Review: La Bohème at the English National Opera

I’ve recently begun enjoying opera. Well, it’s not that I didn’t enjoy it previously, but I didn’t have much exposure to the genre. Although, come to think of it, that’s not true either. I was lucky enough to attend two amazing gala concerts in Latvia, both of which brought together artists from around the world to perform some of the most famous pieces from various operas.

Actually, one of the concerts was held amongst the ruins of a castle in Sigulda. Ah, romance.

Anyway, coming back to La Bohème, or rather – how I came to enjoy opera in 2019. My friend had invited me along to see The Queen of Spades at the Royal Opera House last month (which, by the way, we should also talk about – why was it implied that Tchaikovsky killed himself due to his sexuality? And why was Tchaikovsky inserted as a character into his own opera?), and despite the numerous questions I had as to the direction, I enjoyed the experience.

To return the favour, I immediately booked tickets to La Bohème at the English National Opera as soon as I came home. Exactly five weeks later, there we were: glasses of prosecco in hand (this is mentioned only to set the scene and should in no way be perceived as an endorsement of alcohol), we took our places in the balcony.

My first surprise of the evening? La Bohème was translated into English! And, well, it wasn’t entirely Giacomo Puccini’s La Bohème – it turns out that Jonathan Miller’s adaptation took it out of 19^th century Paris and into interwar Paris.

Having listened to The Queen of Spades in Russian, I was somewhat accustomed to the idea that opera is literally just people singing out their conversations, whether or not those conversations rhyme, but it did (initially!) seem downright comical in English.

I wonder if this is how the Italians feel whenever they listen to Tosca or Aida or, well, La Bohème. Funny aside about Aida – whenever I was taken to opera as a child, it was always, always Aida. I must’ve gone more than five times. Helpful hint for parents: if you want your child to enjoy opera, don’t keep taking them to the same one!

So, as you can see, this isn’t so much a review of La Bohème as it is a reflection of my experience of opera generally, but I suppose my conclusion can be summarised as this: I can see why opera became popular. Also, I’ve finally gotten to that stage where I don’t see it as something Theodor Adorno would call authentic culture (I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t bring my attempts at somehow applying my undergraduate degree in real life into this – and besides, Adorno reminds me of those grumpy old folks whose response to everything is “in my day…”), but rather as something that appeals – or could/should appeal – to the masses.

Essentially, what I’m trying to say is that La Bohème was nice. English, but nice. And it earned its entertainment value – I thoroughly enjoyed it and would encourage everyone (especially those unfamiliar with opera as an art form) to go see it. Unfortunately, I’ve just discovered that you won’t be able to, because, as has now become typical with my reviews – the object of said review has closed. We apparently watched it two days before the final performance.

Anyway, Puccini’s popularity isn’t going anywhere, so I’m sure it well be back again soon enough. As for now, perhaps rewatching Rent for the hundredth time will do the trick.

Book(s) of the Month: Americanah, Half of a Yellow Sun, Purple Hibiscus

As I mentioned last week, I had a wonderful Book of the Month post in mind, but then I realised that not enough time had lapsed since I described my thoughts on A Little Life. Luckily (or unluckily), time flies quickly, and so here we are. It’s finally time for yet another Book of the Month.

Speaking of which, can you believe that it is now mid-February 2019?! Then again, I had roughly the same feeling in August of last year – “wait, what do you mean it’s my birthday? The year’s just begun!”

It’s perhaps some form of irony that I’ve dedicated the shortest month to an entire three books, but it comes together so nicely (see below).

These beautiful books are the three full-length novels of Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, also known as the inspiring woman behind the TED talks on the danger of a single story and why we should all be feminists, as well as recent interviewer of Michelle Obama.

For my birthday last year, some friends gave me a generous gift card to Foyles, so I had the indescribable joy of taking home any book that caught my fancy. That’s how I came across Americanah. For the first time in a long time, I had found something that gripped me from the first page – something I didn’t want to put down and yet something I didn’t want to end.

I wasn’t entirely happy with the ending. Not because I can’t imagine it working out the way it did – in fact, it really was the only logical conclusion – but because perhaps I don’t see the happy future that the novel promises. Then again, it could just as well be that the novel promises nothing and that nothing will work out the way the characters would hope.

This is a similar theme with the remaining two books. I wasn’t satisfied with the endings in any of them. They felt quite rushed in all instances. And despite having said that, I think perhaps it is intentional – after all, why should we expect neat, tidy conclusions? Life doesn’t work that way.

Especially when it comes to Half of a Yellow Sun, which traces the prelude to, the experience of, and the immediate aftermath of the Biafran War. Such cataclysmic events forbid would-be narrators from creating readymade, pre-packaged stories by tying up all loose ends.

I do, however, take issue with Purple Hibiscus. The ending – though plausible – felt far too rushed. I make more of an allowance for it, however, given that it was the author’s first novel. But if she’s risen to the heights of Americanah in ten years, I can only imagine what the future holds. Here’s hoping she won’t keep us waiting long!

Love and Other Fluff

This is rather distressing. I’ve had this wonderful idea for a Book of the Month post for more than two weeks now and planned to publish it today, but then I remembered that my initial motivation for launching my own website was to experiment with SEO and shelved it for another week.

Not that the experimentation with SEO is going particularly well, but one of the principles I learned is that it’s important to capitalise on “trending topics”, which essentially amounts to: there’s no way around it, today’s post is dedicated to Valentine’s Day.

I’ve never been a fan of the holiday, though I have no particular reason to complain (unlike my friend, who is celebrating his birthday today and still has to buy his girlfriend a present – oh, the humanity!). Though I’d never go to the extreme of rejecting it outright, my favourite Valentine’s celebrations have tended to subvert the intended premise.

One year, for example, my then boyfriend and I invited a friend over to (attempt to) watch Fifty Shades of Grey. We barely made it half way through (don’t try this at home, kids – joking!). This makes me sound a miserable hipster, doesn’t it?

I guess what I’m trying to say is that love doesn’t need a specific day. It just needs compassion and humour.

Not that there’s nothing wrong with Valentine’s Day, either. And if you’re planning on celebrating, whether it be among friends, curled up with your significant other, in the company of family, or dancing the night away – enjoy!

Review: Klimt/Schiele

I had this wonderful blog post in mind, but then I realised that writing yet another Book of the Month post before a month had actually passed was a little premature. So instead I figured I’d review the Klimt/Schiele exhibition that closed recently at the Royal Academy of Art.

The exhibition itself – speaking purely in terms of pieces assembled and the curation, because crowd control at the RA is notoriously poor – was excellent. I particularly enjoyed how you could trace Klimt’s influence on Schiele’s works – in the subjects, in the poses – but the boundaries were always pushed further, something was always subverted or exaggerated.

The best example of this was in the juxtaposition between their respective Secession Exhibition posters (Klimt for the 18^th, Schiele for the 49^th).

The one exception, I would say, is Schiele’s sketch of his mother, which has a poignant gentleness. As opposed to his brazen prostitutes, which shock and astonish even as rough drafts, he drew his mother with a frailty and humility, looking away from the viewer.

Both artists died in 1918 – the 55 year old Gustav Klimt from complications resulting from influenza in February, the 28 year old Egon Schiele from Spanish flu in October. The drawings displayed at the exhibition have now been shelved temporarily due to their fragility.