the first act, are now standing next to an atomic bomb in an electrical storm. I may not be a scientist, but this does not look like a good idea to me.

Right around this point I realize I had forgotten I was watching an opera and was all “yes but WHAT HAPPENS NOW!?!?” Even though it’s in English, it’s still subtitled, so as you read the words and watch the action you start to feel like you’re watching a particularly arty foreign film. In a language that sounds like singing. I think more languages should sound like singing. I would not be fluent in them.

I’m not going to tell you how it ends because that would be a spoiler. You will totally never guess what happens. Alright, you already know what happens, but still, it’s kind of amazing to watch. You may forget to breath for minutes at a time. Oppenheimer says it’s a two minute warning but it was the longest two minutes in opera history (including Wagner operas, which defy time and space in their ability to go on and on ad infinitum).

I saw the broadcast live at Wellfleet Harbor Actors Theater, where they’re rebroadcasting next Saturday, November 15, at 1pm. The Met HD broadcasts are also shown at Cape Cinema, in Dennis. Tickets tend to go fast, so use your computer prowess and order them online to be safe. There is absolutely no reason why we should be letting the old school opera snobs have all the fun (hi mom!).

The next opera is Damnation of Faust and you should probably go see it before I go and ruin the ending for you. Because I will. Stay tuned.

photo: Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera

Natalie Dessay as Amina in the Met’s La Sonnambula

First, some housekeeping.

I’m giving the pronunciation of these opera titles because earlier in the season I was chatting up an acquaintance and was all proud of myself for knowing what was scheduled until she repeated the name of each opera correctly.

So I rapped all of “She’s Crafty” and it totally put her in her place.

Also, I am listening to Belle & Sebastian as I write this, so if my lyric tone comes off more Belle-y  than Bellini-y, you’ll know why. Why am I listening to Belle & Sebastian as I type? Same reason I do most things. I’m too lazy to get up and change it. And I like this song.

There. That’s the most housekeeping I’ve done all day.

In three shakes of a little lambs tail, the second-to-last HD live broadcast from the Met will be upon us. It’s La Sonnambula (la so-NAM- boo-la) and has nothing to do with a sonogram so don’t make the same mistake I did when talking to your opera friends, okay?

La Sonnambula is known for its lame plot. No really, it is. So the Met thought they’d shake things up a bit, because opera people are a fickle, finicky lot. They like their operas to be fresh! and! new! even though they were originally performed in 1831.

Here’s what it’s supposed to be about:

In a little Swiss village all full of brown fuzzy cows, a lovely young couple (Amina and Elvino) prepares for their wedding. There is, of course, a jilted lover (Lisa) because without a jilted lover it just wouldn’t be opera. It would be the periodic table. Which would make a lousy opera, no matter what Dr. Atomic has to say about it.

A stranger arrives (Count Rodolfo) who turns out to be the long lost lord of the manor in disguise. He stays at the inn, which is run by Lisa the Jilted Lover.

Lisa figures out who he is, and hits on him. She goes to his room and asks if he has everything he needs (go ahead and read between the lines, it’s opera after all). She also lets him know that the gig is up and the whole village is on the way to welcome him because long lost lords of the manor don’t come through town every day. He’s quite taken with her and things might have gone well for Lisa except just then they notice a ladder at the window. Lisa runs from the room, dropping her scarf. Well yes, OF COURSE the dropped scarf is important.

And then who should appear on the ladder? Amina.

It’s obvious to the count that Amina is sleepwalking. She’s going on and on about her love for Elvino, which is not the best way to get lucky with an out of town stranger. He thinks she’s cute and sweet and leaves through the window without waking her. She, still asleep, lies down on the bed. Which is a mistake.

The townspeople arrive all in a dither about greeting the count. For reasons best understood by the librettist, they think it’s okay to go on into his room. Where they find Amina. In his bed.

Things don’t look so good for Amina.

It gets worse. Just then Elvino arrives, escorted by Lisa who is all “in your face, sister!”  Everyone is singing at everyone else. Amina wakes up. She has no idea where she is or why everyone’s in such a twist. Elvino says he’ll never marry her, blah blah blah. Amina cries and Teresa, her foster mother and the owner of the local mill, tries to comfort her. In the process of comforting her, Teresa wraps Lisa’s scarf around her shoulders.

I have no idea why you should know that Teresa is the owner of the local mill.

Everyone rushes off and there are some scene changes.

In Act 2, the entire village has set off to the manor to see if Count Rodolfo will clear things up for them. Which makes perfect sense because OF COURSE  he will be honorable and tell the truth about why there was a young woman asleep in his bed. Those Swiss. They’re so remarkably neutral.

Amina and Elvino meet up and face off. They sing at each other for awhile. There is crying.

And then Elvino decides it might be a good idea to marry Lisa after all. They’re on their way to the church when Count Rodolfo arrives and asks what’s up. After hearing the story, he tells Elvino he’s making a big mistake. While Amina was indeed in his room, she was asleep. This is a lousy story and no one really believes him.

