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Get thee to the opera

Brandon Goldner
The Commuter

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Taken from this photostream using creative commons license: flickr.com/photos/daveemma
Opera Glasses

For the better part of my life, the word “opera” conjured images of men in tuxedos, their wives holding opulent viewing glasses, little finger outstretched. It seemed kind of stuffy and dull; it wasn’t really for me.

But I had always liked music and going to the movies if there was anything good playing. In fact, I preferred watching a film at the theater, because there was something about having hundreds of people in a darkened space all following the same story. The images and sounds pulled you in, and your reaction wasn’t just shared by you and your loved ones, but by the strangers on either side (or even at the other end of the theater).

Considering all of that, what follows really doesn’t seem as big of a surprise as I thought it would be, and here it is: you need to go the opera.

Grab some decent clothes and get a move on, because, contrary to what you’d think, you really don’t need to be dressed in your grandfather’s mothballed three-piece suit to fit in. I saw plenty of guys who, like me, were wearing some decent pants and a button-up shirt. Sure, there was some style, but I never got a sideways glance. It wasn’t like having your top button undone at the country club, something for which I have been barked at on one of my few visits there.

And once you get to the window, you’ll get another surprise: the tickets are pretty cheap, if you do it the right way. Some of you may be familiar with the term “rush tickets,” which is where the unsold tickets for the night at practically given away just before show time in an effort to fill all the empty seats.

For the opera we saw, Portland Opera’s “La Bohème,” rush tickets were only available to seniors, military personnel, and students an hour before curtains. We were able to sneak in with about 15 minutes to spare for just $10 apiece, which is an incredible deal. I gladly would have paid the minimum $40 each ticket would have cost otherwise, but I don’t think I would have been able to afford it.

By the time we got to our seats, the lights had already begun to dim, telling everyone to turn their cell phones off and get ready for the performance, which was, in a word, spectacular. The moment the maestro begins cueing the orchestra, you can feel something in the air. It’s electric. The sound is like nothing I’ve ever heard: resonant and booming, and 100% authentic. Dolby’s got nothing on what this felt like. The set design was unbelievable, truly insane. Two stories tall, and everything looked real. And the performers! No way are human beings able to do what they’re doing! And it was hilarious too, at least before the story took a turn for the tragic.

In Italian, the words flowed like water. Without mention of just how much more melodic a language it is than English, I liked being able to decide whether or not to actually follow what was being said, and more be taken for a ride with the sound and spectacle of it all. There was a narrow screen far above the stage that had the English translation which, much like a subtitled movie, wasn’t even noticed after the first few lines.

Did I mention it was funny? I really didn’t think I would be able to connect with the material, but I did, and I loved it. It makes it easy to appreciate the entire performance when you can actually see the music being conducted and performed.

In short, there was nothing about the experience I didn’t like, with one marked exception: the women in front of us with the cell phone. She actually was TALKING ON THE PHONE after intermission, during the performance. Are you kidding? And on top of that, near the climax of the final act, she was TEXTING, which sent an uneasy blue-green blob of light in our direction, and pulled me out of the moment. Poor form, lady! This is the opera, not your daughter’s dance recital!

And honestly, even if it had been a recital, show some class; because even if going to the opera isn’t an ultra-formal, 19th-century aristocratic outing of our long-held stereotypes, it deserves your respect.

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