Opera for teenagers, perhaps
The scene was set. Advertisements on the South West trains with a Antonio Banderas look-alike staring out intensely. The tickets were cheap, for an Opera. They would have been cheaper in the former Soviet block countries. The opera was sung in English and even though we were up in
the Gods and my son felt a touch of vertigo, there was a friendly atmosphere, more of the atmosphere of a people's variety show than an upper class hail-and-well-met meet.
Two older gentlemen in cockney accents discussed the opera behind us and instead of screens on the back of plush leather armchairs, there was a small signboard above the stage, between Apollo's chariots, that could equally have been used to announce train arrivals. But it only scrolled the singers' words once.
My son hadn't been warned so he didn't have any smart shoes. Luckily we were almost the same size, but my second pair has a rip in the side, so we stopped off in the high street and went looking for new shoes, or at the very least, superglue.
And we found superglue in the pound shop. We bought ten tubes of it for a pound. He had been rowing and his hands were full of blisters, so we repaired the shoe for him. Later on, several of the little containers leaked in our pockets. In the end we were all scratching at second skins.
I love the overture, but when some people get affordable access to high culture they like to, metaphorically, piss on it to mark it as their own special territory.
A Spanish gentleman, turned round to huck at my daughter when she asked me what it was about. I had told her, but she obviously hadn't listened. After doing so he proceeded to murmur into the ears of his very own Donna Elvira. A man at the back clapped so loudly at the right points that it startled us. But we got his message. He liked it and knew it more than the rest of us.
Next to me, an elderly German gentleman, as the Opera progressed, farted occasionally, but I didn't mind at all. He was far less offensive than the other two. I think he might have been an Austrian Jew, rather than a member of the Wehrmacht. I hope so. I think so. This was a treat for him and his companion, a gentleman of Indian origin - I only saw his brown hand.
The German speaker's hand marked time with the music while the ridiculously free and quite jarring libretto that had replaced the original was mouthed below. It quite distracted me from the music, innit bruv.
I asked the old man what he thought of the libretto at the interval, but he simply said,
'I've only heard it in German. They all sing well, but Donna Anna is too loud.'
We concurred. Her soprano was high pitched piercing and all brawn.
And in this production it turns out that Don Giovanni was not liberated from convention. Oh no. In fact he was a clever and conventional rapist and deserving of his fate. Or was he. Aha! The ambiguity was not lost on us for all the meddling with the words. The stage-hands were dressed in lurid Jesus T-Shirts and Don Giovanni wore Devil Horns
and a Jesus T-Shirt. What on earth could Rufus, alias
Chuck, Norris, have meant by that. Subtle it was not.
And so when Giovanni did finally go down to hell it was ridiculous because by that time the tenor of the piece and everyone else made you think that there wasn't a hell at all and that perhaps, Big Wink, Big Nudge. Giovanni hoodwinked the audience too.
Reference to Audience sitting on its arses right at the end and a fey comment about 'goodness' triumphs you know in sarcastic harmony.
(I expected Damian Hirst to send a few of his proteges to saw a calf in half in front of us just to make the point a little clearer. Only the body and bodily needs have reality.)
When you go down to hell tongue in cheek, do you really go down to hell? Presumably he met up with Frankie Boyle down there and they left via the stage door and went for a drink at the Salisbury and shouted underhand complements at each other above the pub's crappy music.
But what really ruined it for me was 'il Catalogo' sung for laughs, with a spreadsheet.
Leperetto was the best singer along with the singer who portrayed 'il Comandante, but they sanitised 'il Catalogo'. Hard to believe but they did. They bowdlerised Il Catalogo! Is it really necessary to bowdlerise 16th century opera?
Afterwards, at the recommendation of a friend we went to Spaghetti House. Small portions, cheap ingredients, but at least it's family owned and the risotto was nice, tasting of...mace, I think.
Did you like it? I asked eagerly.
Hm yeah, said my son, but perhaps next time we can go and see Handel's Semele.
And you, sweetheart, I said to my 17 year old daughter.
Hm. It was OK, she said.
It was nice to be in their company, but they weren't letting on what they thought.
On the way back my son tried to hum one of the arias. Listen to it again, I said. It grows on you, really it does. I held my hand on his shoulder and sang:
'Don Giovanni!, as 'il Comendatore' does.
He was embarrassed, but then they both relaxed a little and instead they sang in perfect harmony that
YouTube video phenomenon,
the Bed Intruder Song. A most appropriate response to Don Giovanni's antics, I think.
