Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate!
One of the most famous lines in Western literature. You probably know it as "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here", the lines carved over the gate to Hell in Dante's inferno. You have to admit, it's even more sinister in Italian.
Three weeks in, I'm wondering if that was also carved over some symbolic portal into 2010. Mom's illness dominates all. Meanwhile, my company just issued its second profit warning in four months and we're all jittery about the future. The pound continues its plummet, today worth just $1.34, every fall making my responsibilities in the States more challenging. The vet heard a heart murmur in my beloved dog's chest for the first time today; it's the way most cavaliers eventually go. And with the exception of Obama's inauguration, every newscast is a parade of horrors. I haven't spent many waking moments since leaving that cruise ship without stomach and forehead clenched in stress.
Except, that is, for last night, when I spent two and a half hours with people in far worse shape than me. Thank you, Turandot.
I'd never really appreciated the "schadenfreude" capacity of grand opera before. You get to sit there, like a disinterested God in his high heaven, watching miserable people make stupid mistakes and drown in horrible luck. Bad guys win, innocents meet bitter ends and nobody ends up happy. Yet everyone does so in great costumes, to soaring music that wrings tears and angst out of you like water out of a dishcloth. Not only am I emotionally sated, but I know with a certainty that life will never be so grim that I feel the need to hurl myself off Castel Sant'Angelo. I will never be locked in a tomb to suffocate horribly, cheated out of my kingdom. And, best of all, I will never be an irritating little French woman with no backbone coughing her life away in a Parisian garret. I just wouldn't feel half as good about my own life if Opera served up a bunch of happy endings.
Turandot, it could be argued, does end happily. (Warning ... spoiler alert) But that's definitely a matter for debate. True to form, the only character you really like, the faithful slave girl Liu, kills herself in a supreme act of unrequited love for a man who doesn't deserve it. Our hero Calaf, recipient of Liu's devotion, is a smug idiot who screws over all the people who really care about him. Though he does get to sing "Nessun Dorma", which buys anyone some sympathy. Turandot, meanwhile, is either a bloodthirsty bitch who deserves to die, or an emotionally traumatised victim whose story encourages some very dangerous myths about women needing to be dominated. So yes, you get the happy couple of Turandot and Calaf embracing at the end while the lovely strains of nessun dorma reprise, but you're left thinking that this really is a messed up world with a good soundtrack.
Bloody brilliant escapism. Thank you, Signore Puccini. I didn't worry about a thing for hours.
And thanks to the Royal Opera House for a brilliant production. Although I expected no less.
The stunning set let you to imagine you were amongst the crowd gazing into the courtyard of a Chinese palace, with marvelous lighting effects coming through the Oriental screens. The oversized heads of Turandot's slain suitors, designed as theatrical masks, poured red streamers instead of blood down onto the stage. Set pieces like the executioner sharpening his blade on a giant round stone were eye-popping. Costumes were lavish. The voices, as you would expect, of the highest quality.
We were sitting in the cheap seats (£30) near the top. You have to book these very far in advance, but it's worth the effort. There are few places in the world (The Met? La Scala? Verona?) where Opera is this good. Who knows. Maybe as more banks and companies collapse, all those corporate boxes down below will open up and the prices will start to tumble. Hope springs eternal.
In the mean time, I may expand this "schadenfreude" idea to further combat current stresses in my life. A bit of Greek tragedy may be just the thing. Antigone, anyone?
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