I simply adore movies in which the guy takes the girl to the opera so that she’ll fall in love with him.
Just think of Cher in “Moonstruck,” or Winona Ryder in “Little Women,” or — best of all — Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman.”
Hollywood obviously sees opera as a powerful seduction tool, but I don’t think it works as well for non-Hollywood folk, like you and me.
In the first dewy-eyed moments of our romance back in the 1960s, my sweetheart happened to come calling while I was listening to one of my favorite records.
“What is THAT?” he said. His tone didn’t indicate enthralled admiration. In fact, he looked as if he’d just come face to face with a decomposing possum.
“That,” I said dreamily, “is Mario Lanza. He’d have been Caruso’s heir if he hadn’t died so tragically young.”
“Serves him right,” said my beloved. “You can throw that record away, if you want.” He brightened at the thought. “Hey, you got any Johnny Cash?”
We got married anyway.
The Mario Lanza recording of “Be My Love” is long gone, and we now own at least a dozen of the Man in Black’s CDs. However, I am the persistent sort. I don’t like to give up the good fight.
A couple of weeks ago, I oh-so-casually clicked to a PBS broadcast of “La Boheme,” operating on the theory that a tragic love story set to glorious music is sufficient to melt even the hardest non-operatic heart.
After the first 10 minutes, before Mimi even got to sing her first breath-taking flight into the soprano stratosphere telling us that her name is Mimi, my husband said he thought he’d probably heard enough about the life of poor artists in Paris.
Even my promise that she would die at the end didn’t persuade him. It obviously wouldn’t happen soon enough.
I haven’t given up all hope. In a month or so, I will cajole him into going over to the Hollywood 14 for the Metropolitan Opera’s HD broadcast of “Carmen.” I doubt that he’ll be able to resist that hot little tootsie of a temptress. Plus there’s the undeniable benefit of Carmen’s getting stabbed to death at the end.
You see, that’s one of the real joys of opera. There’s tons of betrayal and lust and blood and unrequited love and sacrifice, all conveyed in thrilling cascades and glissandos of vocal pyrotechnics. What’s not to like?
Granted, opera can take some getting used to. Operatic characters don’t say things just once. They tend to repeat (and repeat) a phrase to make sure the audience doesn’t miss the point. An opera singer can occupy five minutes saying, “Goodbye, I love you. I love you, goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye,” only it will be in Italian, so it sounds much more passionate.
Opera also asks that you believe that someone who looks like she’s been eating six regular meals a day and who is capable of hitting 10 high Cs within a minute could cough a couple of times and then die of consumption.
During the Met’s recent broadcast of “Aida,” I was a trifle concerned that if all three lead singers stood on one side of the set, the entire stage would tip. The two sopranos were, ahem, large women, but the tenor was absolutely spherical. He looked just like a basketball with a head. A basketball draped in Egyptian military regalia, of course.
Tonight I’ll be at the Hollywood 14 watching “Tales of Hoffman” along with the regular crowd of opera-loving Joplinites, some of us even accompanied by spouses. Maybe Richard Gere will show up with Julia Roberts.
Carolyn Trout, retired Joplin Public Library librarian, lives in Joplin.