The scene was set. Advertisements on the South West trains with a Antonio Banderas look-alike staring out intensely. The tickets were cheap, for an Opera. They would have been cheaper in the former Soviet block countries. The opera was sung in English and even though we were up in the Gods and my son felt a touch of vertigo, there was a friendly atmosphere, more of the atmosphere of a people's variety show than an upper class hail-and-well-met meet.
Two older gentlemen in cockney accents discussed the opera behind us and instead of screens on the back of plush leather armchairs, there was a small signboard above the stage, between Apollo's chariots, that could equally have been used to announce train arrivals. But it only scrolled the singers' words once.
My son hadn't been warned so he didn't have any smart shoes. Luckily we were almost the same size, but my second pair has a rip in the side, so we stopped off in the high street and went looking for new shoes, or at the very least, superglue.
And we found superglue in the pound shop. We bought ten tubes of it for a pound. He had been rowing and his hands were full of blisters, so we repaired the shoe for him. Later on, several of the little containers leaked in our pockets. In the end we were all scratching at second skins.
I love the overture, but when some people get affordable access to high culture they like to, metaphorically, piss on it to mark it as their own special territory.
A Spanish gentleman, turned round to huck at my daughter when she asked me what it was about. I had told her, but she obviously hadn't listened. After doing so he proceeded to murmur into the ears of his very own Donna Elvira. A man at the back clapped so loudly at the right points that it startled us. But we got his message. He liked it and knew it more than the rest of us.
Next to me, an elderly German gentleman, as the Opera progressed, farted occasionally, but I didn't mind at all. He was far less offensive than the other two. I think he might have been an Austrian Jew, rather than a member of the Wehrmacht. I hope so. I think so. This was a treat for him and his companion, a gentleman of Indian origin - I only saw his brown hand.
The German speaker's hand marked time with the music while the ridiculously free and quite jarring libretto that had replaced the original was mouthed below. It quite distracted me from the music, innit bruv.
I asked the old man what he thought of the libretto at the interval, but he simply said,
'I've only heard it in German. They all sing well, but Donna Anna is too loud.'
We concurred. Her soprano was high pitched piercing and all brawn.
And in this production it turns out that Don Giovanni was not liberated from convention. Oh no. In fact he was a clever and conventional rapist and deserving of his fate. Or was he. Aha! The ambiguity was not lost on us for all the meddling with the words. The stage-hands were dressed in lurid Jesus T-Shirts and Don Giovanni wore Devil Horns and a Jesus T-Shirt. What on earth could Rufus, alias Chuck, Norris, have meant by that. Subtle it was not.
And so when Giovanni did finally go down to hell it was ridiculous because by that time the tenor of the piece and everyone else made you think that there wasn't a hell at all and that perhaps, Big Wink, Big Nudge. Giovanni hoodwinked the audience too.
Reference to Audience sitting on its arses right at the end and a fey comment about 'goodness' triumphs you know in sarcastic harmony.
(I expected Damian Hirst to send a few of his proteges to saw a calf in half in front of us just to make the point a little clearer. Only the body and bodily needs have reality.)
When you go down to hell tongue in cheek, do you really go down to hell? Presumably he met up with Frankie Boyle down there and they left via the stage door and went for a drink at the Salisbury and shouted underhand complements at each other above the pub's crappy music.
But what really ruined it for me was 'il Catalogo' sung for laughs, with a spreadsheet.
Leperetto was the best singer along with the singer who portrayed 'il Comandante, but they sanitised 'il Catalogo'. Hard to believe but they did. They bowdlerised Il Catalogo! Is it really necessary to bowdlerise 16th century opera?
Afterwards, at the recommendation of a friend we went to Spaghetti House. Small portions, cheap ingredients, but at least it's family owned and the risotto was nice, tasting of...mace, I think.
Did you like it? I asked eagerly.
Hm yeah, said my son, but perhaps next time we can go and see Handel's Semele.
And you, sweetheart, I said to my 17 year old daughter.
Hm. It was OK, she said.
It was nice to be in their company, but they weren't letting on what they thought.
On the way back my son tried to hum one of the arias. Listen to it again, I said. It grows on you, really it does. I held my hand on his shoulder and sang:
'Don Giovanni!, as 'il Comendatore' does.
He was embarrassed, but then they both relaxed a little and instead they sang in perfect harmony that
YouTube video phenomenon, the Bed Intruder Song. A most appropriate response to Don Giovanni's antics, I think.