It doesn’t take much to push my buttons at the opera: adrenalin levels shoot up, the heart goes thump, thump and the palms grow sweaty. I don’t suffer gladly; my patience wears thin; and at such times, I gird myself for battle with singleness of purpose, the wiliness of a serpent, and the ferocity of a lion. My wife says that I am rude and wishes, at moments, she could dissolve into her seat out of embarrassment. Maybe she’s right, but timidity is not a virtue in my school of life.
Allow me to recite a quick rosary of what annoys me!
As the chandeliers rise and the house lights dim at the Metropolitan Opera House, idle chatter continues when the conductor’s wand calls on the orchestra to play the introduction, say, of Strauss’ ‘Salome’. And then, there are those melomanes who lean forward blocking my view. Or the elderly, usually a man, in the womb-like darkness of the house, will not only fall into a deep sleep but snore. Or think of the coughing and loudly clearing throats.
Another cause of vexation is the unwrapping and crinkling of candy in a cellophane wrapper in the middle of a performance. And what about those music lovers who hum, sing, or beat a tattoo on their programs to the music. At such times, you wish they would leave the hall, for if they did, they cannot come back until after intermission or not a all.
The Met has a production of ‘Salome’ that uses strobe lights, which drives me to distraction that I flee the hall. [Like Salome, I would want the designer’s head on a silver platter!] Think, too, of that operagoer who often looks at the program: comes with a flashlight with a strong light, which, you think, would explode into the brightness of a fireworks display.
Although I like to say years of heavy smoking have dulled my sense of smell, heavy and strong perfume, with which women douse themselves, or cologne men overly use, turns my stomach.
Another irritation is sending messages or playing games on a cell phone, not to mention, forgetting to turn it off, during the performance.
Strangely enough, children do not annoy me at the opera. They may fidget or squirm, but they look as though the opera had cast a spell on them by opening on to a land of enchantment. I have seen them grow quiet and absorbed during Verdi’s ‘Aida’, especially during the triumphal scene, while adults exhibit infantile and boorish behavior by talking and shifting in their seats or whisper with a friend.
Let me not leave out those who arrive ‘fashionably’ late, and have seats in the middle of a row, thereby disturbing everyone to stand up or refuse to make room, so that they can get to their seats that have become a coat rack.
What about the enthusiastic amateur of music who, unable to restrain him- or herself, from shouting ‘bravo’ or ‘bravissimo’? And sure enough, there are those who cluck indignant and with a loud note of correction scream ‘brava’ for a woman singer or ‘bravi for two men or a duet, or brave for two women. Enough of pedant perfectionism!
You may wonder why I continue going to the opera. Well I don’t anymore for the plain and simple truth, I cannot afford it. So I see it telecast in a small picture house, where the Dolby sound drowns out many of the sources of the stresses and strains on my system. And if I cannot, as a ‘pis aller’, thank goodness for the PBS rebroadcasts of some operas on the television, which I can watch in the comfort of my sitting room.
Truth be told, watching opera at home or in a cinema has not the same ‘authenticity’ as seeing say Renee Fleming and Lawrence Brownlee singing Rossini’s ‘Armida’ at the Met. Opera beggars, in these parlous economic times, cannot be too choosy.
