BAWDY HOUSE OR CATHEDRAL — A Slightly Irreverent Look at the Opera-Going Experience

 

The opera…is to music what a bawdy house is to a cathe­dral,” humorist H. L. Menck­en wrote 75 years ago. From some of his oth­er writ­ings, it is easy to sur­mise Menck­en did not mean this as a com­pli­ment. He once com­plained, “The gen­uine music lover may accept the car­nal husk of opera to get at the ker­nel of actu­al music with­in, but that is no sign that he approves the car­nal husk or enjoys gnaw­ing through it.”

Speak for your­self, H.L.

Besides, Menck­en was miss­ing the point: Bawdy hous­es and cathe­drals might appear to be oppo­sites, but actu­al­ly they have a great deal in com­mon — not only with each oth­er, but with opera as well.

Bawdy hous­es, cathe­drals and opera all have cer­tain unwrit­ten rules of behav­ior which can quick­ly sin­gle out the novice from the reg­u­lars; all three estab­lish­ments attract some peo­ple who attend once or twice, then decide they are not real­ly inter­est­ed in the pro­ceed­ings, as well as peo­ple whose lives begin to revolve around the activ­i­ties in their estab­lish­ment of choice. All three offer cathar­sis and ecsta­sy — in one form or anoth­er — to The Faith­ful, some­thing patrons gen­er­al­ly gain in direct pro­por­tion to their involve­ment with the activ­i­ties with­in. In gen­er­al, atten­dance at one of these insti­tu­tions is not some­thing one does on a whim, but involves a bit of prepa­ra­tion, often men­tal as well as phys­i­cal. Atten­dance is often on some kind of reg­u­lar basis, set up in advance, and some­thing to which patrons look for­ward with var­i­ous degrees of enthu­si­asm. And then, there is the fact that some peo­ple sim­ply do not under­stand — or even do not approve — of what goes on in bawdy hous­es, cathe­drals or at the opera, even though one man’s bawdy house might be anoth­er man’s cathe­dral.

Samuel John­son did not get the point of opera.

Per­haps the most famous exam­ple of some­one total­ly mis­un­der­stand­ing the point of opera is Samuel John­son, who once lament­ed, “Opera is an irra­tional and exot­ic enter­tain­ment, which has always been com­bat­ed and has always pre­vailed.” The point, my dear Dr. John­son, is that opera has always pre­vailed sim­ply because it is irra­tional. And because it is irra­tional it leads us from our often pet­ty pre­oc­cu­pa­tion with mun­dane life and its dead­en­ing rou­tines into the realm of our souls. It gives us glimpses in the world of the gods, into that part of our­selves from which Life Itself springs, and renews us in the deep­est way. But, like bawdy hous­es and cathe­drals, the oper­at­ic expe­ri­ence is rich­er, more enjoy­able and longer last­ing if you know what you are get­ting into and if you know — and observe — the rules of the game.

Oper­at­ic Rule Num­ber One: Pay Atten­tion to What’s Going On Up Front.

This would seem to be so obvi­ous as to not need stat­ing. After all, why would any­one buy a tick­et for an event and go to the trou­ble of attend­ing only to ignore the event itself? Oper­at­ic Rule Num­ber One is not unlike the cathedral’s admo­ni­tion to fol­low the Gold­en Rule. If one does, indeed, “Love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, soul and mind, and thy neigh­bor as thy­self,” then one will auto­mat­i­cal­ly not run afoul of any of the oth­er Ten Com­mand­ments. But until we reach that plateau of under­stand­ing, some­times it helps to have a few of the par­tic­u­lars spelled out.

In the opera house that trans­lates into, first of all, Do not make noise while there is music. There are some excep­tions to that rule, but for now, that’s a good way to begin: no com­ment­ing to your neigh­bor about the dress the woman in front of you is wear­ing; no pulling out your cell phone to check with the babysit­ter or to con­form a din­ner reser­va­tion for lat­er in the evening.

Just as there are peo­ple who are always late for an appoint­ment, human nature seems to have begun pro­gram­ming peo­ple who are inca­pable of silence. Chron­ic offend­ers, how­ev­er, should be pre­pared for the pos­si­ble con­se­quences. Those of us who are tru­ly pas­sion­ate about opera are not like­ly to suf­fer Rude Talk­ers in vain, though I have heard of few peo­ple going quite so far as a man whose obit­u­ary I read not too long ago.

