My husband likes opera. Me? Not so much. But in the interest of good sportswomanship, I agreed to accompany him to the Metropolitan Opera at Lincoln Center for a performance of La Boheme.
La Boheme? How bad could it be? At least I was familiar with the libretto. I mean, everyone knows about poor consumptive Mimi. And it’s not as tragic as many other operas (spoiler alert) since she’s the only cast member who dies at the end.
Be honest. Generally, opera is not all that much fun. The stories involve treachery, tragic heroes, death, madness, love and loss, all related through song. I could get equally as depressed listening to a good ole country western album. At much less the cost.
La Boheme, which was composed by Puccini in 1893 is historically one of the most frequently performed operas. Even if you’re familiar with the story, a brief recap never hurts.
The male characters are friends: artists, musicians, writers, living the bohemian life in the Latin Quarter of Paris circa 1830. In the opening scene the friends are leaving their garret to join other friends at a pub. Rodolfo, the writer and poet, stays behind to finish a story.
Shortly, there is a knock at the door. He opens it and beholds a young woman holding an unlit candle. She sings an apology for disturbing him and explains that her candle has blown out.
Basically, she came to borrow a match. Rodolfo invites her in and proceeds to light her fire.
Minutes later, gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes, they are professing, in song, their eternal love. I am stifling giggles.
Who knew that the Italians invented speed dating? Maybe things really did move more quickly back then.
Of course, the path of love, especially instant love, doesn’t run smoothly. The lovers part. They reunite. The intervening acts are full of Latin anguish. Lucia gets sicker. In the end, she returns to Rodolfo to die in his bed.
She is ravished by tuberculosis. Her body is thin and frail. She is barely able to breathe.
Yet she manages an aria. Tell me, from where is the oxygen coming? Once again, I fear I won’t be able to contain my giggles.
And so, my more cultured friends, I hope you won’t think less of me. It took a bit of courage to come out of the closet and share my little secret.
But I’m not alone. Opera has had its critics, far more noteworthy than I. So, I leave you with this quote from one of my heroes, Mark Twain:
I have attended operas, whenever I could not help it. I am sure I know of no agony comparable to the listening of an unfamiliar opera…that sort of intense but incoherent noise which always so reminds me of the time the orphan asylum burned down.
