Oct. 14th, 2008 10:53 am
Brahma sez, "Bros before hos"[*]
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muckefuckFirst off, my apologies for the utter dearth of shirtless Nathan Gunn pictures in this post. It's not like they're at all hard to find on the 'Net, but I couldn't locate any of him sporting the natty beard and long flowing curls he bore on stage last night, so in a rare burst of responsible conservatism I chose accuracy over titillation. Cheer up, you're no worse off than e. last night, who seemed only half-convinced that ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bunj's forgetting of the opera glasses was a guileless oversight.
So I went into my first opera of the season not expecting much and left pleasantly surprised. As I've already mentioned, Pêcheurs gets a lot of flak on account of its third-rate libretto (whose authors even admitted they'd've done a more respectable job if they'd only known Bizet was actually going to write decent music). But, really, the plot is no dumber than that of a dozen other operas that are in the regular repertoire and the score is more complex than I'd been led to believe based on the fact that there's only one standout number, the act one duet "Au fond du Temple Saint". Bizet knows when he's found a good tune and weaves the theme from this one throughout the work (as Nuphy says, "He knew his Wagner!") in interesting and sensitive ways.
The duet itself avoids e.'s bugaboo of being a song of undying love between two people who have fallen in love after beholding each other briefly once by being a song of undying love between two good friends who who have fallen in love with someone else after beholding her briefly once. And that admirably sets the tone for the work, which is essentially a bromance between Nadir and Zurga. It's ironic that the opera was nearly titled "Leïla" since she's bland as toast, a non-entity in a white veil. Nuphy whispered to me "Bizet hadn't found his female voice yet" which is a nice way of saying she's easily the least intriguing of the four principals. Despite the fact that the brooding priest Nourabad has only a fraction as much stage time, we found ourselves wildly speculating on his motives afterwards. (Asbunj points out, he was the one who selected Leïla to the untouchable virginal priestess, so depending how much of the backstory was known to him, the destruction of Zurga could've been his goal all along. A purely political coup, if you ask me, though true to form bunj prefers the homoerotic jealousy angle.)
This isn't to say that Cabell didn't give it her all (though I deduct points for her "got a cold but singing anyway" announcement before the performance--I'm sorry, but no one who can float a note like she did in Act 3 can be that under the weather), but it's a thankless part; the whole piece is just lifeless whenever Zurga isn't on stage. Gunn and Cutler didn't make me forget hearing Terfel and Alagna sing their respective roles at the Met gala, but to their credit they didn't dishonour that memory either. If anyone was a bit weaker than the rest, it was Van Horn, who should've brought a bit more menace to the part of Nourabad.
As for the production, it looked fabulous upon first glance and slowly went downhill from there. The first scene is described as a "beach" but took place on a stage tiled to look like my sister-in-law's bathroom. Still, it combined with the backdrop to produce an almost perfect reproduction of a 19th century French illustration. The illusion died with the lights, however; the backdrop stood up admirably to the bluish lights of "night", but they washed out the floor, leaving only puddles of rust and umber that looked like spilled waste from a refinery. (And recall that our seats are in the upper balcony, so we see a lot of floor.)
And what was with the costumes? "Biblical Palestine" was e.'s assessment. Not that this was entirely out of keeping with the libretto's amateurish Second Empire exoticism[**], but it doubtless had less to do with authenticity than with the inadvisability of bare midriffs for most of the Lyric chorus. This was in start contrast to the dueling washboards of our two leads, Gunn in particular calling to mind the perpetually-shirtless Gregory "Gonzo Gates" Harrison character Torch of the 1986 Falcon Crest parody Fresno. For similar reasons, the dancing was perfunctory at best, which was a sadly missed opportunity, and the blocking was the usual Lyric senselessness, reaching its apex (or its nadir?) when one character is praying for another to gaze down upon him from afar, i.e. two feet up and about twenty feet away on a tiny dais. At least they had the best-motivated chorus-clearing manoeuvre I think I've seen so far: Just set something on fire!
[*] I would be seriously remiss if I did not creditbunj for this formulation.
[**] Responsible for much sniggering throughout, though none as much as during the paean to "Siva, reine lumineuse!" We decided she must be Brahma's wife in the Hindoo Trinity, with Kali relegated to the status of faithful family pet. "What's that you say, Kali? Ganesh has fallen into a well and needs help?"
bunj's forgetting of the opera glasses was a guileless oversight.So I went into my first opera of the season not expecting much and left pleasantly surprised. As I've already mentioned, Pêcheurs gets a lot of flak on account of its third-rate libretto (whose authors even admitted they'd've done a more respectable job if they'd only known Bizet was actually going to write decent music). But, really, the plot is no dumber than that of a dozen other operas that are in the regular repertoire and the score is more complex than I'd been led to believe based on the fact that there's only one standout number, the act one duet "Au fond du Temple Saint". Bizet knows when he's found a good tune and weaves the theme from this one throughout the work (as Nuphy says, "He knew his Wagner!") in interesting and sensitive ways.
