I CAN’T REMEMBER much of the Marx Brothers’ film A Night At The Opera, except that it was one of our family favourites, and that the final scene, which causes havoc, reduced most people sitting on the sofa after Sunday tea to tears of laughter. The opera in question that Harpo swings so perilously across and the brothers manage to totally wreck is Il trovatore.
It’s coming to Paphos at the end of the month and it was the first opera that I ever saw at Covent Garden. I wasn’t even school age but the memory still stays with me, not least because it was also in black and white.
I can’t say I enjoyed it, I think I fell asleep after the gypsies had done their bit with their anvils, but I now know that it was a very famous production by Visconti and that by the end everyone seemed to have died. It was sometime around Christmas that we went and it certainly wasn’t like the usual panto, I was definitely not encouraged to ‘boo’ when the villain appeared or tell the fat lady that the nasty count was behind her. In fact, I can remember every time I asked a question about what was happening a sea of faces turned towards me, not unlike pantomime dames, and with scowling disapproval chorused “shhhh”.
Which is why, it took almost twenty years before I went to another opera and learned to enjoy them. The thing about operas, unlike Harry Potter, is that discovering the ending and plot in advance is a real bonus. I know that there has been hoo-ha about the fact that supertitles now adorn the top of the stage or, as in Covent Garden, make you feel you are on the Number 79 bus as they light up in digital red across the seat in front, but I like knowing what is going on.
For me operas are about entertainment not joining a gentleman`s club, and the most magical are in the open air. So much snobbery and protocol has infiltrated the large opera houses with their dress codes and unwritten rules of behaviour: fine to clap Italian arias but not German, to shout brava at the soprano but not bravo. It’s all so U and non U.
A few years ago we found ourselves in Orange in southern France sitting in a Roman amphitheatre. It was a cold night and we were wrapped in blankets with a picnic of cheese and dark, rich red wine. It was Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor and the production would not have disappointed a blood ‘n guts gladiatorial audience.
There was none of the “one simply doesn’t do that” ethos, when the lights went up there was spontaneous applause for the set: a hugh Scottish castle complete with live sheep, pigs and horses. As Lucia made her entrance with her flame-coloured ringlets there was rapturous applause, even more-so when the horse decided to cast his own comment on the proceedings with a freshly steaming heap.
Last year the audience was criticised at the opera in Paphos for talking and not paying attention. It upset the performers and affected the enjoyment of others. True, there is a difference between expressed enthusiasm for what is happening on stage and oblivion to it by discussing with the people behind you how Aunt Betty is enjoying her holidays or what Kosta got in his A Level maths. But there is no reason why wonderful singing should not be applauded and there is much wonderful singing in Il trovatore. Let’s just hope there aren`t three anarchic brothers to literally bring the house down, whip the clothes of the prima donna off and tear the toffs off a treat ..
