100 Operas in 100 Days

I visited the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville years before I attended my first opera production.  Raised on Waylon and Willie rather than on Puccini and Rossini, I didn’t hear opera as a child.  I’ve grown increasingly self-conscious about my ignorance of the form with each passing year.

When the Metropolitan Opera beneficently opened its archives to encourage patrons to remain quarantined during the pandemic, I reckoned it was time to get educated on the cheap.  (Tickets to the opera’s weekly live broadcasts are ordinarily $25.)  The free streams represent an attractive substitute for my compulsion to take in live music several nights a week.  Committing to a lengthy opera has a way of ordering an evening.  (The remarkable forbearance of my quarantine partner should also be noted.)

I enjoyed Gaetano Donizetti’s “La Fille du Régiment” on Monday, June 29.  It was the 100th opera I watched in 100 days.  The romantic comedy went down easily.  Having taken in plenty of Donizetti in the past three months, I was perfectly attuned to the opera’s cadence and flow.  And I knew from recent experience I’d delight in the performances of the young stars Pretty Yende and Javier Camarena.

The process wasn’t always painless.  I wondered what I’d gotten myself into back in March.  Even though I’ve attended seven or eight productions since seeing my first opera in 2010, the operatic rituals and format remained foreign.  As I suggested last month, opera’s high body count, unapologetic lustiness and preponderance of drinking songs kept me in the game. 

I’m not giving anything away by pointing out the moldy fustiness of too many productions.  Not only does the sight of a powdered wig sap my spirit, the inherent dorkiness of opera nerds- please slap me if I ever utter the exclamation “toi toi toi”- is insufferable.  But I like challenges.  Powering through all four hours and twenty minutes of Hector Berlioz’ “Les Troyens” and every bit of Richard Wagner’s  three-hour and 43-minute “Lohengrin” made me feel invincible. 

Moments of transcendence compensate for the frequent bouts of tedium.  “Salome” altered my consciousness.  I felt the heavens open during Philip Glass’ “Akhnaten.”  And I feel better about my time on earth having seen Leontyne Price in “Aida,” Luciano Pavarotti in “Tosca” and Joyce DiDonato in “Cendrillon.”  Becoming conversant in “Le Nozze di Figaro,” “Turandot” and “La Traviata” also made me a significantly more informed consumer of popular music.  With all due respect to Irving Berlin, Stevie Wonder and John Legend, Mozart, Puccinni and Verdi did it first.  But let me be clear: my newfound expertise elevates rather than diminishes my appreciation of less rarified forms of music.

What happens when the epidemic ends?  I can’t readily afford nice seats for productions at the Lyric Opera of Kansas City, let alone at the Metropolitan Opera and the San Francisco Opera.  And my closet doesn’t contain much in the way of formal wear.  Even so, I won’t be intimidated even if I wear jeans and a t-shirt while sitting in the uppermost balconies at opera houses.  I’ll almost certainly have taken in more (virtual) operas than any member of the audience. 

Until then- and as long as access to the operas continues- I’ll keep learning.  I’m alarmed by how much I loved all four hours of the ‘80s-tastic production of Wagner’s “Die Walküre” (opera #101) last night.  Valhalla!  Incest!  Predeterminism!  Valkyries!  I’m bracing myself for tonight’s showing of Dmitri Shostakovich’s insanely freaky “The Nose.”

(Screenshot of Pretty Yende and Maurizio Muraro in the Metropolitan Opera’s production of “La Fille du Régiment” by There Stands the Glass.)

Sempre Libera

I’ll have a ready answer if I’m ever asked how I spent the lockdown of 2020.  I’ve been immersed in opera.  I’ve watched more than 50 productions since the Metropolitan Opera began offering free daily streams in March.  I continue to bask in a new show every night.

I began the endeavor almost entirely from scratch.  I bought the least expensive ticket each of the seven or eight times I’ve attended an operatic production.  While they’re not legitimate substitutes for attending live events, the Met’s archived broadcasts offer closeups of the performers and tantalizing glimpses of the action backstage.  I studiously read the digital programs, consult outside materials and augment each production with supplemental listening sessions.

Even though it’s sometimes a slog, working my way through even the most tedious operas gives me a sense of purpose and fills the enormous void left by the moratorium on live music.  And the glacial pace, decadent length and over-the-top melodrama associated with the form suits the strained atmosphere of the quarantine.  I’ve come to adore opera’s disarming lustiness, high body count and vocal caterwauling.

The treasure trove of free streams allows me to admire the work of stars including Jessye Norman, Luciano Pavarotti and Leontyne Price, marvel at opera’s evolution from stationary belters to athletic vocalists and learn the context of popular arias like "Pagliacci"’s “Vesti la Giubba”.

I haven’t been at it long enough to cultivate a distinct sense of my personal taste, but I was moved by the striking modernity of Nico Muhly’s “Marnie”, stirred by Natalie Dessay’s ravishing portrayal of Violetta in Giuseppe Verdi’s “La Traviata” and floored by Anthony Dean Griffey acting in the title role of Benjamin Britten’s disturbing “Peter Grimes.”

A date once asked me what types of music I liked.  I told her that I loved “everything but opera.”  The trivial exchange stuck with me because I loathed myself for speaking out of ignorance.  I didn’t even know “Le Nozze di Figaro” existed.  Had I somehow been able to see and hear Cecilia Bartoli and Bryn Terfel perform Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s shockingly coarse work when I was a girl-crazy 17-year-old, my life might have turned out entirely differently.

(Screenshot of the Metropolitan Opera’s production of Richard Strauss’ “Capriccio” by There Stands the Glass.)