The Write Thing

I have a thing for French opera. I always have, since I saw my first performance of Gounod’s Faust at the Colón many years ago. My expectations were not really high, as I was more used to the Italian drama that a Puccini or a Verdi would ooze. However, as the curtain was lifted on the first act, a new world opened before my eyes. The melodic lines, the finesse of the singing, the words, the dramatic tempo all melted in a magical feast for the senses. It was all there, subtle and enriching, like a three-course meal in a cozy French restaurant. Everything in its right measure, the perfect marriage of music and words, providing that the artists could accomplish their task correctly. That night they did.

And so it was that I developed a strong liking for French opera. I was not disappointed when I switched from Gounod to Massenet afterwards. First, there was Manon and, a few years later, Thaïs (which I have never been able to see live yet). Now, these past few weeks I found myself listening to the two works again after quite some time. Curiously enough, the excerpts I listened to were Act III of Manon, and Act II of Thaïs. In both these acts, the protagonists sing about youth and the aging process, albeit from a different perspective. There is young Manon urging her friends to enjoy youth, and to love, laugh and sing non-stop, because they will not be twenty years old forever and youth fades away only too soon, like love itself. Then, there is Thaïs bringing a different shade to the whole issue. She feels the emptiness of beauty with no purpose, and in fear asks her mirror to tell her she will be beautiful for good. (Dis-moi…que) rien ne flétrira les roses de mes lèvres, rien ne ternira l’or pur de mes cheveux, she sings as if she could seal a pact with the devil and never grow old. But her mirror is only too cruel and replies Thaïs, tu vieilliras!

So my reflection upon listening to this was…is youth an operatic obsession for the French? I could argue that, if that is the case, so are mirrors (Thaïs talks to hers and Gounod’s Marguerite does the same in Faust). However, I prefer to think that, more than an obsession — in fact, being forever young is an impossible aspiration for all cultures these days — youth for the French is a way of life. In this light, the prevailing idea would be to enjoy and use up your youth (and your life) while it lasts instead of regretting its passing in advance. In short, it is awareness of pleasure…enjoy what you have knowing that it will go away at some point.

This is my own interpretation of French wisdom, I must confess, but if I elaborate a little further, I can actually say I have seen the French really apply this rule. For example, a woman I once met in Paris told me: “we may not have a lot of money, but we do have lovely cars”. I would say that it is not only that. France has also made a very rich contribution to the realm of opera, with works that even today defy the passage of time, in characters that despite their fear or their knowledge have remained forever young.

September 22, 2008. Buenos Aires, Villa Urquiza. The newly remodeled 25 de Mayo theatre, once a cinema, would host one of the live broadcasts from the Met on its opening night for the 2008-2009 season in a few minutes. It would become the first theatre in South America to have signed an agreement with the Met, a historical event.

The HD live broadcast was a little too American for my taste, I must confess. However, I also have to admit that these people know how to make a show. After all, opera is also entertainment, even if more elitist. It seems that the new deal now is to take opera to a broad new audience. That sounds exciting, and interesting if James Levine is behind the idea. Now, does it feel a little weird to be applauding at the end of each act as if the singers were really there? Yes, it does. The screen, High Definition or not, is only showing images of what is going on thousands of miles away. This is a live experience from afar, in a theatre where a bunch of formally dressed strangers smile in ecstasy as if they were at the Colón.

On the other side of the screen, a star-studded event begins. Act II of La Traviata, Act III of Manon and the final scene from Capriccio create the background against which America’s leading soprano of this early century — Renée Fleming — will charm audiences worldwide with her voice, her charisma and her modern diva looks. Personally there is something that I can’t quite capture about Fleming. It could be a question of taste, and then I would be at a loss for words. I saw her years ago live at the Colón, when she was an unknown, in a version of Le Nozze di Figaro. I found her laughter rather disturbing at the time. Later on, the world would prove me wrong, as she would become a leading lady of opera on an international level, and in her own right. Of course, I had never listened to her in the best of her repertoire: French and German opera. It suffices to compare her rendition of a lustful and regretful Manon winning back her Des Grieux (a stunning Ramón Vargas — Gosh, what good bones can do for people’s voices, even if singers don’t really look the part– ) or a meditative Madeleine in Capriccio to realize where her strengths lie. Yes, give me Fleming as Thaïs (coming later this year as part of the Met’s season offerings) any time, and put her on Strauss mode uninterruptedly, and I will see her talent in full bloom. But she can only play a correct Traviata for me. She does not have the Italian excess of emotion the part needs. It is not like her.

The evening slowly draws to a close. I have witnessed a special moment in Opera’s history. In the multimedia world we live in, this kind of event should gradually become the norm. Too sad this is happening simultaneously with a forced deprivation of a real season at the Colón — will the remodeling ever conclude? Anyway, little does it matter what the future brings to this bewitched city in the form of opera intimacy, in a real theatre, with the right acoustics and the history that shapes the circumstances. For now, only for now…we can enjoy live performances at the Met here in Buenos Aires.

It was on September 16, 1996 when I first approached the iron gates that separated the boulevard-like Avenue from the majestic building where she spent her last years, away from crowds, away from the stage, in remembrance, alone. I made it a ritual to go there every year, at least as long as I lived in Paris. Every September 16, the flowers that decorated the railings would be accompanied by a note with moving words of memory. Some of her admirers would probably have memorable evenings to replay in their minds, whereas others, like me, would only have her most famous recordings and a couple of video performances to watch and see how a true artist lives in the skin of a character.
I would sit on the small bench opposite her house, staring at the window on top, in a delusional wish that her face would play hide and seek with the white curtain, as a mocking Butterfly nascosta, per non morire al primo incontro. Her Pinkerton was long dead when she let herself go down the road of the final suffering, and somehow that building seemed to me to preserve her pain. I would imagine it recorded in the walls. Perhaps if I dared to touch them, they would bring back something of her, the mourning soul, the pathos. No, the sound of my footsteps on the gravel path that preceded the entrance to the building was all I heard. Another bouquet of flowers, a picture and the gratitude of someone who could not forget her. Who could?
One year ago, on September 16, I was there, at that door, sitting on that bench for the last time in a long stretch of years before I would make it to Paris again. I went there to say goodbye, and stayed for a while recapping those years of my youth when I was just discovering the world and myself.
One year later, I am in a different kind of goodbye mood, although with an operatic flavor. Carmen was seeking to preserve her freedom when it was never challenged. In my opera, Don José does not kill her in his final act of impotence and possession. He simply leaves, and Carmen is left to enjoy her freedom, as only she can understand it.