It seemed the Dear Depart­ed was an operaphile with a decid­ed pas­sion for Mozart’s work, espe­cial­ly Così fan tutte. On one occa­sion, short­ly after the begin­ning of Act I, a woman seat­ed behind the man began to talk to her com­pan­ion. First the man turned around and glared at her, but she was imper­vi­ous to his silent plea.  Then the man gave a quick — but firm—shush! The woman talked on. After a bit the man asked, “Would you please hush?” But the woman con­tin­ued blithe­ly chat­ter­ing away. Real­iz­ing there was more than an hour to go before the inter­mis­sion, and unwill­ing to for­go the plea­sure of Così’s entire first act, the man — accord­ing to the obit­u­ary — rose from his seat, rolled up his pro­gram and whacked the talked over the head with it while say­ing loud­ly, “I said SHUT UP!”

An inat­ten­tive audi­ence.

While not going to that extreme, I’m hap­py to report I dis­cov­ered my own secret way of deal­ing with such offend­ers some time ago. After years of stand­ing at the opera, a new job final­ly allowed me to sub­scribe, and I hap­pi­ly went whole hog, treat­ing myself to not one but sev­er­al series, all with seats in the Grand Tier. I real­ized that if I went right from the office to the opera, wear­ing an ordi­nary suit, talk­ers gen­er­al­ly ignored my shush­ing. But if I had tak­en the trou­ble to go home and change into black tie, the talk­ers, in fact, hushed — for the rest of that act. But if I had decid­ed the per­for­mance was indeed a Spe­cial Occa­sion (say, Strauss’ Der Rosenkava­lier or Verdi’s Don Car­lo) and was wear­ing white tie and tails, not only did the talk­er hush — and for the entire rest of the opera — on sev­er­al occa­sions they sought me out at inter­mis­sion to apol­o­gize. Can there be a bet­ter excuse to dress for the opera?

Please don’t mis­un­der­stand: This is in no way to sug­gest that opera should be a cold, still for­mal event through which one must suf­fer for some arcane social rea­son while dressed to the nines. To be sure, there are some mis­guid­ed folks who insist on treat­ing opera mere­ly as a social duty. Poor souls, they’re miss­ing the best parts of one of the most excit­ing, most pro­found expe­ri­ences a human being can have. For­tu­nate­ly most opera goers quick­ly real­ize there is more to opera that sar­to­r­i­al dis­play and mak­ing busi­ness or social con­nec­tions. In fact, opera is true adult enter­tain­ment in the best sense of that phrase.

It was Winthrop Sargeant, the extra­or­di­nar­i­ly wise music crit­ic for The New York­er back when I was grow­ing up, who once summed up opera about as well as any­one ever has when he observed, “The two essen­tial ingre­di­ents in opera are sex and the dom­i­nant sev­enth chord.” It is odd that the same par­ents who will do almost any­thing to keep their teenagers from see­ing an R-rat­ed movie are delight­ed to send their prog­e­ny off to see Tosca—replete with mur­der, attempt­ed rape and unre­lent­ing sadism — sim­ply because it is an opera.

Mary Cas­sett, “Woman in Black at the Opera”

Opera must draw tears, ter­ri­fy peo­ple, and make them die through singing,” said Vin­cen­zo Belli­ni. Read­ing accounts of some of the ear­ly per­for­mances of his operas like Nor­ma and I Puri­tani, one reads of entire audi­ences swept away by mass hys­te­ria; men unashamed­ly burst­ing into loud, pro­longed sobs, women faint­ing. We’re talk­ing about sane adults who were so moved by the emo­tion and dra­ma onstage that some­times full-scale riots devel­oped.

