November 10, 2002

Last night I got to see an opera... technically. When I say “see,” of course, I mean “be in a gigantic, excessively-decorated theater in which an opera was, ostensibly, being performed.” However, although we could certainly hear the opera taking place, all we could see were several brightly colored dots that might have been opera singers performing Madame Butterfly*, or maybe break-dancing Sumo wrestlers, if you squinted just right. (If they were sumo wrestlers, I am greatly saddened to have missed it.)

The reason we could not see was because our seats were in Row G. “Row G” is actually not a “row” so much as an entire section of seats in the very back upper balcony of the Orpheum in Memphis, which meant we had to take an elevator to our seats. The elevator took a very long time. We thought it was because the elevator was slow. We were naive fools. Of course the elevator is going to take a long time when it has to travel nearly 5,000 kilometers to “Level B.” From where we sat, the air was noticeably thinner, and the boiling point of water was noticeably lower.

It didn't help either that the metal bars designed to prevent us from fatally plunging 37 stories into a cluster of well-dressed opera patrons was placed “just so” to make sure it blocked the view of the very center of the stage for some unfortunate people. For those of us who were saved from the bar, a scowling usher would occasionally walk by and stop right in front of us to make sure that we didn't feel left out. Of course, this was not the usher's fault. Some monumentally stupid person kept taking pictures with a flash camera, which was really embarrassing and annoying, because everyone in Row G was a Harding student, and so the ushers probably were developing an unflattering stereotype of Harding students right there in their minds – “Harding students are just the type of people to take flash photos of an opera,” they were probably thinking. If I had been sitting by the perpetrator, you can rest assured knowing that the height of Row G would finally be taken advantage of, well-dressed opera patrons below or not.

Speaking of “well-dressed,” it was interesting to me that various students all evidently had different ideas of what “well-dressed” meant. It was an opera, after all, so it is naturally just the kind of thing that one should get seriously dressed up for. For some girls, this evidently meant wearing extremely complicated-looking sequined dresses that stayed on their bodies in direct defiance of several key laws of physics. For some guys, this meant wearing “some kind of long pants.”

As for myself, I wore the only stuff I have for getting dressed up, that is, the standard white-boy ensemble: navy blazer and khakis. As a general rule I despise getting dressed up, but I cave when necessary, such as when a grade is involved, or there will be lots of girls there who will be watching you to make sure your idea of dressed-up is more than “not wearing sandals.” So I caved.

It did seem silly to get so dressed up only to be relegated to the absolute boonies of the Orpheum. If nobody can see you, why bother? I would also like to point out that there was plenty of leg room in Row G, provided you were a double amputee.

But not that I'm bitter about any of this. Oh no. Because getting to see a Puccini is a singular cultural experience not to be missed. I'm not really sure why. I think it's akin to why some people read classic books. It's more important to have read something you're supposed to have read than to read something that's worth reading. (Actually, I love many of the classics. But some of them make you wonder why they are in the literary canon... **cough**cough** Scarlet Letter **cough**cough** ... ) I suppose opera is much in the same vein. We go to the opera because it's a big cultural thing we're supposed to appreciate, whether or not anyone really does.

What's the appeal of an opera supposed to be, specifically, Madame Butterfly? It may seem odd that an Italian would decide to write an opera about the clash of the Japanese and American cultures when he doesn't seem to understand either one very well, so the appeal is probably not for its historical veracity. Is it the witty dialogue? True there are a few funny lines in there, but how many times have you heard somebody say, “I'm going to the opera now to have me a good, hearty laugh?” The lines are only funny because you just expect it to be so serious that when one of the singers cracks a joke, it startles you, and you find yourself more accepting of humor than you would be if you were, say, watching Friends. Some people, however, laughed at moments that were obviously not intended to be funny, such as when a singer would get really dramatic and sing, very poignantly, a long Italian phrase which translated into “It's time to get up.” Why, oh why, do people respect opera more than musicals, when in opera you are forced to set lines like “please pass the salt” to grandiose music?

So what is the appeal? The electric pacing? Hardly. (At least it wasn't Tristan und Isolde. That's all I have to say about that.) It's bad enough that the characters spend hours singing about emotions they could just sum up in half a second, but Puccini felt compelled, for whatever reason, to let us experience the last night in real time, that is, twelve hours of subtle lighting changes while the actors pretend to sleep.

Is it the acting? Nope. The powerful, emotional situation? Well, maybe, except that everybody knew what was going to happen. If you didn't read the synopsis, the singers practically tell you everything to expect in Act I. “If you marry her,” they sing, “she will become hopelessly devoted to you and kill herself after you marry someone else in America!” Someone called this “foreshadowing.” I call that “an understatement.”

So that leaves the music. The music is, indeed, beautiful, and for that reason alone I'm glad I went. You can hear just about every song Andrew Lloyd Webber wrote later caught up in little snatches of the songs. Not to say that any part of this opera was catchy or memorable in any way. I would hate it to slander Puccini by suggesting that. It was evocative and emotional without being memorable, which seems to be what the musically-minded community approves of, anyway, although odds are they don't respect Puccini just because he actually tried to show emotion in his work. I haven't researched it or anything, but I'll betcha ...

Anyway, if you ever have an opportunity to go see an opera, you should go, but if you're in Row G, bring an oxygen mask and binoculars. I'm done now.

*Subtitled “Very Similar to Miss Saigon!”