The duet itself avoids e.'s bugaboo of being a song of undying love between two people who have fallen in love after beholding each other briefly once by being a song of undying love between two good friends who who have fallen in love with someone else after beholding her briefly once. And that admirably sets the tone for the work, which is essentially a bromance between Nadir and Zurga. It's ironic that the opera was nearly titled "Leïla" since she's bland as toast, a non-entity in a white veil. Nuphy whispered to me "Bizet hadn't found his female voice yet" which is a nice way of saying she's easily the least intriguing of the four principals. Despite the fact that the brooding priest Nourabad has only a fraction as much stage time, we found ourselves wildly speculating on his motives afterwards. (As
bunj points out, he was the one who selected Leïla to the untouchable virginal priestess, so depending how much of the backstory was known to him, the destruction of Zurga could've been his goal all along. A purely political coup, if you ask me, though true to form bunj prefers the homoerotic jealousy angle.)This isn't to say that Cabell didn't give it her all (though I deduct points for her "got a cold but singing anyway" announcement before the performance--I'm sorry, but no one who can float a note like she did in Act 3 can be that under the weather), but it's a thankless part; the whole piece is just lifeless whenever Zurga isn't on stage. Gunn and Cutler didn't make me forget hearing Terfel and Alagna sing their respective roles at the Met gala, but to their credit they didn't dishonour that memory either. If anyone was a bit weaker than the rest, it was Van Horn, who should've brought a bit more menace to the part of Nourabad.
As for the production, it looked fabulous upon first glance and slowly went downhill from there. The first scene is described as a "beach" but took place on a stage tiled to look like my sister-in-law's bathroom. Still, it combined with the backdrop to produce an almost perfect reproduction of a 19th century French illustration. The illusion died with the lights, however; the backdrop stood up admirably to the bluish lights of "night", but they washed out the floor, leaving only puddles of rust and umber that looked like spilled waste from a refinery. (And recall that our seats are in the upper balcony, so we see a lot of floor.)
And what was with the costumes? "Biblical Palestine" was e.'s assessment. Not that this was entirely out of keeping with the libretto's amateurish Second Empire exoticism[**], but it doubtless had less to do with authenticity than with the inadvisability of bare midriffs for most of the Lyric chorus. This was in start contrast to the dueling washboards of our two leads, Gunn in particular calling to mind the perpetually-shirtless Gregory "Gonzo Gates" Harrison character Torch of the 1986 Falcon Crest parody Fresno. For similar reasons, the dancing was perfunctory at best, which was a sadly missed opportunity, and the blocking was the usual Lyric senselessness, reaching its apex (or its nadir?) when one character is praying for another to gaze down upon him from afar, i.e. two feet up and about twenty feet away on a tiny dais. At least they had the best-motivated chorus-clearing manoeuvre I think I've seen so far: Just set something on fire!
[*] I would be seriously remiss if I did not credit
bunj for this formulation.[**] Responsible for much sniggering throughout, though none as much as during the paean to "Siva, reine lumineuse!" We decided she must be Brahma's wife in the Hindoo Trinity, with Kali relegated to the status of faithful family pet. "What's that you say, Kali? Ganesh has fallen into a well and needs help?"
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This explains, I suppose, why the priest of Brahma bears an Arabic name meaning something like "city of light."
The more I see of this 19th century exoticism thing, the more it strikes me as fundamentally similar to the Western in conception: a world with a reduced set of signs adapted to telling the simplest possible stories, in which emotions (of loss, betrayal, unrequited love etc) can be expressed free of any messy and complicating context.
And then there's the continuing politics of the Oriental: I reckon your total crud wants to see some skin, but is unlikely to go to the opera to get it; semi-cruds (like me, half the time) get all aerated about the perpetuation of erotica/exotica myths and consider their Authentick Lankan Women to be demurely covered; it's only your culturally-secure and -conscious elite, who are comfortable with their distance from the Second Empire Bourgeoise, who see midriffs as a sign denoting exoticism.
You can see I'm supposed to be thinking seriously about something else, can't you?
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Given the Arabic elsewhere, however, on further reflection I wonder if "zurga" isn't supposed to simply mean "black" (he's a fisherman, isn't he? Can you shed any light on his social class?) - I know I've come across this linkage before, and a brief googling turns up this usage recorded in Sudan. The French didn't get into Sudan until the 1890s, but (speculating) the term might have been more widespread across North Africa, where the French had had interests at least since Napoleon I.
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