At its core, the point of opera is real­ly very sim­ple: Opera is con­vey­ing emo­tion through the human singing voice. And that is, at its essence, some­thing we all expe­ri­ence every day. Think back to the last time you were sit­ting along when the phone rang. Not expect­ing a call at that par­tic­u­lar time, you did not know who it was. But when the per­son at the oth­er end of the phone said, “Hi,” not only did you rec­og­nize his or her iden­ti­ty, you had an imme­di­ate emo­tion­al — and phys­i­cal — response to the sound of their voice. Maybe it was one of your chil­dren and you imme­di­ate­ly became con­cerned, you stom­ach sud­den­ly knot­ted in fear. Or if the caller was an old friend whom you had not seen in some times, you smiled, your entire body suf­fused with a glow of delight as you almost sang, “Hii­i­i­ii. How are you­u­u­u­uu?”

Whether our response to the unseen person’s “Hi,” is fear or delight, anger or ecsta­sy, the point is, it is auto­mat­ic. We the lis­ten­ers have an instan­ta­neous, gut-lev­el response. Can any­thing be as ordi­nary as that? It is some­thing we do so often, every day, we do not even think about it.

With opera we have the emo­tion of the human voice strength­ened by singing, sup­port­ed and col­ored by the music itself, enhanced by the dra­ma of the sto­ry. To con­vey the emo­tion even more we have the orches­tra and cho­rus, which some­times add com­plex­i­ty by con­vey­ing a very dif­fer­ent emo­tion than the ones the soloists are con­vey­ing. And with the sets, cos­tumes, and lights added to the pro­ceed­ings — well, it’s a won­der we’re able to walk away at the end.

But we can only be trans­port­ed to this ver­sion of heav­en if we lis­ten.

A deliri­ous audi­ence cheers Joan Suther­land

I have often thought that one of the rea­sons those ear­ly per­for­mances of operas by Belli­ni, Donizetti, Rossi­ni and Ver­di were so pow­er­ful was sim­ply because the audi­ence was so involved. Today, I fear, we in the audi­ence often for­get that we have a respon­si­bil­i­ty for the way the per­for­mance we attend turns out. Ask any singer, any con­duc­tor, any musi­cian in the pit, and — with­out excep­tion — they will tell you that long before the applause at the end of the first aria, or at the end of the first act, they know if an audi­ence is “with it” that evening, or if the audi­ence is try­ing to decide when they can get their clothes form the clean­ers. And they will also tell you that an unin­volved audi­ence is dead­ly to the per­for­mance.

That is because opera is an erot­ic expe­ri­ence in the deep­est sense of the word. If one mem­ber of a cou­ple out on a date spends the evening talk­ing to some­one else, or trans­act­ing busi­ness on the phone, we would all agree the love affair is doomed. Any rela­tion­ship has to be nur­tured or it will die. An oper­at­ic per­for­mance is an erot­ic con­nec­tion between two forces — in this case, the per­form­ers and the audi­ence—out of which a third enti­ty grows, pro­vid­ing the ecsta­sy and the cathar­sis that trans­forms every­one involved.

It is that mys­te­ri­ous but very tan­gi­ble, very alive bit of mag­ic which so infus­es a per­for­mance of Tris­tan und Isol­de that the lives of every­one in the the­ater that evening are changed for­ev­er in very pro­found ways. That is when the singers and lis­ten­ers are so at one with each oth­er than an entire audi­ence does not dare breathe as Des­de­mona fin­ish­es her scene at the begin­ning of Otel­lo’s fourth act. Those are the per­for­mances that “take off” and become much more than the sum of their parts, the evenings that live for years in the mem­o­ry of opera goers.

We can hap­pi­ly spend a life­time explor­ing Opera’s vast reach­es, always find­ing a work that feeds out soul — what­ev­er its par­tic­u­lar need. It real­ly does not make any dif­fer­ence if you pre­fer the raw pas­sion of the end of Giordano’s Andrea Chénier (piz­za with every­thing on it, includ­ing the anchovies), or the gemütlich world of Mozart’s Mag­ic Flute (warm home­made bread with lots of fresh coun­try but­ter); the thrilling bel can­to per­fec­tion of Rossini’s Semi­ramide (tourne­dos Rossi­ni), or the del­i­cate charms on Massenet’s Manon (lob­ster souf­flé with sec cham­pagne) — it is all avail­able. All we have to do is be still and lis­ten and enjoy.

Some­times it’s such fun to be an adult!

This arti­cle first appeared in the Met­ro­pol­i­tan Opera Play­bill dur­ing the 1999 – 2000 sea­son.