April 24, 2010

No real joy for this uncultured viewer...

I WENT to the opera for the first time last week.  State Theatre, Melbourne. A production of the Peter Carey novel Bliss, about Harry Joy, an advertising legend who gets another shot at life. Sitting way up in the balcony, and being new to the whole caper, I felt rather detached. The production was both elaborate and simplistic, if that makes sense. Elaborate in its use of lighting (enough bulbs for a global meltdown) and a seemingly constantly revolving stage. Enough to make you dizzy, particularly since vertigo was always a chance from sitting up so high. And simplistic in that the rich storyline was reduced to a handful of scenes. It might have been my distance from the stage but I sensed no empathy for the characters. They seemed to be cardboard cut-outs who just liked to sing a lot. (Not surprising, given it was an opera.) From my ignorant point-of-view the whole shebang seemed to be a rather drawn-out affair, one that diluted the narrative tension. Call me an uncultured oaf but for much of the time I wanted to call out, Come on, hurry up, get a move on. Not that most of the audience seemed to mind. The cast got a long and rousing reception when the final curtain fell. Even minor characters took individual bows. The papers will probably run rave reviews. Me, I went home thinking, Is that it?

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