Teresa shows up and asks everyone to pipe down because Amina has finally fallen asleep. And then she asks Elvino and Lisa where they’re off to all happy-like.  Lisa tells Teresa that they’re off to the church to be married, because at least SHE wasn’t in the count’s bedroom. Teresa produces the scarf. The wedding is probably not happening.

More singing at each other. The entire village has gathered and poor Elvino does not know what to do. He is apparently very cute and not very smart. He asks Count Rodolfo who to believe (because since both women were in his room he should be the authority, clearly). Rodolfo insists that Amina is innocent and then points to the upper window where Amina appears. She climbs out the window and sleepwalks along the rooftop while the entire village fails to breathe.

Things turn out for Amina and Elvino after all. We have no idea what happens to Lisa.

Here’s what the Met did with it:

Instead of a Swiss village, it’s set in a rehearsal space in New York. It’s kind of a Noises Off thing, where the company is rehearsing La Sonnambula and the two leads are also engaged and living the plot of La Sonnambula off stage.

Because it’s opera and therefore SCRIPTURE, they can’t go changing the libretto to fit the new plot. So imagine reading the lines and fitting them into a different scenario. It’s kind of like playing “that’s what she said.” But with more singing.

As usual, I can’t wait.

photo: Brigitte Lacombe/Metropolitan Opera

My six year old daughter, Apple Betty, pitched an unholy fit when I went off to see Thaïs without her. Which I suppose if you are going to pitch a fit about an opera involving a courtesan and a zealot, an unholy one fits the bill. Since I officially get two passes to the Met hd opera broadcasts, I figured “meh? why not,” and took her.

A motlier group has never graced the theater, I am sure. I, of course, looked stunning. I looked stunning by ignoring my family completely and getting my own bad self ready. Apple looked her own version of stunning: unbrushed hair, striped leggings, AC/DC tour t-shirt, cowboy boots. In short, a child ignored. They let us in anyway and were remarkably gracious.

Especially since we were an hour late. According to the house manager, all we missed was a bunch of chest-pounding by the great unwashed (including but not restricted to Thomas Hampson as a very hairy Athanael). In the first act, Athanael gets all shades of worked up over Thaïs (Renée Fleming) and shan’t rest until he’s converted her whoring-soul to Christianity.

Thaïs, if you’re unaware, is a courtesan. A courtesan is a species of escort. The good ones get penthouse suites and a fat allowance to spend on entertaining and making themselves even more courtesany. Back in the day, they were expected to be conversant on such topics as politics, literature, history and the S&P 500. They were also expected to sleep with their benefactors. Duh. Except for that “conversant” bit, I think The Girls Next Door are examples of modern day courtesans.

So. Athanael (rhymes with “denial”) goes to Egypt and tells Thaïs (rhymes with “high class prostitute”) all about her eternal salvation. Remarkably, he is successful (she’s considering it as a retirement plan). In a moment of very poor judgement, he goes to her in her bedroom to convince her to come away with him. She falls to the floor in front of him, clawing him, clinging to him, begging him to make things right between her and God. All the while, he’s doing a bit of praying himself - staring straight ahead and most likely repeating “there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home….” It can’t be easy for a man of God to have Renée Fleming prostrating herself at your feet.

You’d think they could just sneak away in the morning, when the others were nursing hangovers, but no. He tells her to burn everything she owns - her palace, her jewels, even her little statue of Eros for heaven sakes. You’d think that the “burn all your earthly possessions” thing would have raised some red flags. When someone wearing a hair shirt tells you to burn your own home, it’s time to wonder if he’s been taking the voices of Snap, Crackle and Pop a little too seriously. Also, you should prepare to die in the last act.

In Act 3, Athanael checks Thaïs into a 5 star convent, where she washes away her sins. As it turns out, you can take the courtesan out of the sin, but you can’t take the sin out of the courtesan - there being not much left when you pull her out of the dryer. So she dies.

But before she dies, she has an Eliott and E.T. moment with Athanael, seducing him in a dream. I’m not suggesting that E.T. seduced Eliott in a dream. That’s really creepy. Let’s all put it from our minds. I’m saying that Athanael woke up and went “nooooooo! she’s dying!!!!!!” and went to go tell her he wanted to make beautiful baby zealots with her.

She’s all “the gates of heaven! I see angels!”

And he’s all “There is no God! Have my babies!”

What we have here, as they say, is a failure to communicate.

She dies anyway and frankly I can’t blame her. What’s he going to do? Get a job at the Alexandria Superette? Make her sleep on a rock? She’s used to dresses by Christian Lacroix (who was the costume designer). I just don’t see the part about “providing for her in the manner to which she is accustomed” working out.

Speaking of her Christian Lacroix dresses, the last one she wore was made by saturating the fabric with plaster of paris and then sculpting it. Maybe not so comfortable, but totally kick ass.

The Met broadcasts explain things like this during the intermissions. You also get to see the set changes and close ups of the orchestra pit - which is all great for people who like opera but have very short attention spans.

Apple even made it through without garnering a single dirty look from the opera aficionados around her. Which bodes well for the future of opera. It also bodes well for my ability to spell “aficionado.”

fin

photo: Brigitte Lacombe/Metropolitan Opera