I guess you all know the fairy tale about the Emperor’s New Clothes. In case you don’t, here’s a short synopsis. A really clever tailor tells the Emperor that he will make some garments for him which are so special that dumb people won’t be able to see them. The tailor then dresses the Emperor in what we in Austria call ‘hot air’ (aka absolutely nothing) and as the Emperor does not want to appear dumb, he pretends to see something. The Emperor then walks out naked to the crowd and all his subjects also pretend to see the clothes. Then comes a child that says, ‘Oh, the Emperor is naked’, and everyone realizes what’s really going on and starts to laugh at the Emperor. End of story. And although I personally have never gotten involved with invisible clothes (I see them all! Ha!), I did have a very similar situation when I went to the opera a couple of weeks ago. While everyone pretended to love the piece, I seemed to be the only one to notice that the opera was the musical equivalent of hot air.
First of all, I have a confession to make: although I do go to the opera occasionally, the two of us are not the best of friends but have a very passionate love-hate relationship. I mostly have a good enough time at the opera but usually leave feeling slightly traumatized because no matter how good the production, something always feels off. It’s like the pair of shoes that makes you look really sexy but causes blisters or the handsome guy who turns out to be a sloppy kisser. Maybe it’s to do with the fact that the plot is usually sexist. Or I am just upset because there is so much singing and I believe that people should keep their mouths shut on stage. Really, words can upset me quite a bit. I remember this wonderful moment during Bach’s Johannespassion last year when I was all caught up in the beautiful music and then this guy raised his voice and sang the words, ‘And then they broke his bones!’ Well, thank you for spoiling that for me. But I digress.
I wish I were able to say anything about the music, but to call this cacophony of sounds music would be an insult to any other kind of music (and I am willing to include atrocities like Techno in this). There was one aria I kind of liked, maybe just because it was the only time in the opera where I did not sit at the very edge of my chair bracing myself for the next unexpected entrance of percussion. To be fair, I do know that tastes and styles change and what might sound strange today could be seen as classic in a couple of decades. Back in the days, Tchaikovsky was berated for ‘beating the violin black and blue’ with his Violin Concerto, and musical lore has it that the beginning of Beethoven’s 1st Symphony caused quite a stir when it premiered. Therefore, I am willing to give contemporary music some leeway and try to go and enjoy it on a regular basis, but I really don’t think that contemporary music necessarily needs to cause the same feelings that the sound of nails scratching on a chalkboard does. Which it did.
Let’s talk content, then. The tale revolved around a self-absorbed writer and could be seen as a critique of the narcissistic tendencies of artists. So old. Also, if I want to see a writer battling her narcissistic tendencies, I take a good long look in the mirror. And some of it was just really tasteless. If I want to see an old overweight bugger take his pants off, I can just as well go on a late-night run in the Prater Hauptallee. If I want to see said old and overweight bugger get spanked by a racy young woman, I’ll go watch 50 Shades of Grey. Except that the old overweight bugger will be young and really nice to look at and I’ll get some popcorn and coke. And then I did the unspeakable. During intermission, I refreshed myself with some sparkling water, had a lovely time chatting to my colleague and when the bell rang to alert us to the fact that we were supposed to return to our seats, I directly walked out of the building and went home.
The piece premiered the next day (I only saw the dress rehearsal) and I was more than eagerly waiting for the reviews. And that was when the real surprise came because – alas – everyone loved it. One critic even called it the best production of the season, which caused me to excuse myself from going to any more operas that very same season because if this was as good as it got, I would miss nothing by staying at home and watching Netflix. And then I thought long and hard about what I should do. Should I pretend I had liked it as well or should I just confess I had no idea what was so great about it and reveal all my ignorance? After some soul searching, I decided there was only one thing I could do: honestly state my opinion and run the risk of exposing the fact that I am ignorant. And while I find it terribly embarrassing to have to admit that I really did not see what was so great about that opera and I find it even more embarrassing that so many other people apparently saw things I missed, I believe this is still a million times better than pretending to see something and running the risk of someone exposing that all you saw was hot air.
