A Night at the Lyric: The Flying Dutchman
I was less than pleased stepping out of this production of Der fliegende Holländer. But…
Having had some space now—perhaps I was a bit harsh on this production. Don't get me wrong, I did not care for it, but the Lyric still deserves props for continuing to take risks & push boundaries in its Herculean effort to keep opera thriving, kinetic, & relevant for audiences of today & tomorrow. Doing so also involves making aesthetic & staging choices that simply won't always work for everyone. & that is ok; that is what creativity is; that is the very nature of arts appreciation & cultural evolution.
In examination, the reason I was so deeply disappointed is because of how much opera means to me. Not just as an artistic discipline but as a primary method of personal care. Whenever I'm feeling doubt, frustration, anxiety, or adrift from my work (my calling, as I've said before), opera always sets me right. While being swept away by the almost erotic, sensual beauty of soaring arias, resonant orchestras, & majestic stage spectacles, I can quite literally feel my soul rebalance. From the first notes of an overture, the equilibrium courses through my blood. I have never, not once, been the same person leaving an opera as I was entering it. Opera is the closest I have ever & will ever be to the concept of God.
This past week, I have been feeling particularly awful; demoralized, undermined, & ground down by my job, dangerously close to a sense of rudderlessness. This is super-common for pretty much everyone who holds abiding love for their industry, & we all deal with it in our own ways. Mine is to recharge with opera, a discipline that brings all that I adore about arts & culture into a singular, glittering package, reminding of who, what, how, & why I am.
So to leave the opera last night feeling as I did, after a week of feeling as I had...well, it was like being rejected by God. I did not find the solace I have come to expect in my House of Worship. Seriously, folks, I felt so wretched after last night's performance that I actually cried.
But, now, I recognize that this remained true: I was not the same person leaving that opera as I was going in. That means that, while I was not moved the way I wished to be moved, I WAS still moved. I felt (mostly confused & aghast & frustrated, yes, but still).
You know what else? I was still thrilled to see the opera newbies in their glittering ball gowns & best suits, enchanted by the whole experience; I was still shy to witness pensioners giving each other happy, familiar smiles as they settled in for their favourite date night; I was still excited to chat with a boxmate about the Lyric's impressive lobby renovation in one of the City's architectural icons; & I still can't wait to see the next show in my subscription.
So, with all my warmth, a glass raised to the Lyric: I can't believe that after 20-odd years since you last staged Dutchman, this is the abomination you chose to foist upon us. What even in the 'Batman Forever' psychedelic neon bukkake pantomime was Act III?!? Some truly tragic shite is about to go down & you've got the whole stage looking like the Cult of Riddler trying to summon Jim Carrey's Spandex bodysuit through the dark musical magic of vocal juxtaposition. What the actual...?
Also—thank you. Toi toi toi.
Photo: Todd Rosenberg
