Probably like many Americans, when I think of
”
opera,
”
I imagine a corpulent Teutonic woman in a silly Viking helmet
belting out an aria at the top of her lungs. And she miraculously
does this undergoing the death throes of congestive pneumonia.
Probably like many Americans, when I think of “opera,” I imagine a corpulent Teutonic woman in a silly Viking helmet belting out an aria at the top of her lungs. And she miraculously does this undergoing the death throes of congestive pneumonia.
I’m no opera buff. The closest I ever got to appreciating opera music was as a kid on Saturday mornings when Elmer Fudd tried to kill Bugs Bunny while singing “The Barber of Seville.”
A few years back, in order to remedy my sad lack of operatic appreciation, a girlfriend took me to a couple of industrial-strength opera performances. I told my date I truly enjoyed myself.
I lied.
My first two operas were real tear jerkers. I found myself crying tears of boredom. How could seemingly reasonable people pay good money to endure this melodious misery, I wondered.
But occasionally, I do meet people who feel deeply passionate about opera. I see genuine enthusiasm in their eyes as they tell me about dead Italian dudes with names like Giacomo Puccini or Gioacchino Rossini or Chef Boyardee Ravioli. Somehow, I’d like to feel the same fervor.
So that’s why this year I forced myself to buy season tickets to the San Jose Opera. I decided to learn to love opera – even if it killed me. For several weeks, I dreaded the Sept. 18 opening night of Mozart’s “The Marriage of Figaro.” I awoke Saturday morning feeling the impending doom. Tonight was the night – a night at the opera, but no Groucho anywhere on the bill.
It eased some tension spending the morning helping a friend move old furniture from his home to a Gilroy storage locker. Somehow, when you’re straining and grunting to lift a 20-ton hideaway bed onto the back of a pick-up, you’re not exactly thinking about operatic overtures.
But late Saturday afternoon, feeling like a man heading off to his own hanging, I drove up to San Jose to the newly renovated California Theatre on First Street. Saturday night was the building’s grand opening to the public.
The ticket information said the doors opened at 6:30pm. When I arrived about that time, the entrance foyer’s security grill was down. A line of opera lovers stood patiently outside. After a 45-minute wait – my bladder giving overwhelming hints that a pit-stop at the theater’s restroom was highly recommended – the ushers finally raised the grill. The opera buffs rushed the box office like Vikings raiding a helpless village.
I already had my mailed ticket in hand, so I walked to a friendly attendant with “Donna Walker” on her badge.
“Am I the very, very first customer?” I asked as I handed Donna my ticket.
“You’re the very, very first,” she said with a beaming smile. “Welcome,” she beckoned me in.
No cascade of balloons and confetti fell on me as I stepped into the opulently decorated lobby. But my experience was still memorable. For a moment, I had the magically grand architecture all to myself. I gazed up in awe at the beautiful mica chandeliers and a Moroccan-style ceiling inspired by California’s Spanish history.
My bladder, however, convincingly reminded me of more pressing concerns.
A man walked out of the restroom as I hurried to the door. He was David Packard, the son of the co-founder of the high-tech firm Hewlett-Packard. Packard’s Humanities Institute paid for about a third of the $75 million it cost to resurrect the California to its original splendor. An appreciative side of me wanted to tell the guy, “Hey, great job, Dave. Theatre looks magnificent. Two thumbs way up!”
Nature, however, called. I missed the opportunity to express appreciation.
A short while later, I stood on top of the grand stairway and gazed down on the lobby quickly filling with audience members. Women in elegant gowns. Men in tuxedos. Silicon Valley’s rich and famous sauntered around the theater’s rich red carpet.
I imagined it must have felt much the same on the evening of April 16, 1927, when San Jose’s California held its original grand opening. No opera for a Santa Clara County farm town back then, but the movie “An Affair of the Follies” brought in the Hollywood stars.
After I’d had my fill people watching, I found Seat 121 in Row R of the Orchestra Center. Soon, the sold-out audience of 1,146 settled in their seats. The lights dimmed. The frantic cacophony of stringed instruments began Mozart’s opera overture. The melody promised a musical comic treat.
The curtain rose to show four men dressed as servants hauling in the hero Figaro’s wedding bed. My sore muscles immediately remembered the heavy hideaway bed I’d hauled earlier that day. Mozart, I’m sure, sympathized with my furniture-moving aches and pains.
The music, the sets, the emotions of the performers – all wove a spell on me. I found myself entranced by the whole operatic experience.
Okay … I did find the plot of “The Marriage of Figaro” a bit contrived. (“You never go to an opera for the story,” the lady next to me told me.)
Basically, man-servant Figaro must protect the “purity” of Susanna, his bride-to-be, from his boss, the lecherous Count Almaviva. The shenanigans and comical contrivances grow more complicated as Figaro manipulates the situation.
I won’t say I left the California Theatre on Saturday night a die-hard opera buff. But I did truly enjoy myself. (And this time I’m not lying.)
Will I ever develop a deep passion for this most passionate of musical entertainments? Time will tell. I still must get through three more performances in San Jose Opera’s season. Puccini’s “Tosca,” Bizet’s “Carmen” and Wagner’s “The Flying Dutchman” await me.
As they say in the opera biz: It ain’t over until the fat gal wearing the silly Viking helmet sings.
