The Tragedy
Last night, a former student invited me to attend La Traviata with her family. When I received the invitation, I pondered seriously for several minutes: I am behind in my weekly reading (that sounds like Elementary School homework. It's not), and will miss a family gettogether today to play ketchup, so attending a family-external cultural event is/was a sacrifice of valuable study time.
This morning, looking back at those hours and the conversation and my current reign as Queen of Awkward, I have not a single regret.
No regrets. That's not only unprecedented, it's unimaginable. No guilt for missing study time, no self-hate for the stupid things I said, no resentment for the inaccessibility of "High Culture" entertainment, and no jealousy about class difference.
The Utah Opera Company, like most high culture franchises, struggles in today's economy as popular culture becomes less stigmatized and more competitive, as unemployment rises, and as Utah's median income settles into the lower-middle classes. The theater company's website offers advice to new patrons, and their foreign language productions include "subtitles" projected over the stage (which I used frequently and unabashedly). Despite these concessions, the production values remain high. The principal voices were all more or less superb (I didn't like the tenor, but adored the baritone who was generally acknowledged a match for the beautiful lead soprano, Sara Gartland), and the pit orchestra was present, professional, and precise. The set design was contemporary and lavish, if occasionally flawed (the doors in the second act all either stuck, or had visible margins - I laughed). The costumes were breathtaking. Even the chorus glittered.
I genuinely enjoyed it. Every moment. Even the sub-standard, mid-act ballet (they were terrible, but occupied a necessary place in an otherwise overly-static scene). I wasn't tired or twitchy. I didn't bore or snore or even close my eyes. I'm not sure if I blinked. I felt such unmitigated and unselfconscious pleasure in my immediate company and the spectacle onstage. I'm not certain the production can take all the credit, though. Or if it would want to.
I'm just a little Brechtian, when it comes to theater. High production values don't impress me in themselves. I'm also simple. Competence awes me. When Violetta fell dead in her lover's arms and the curtain fell, I didn't cry, I grinned like a fool. This was not Aristotle's catharsis, despite the fact that Aristotle seemed to be haunting the evening altogether. My cold, diamond brain had been sorting themes for hours: redemption, romantic love, financial responsibility, social obligation, religious conviction, social judgment, Manon Lescaut, and Campion. I did not find the story wanting in depth or nuance. All that thinking: I was entertained. I was impressed, even awed. I actively watched, but I was not touched.
What would Brecht say?
This morning, looking back at those hours and the conversation and my current reign as Queen of Awkward, I have not a single regret.
No regrets. That's not only unprecedented, it's unimaginable. No guilt for missing study time, no self-hate for the stupid things I said, no resentment for the inaccessibility of "High Culture" entertainment, and no jealousy about class difference.
The Utah Opera Company, like most high culture franchises, struggles in today's economy as popular culture becomes less stigmatized and more competitive, as unemployment rises, and as Utah's median income settles into the lower-middle classes. The theater company's website offers advice to new patrons, and their foreign language productions include "subtitles" projected over the stage (which I used frequently and unabashedly). Despite these concessions, the production values remain high. The principal voices were all more or less superb (I didn't like the tenor, but adored the baritone who was generally acknowledged a match for the beautiful lead soprano, Sara Gartland), and the pit orchestra was present, professional, and precise. The set design was contemporary and lavish, if occasionally flawed (the doors in the second act all either stuck, or had visible margins - I laughed). The costumes were breathtaking. Even the chorus glittered.
I genuinely enjoyed it. Every moment. Even the sub-standard, mid-act ballet (they were terrible, but occupied a necessary place in an otherwise overly-static scene). I wasn't tired or twitchy. I didn't bore or snore or even close my eyes. I'm not sure if I blinked. I felt such unmitigated and unselfconscious pleasure in my immediate company and the spectacle onstage. I'm not certain the production can take all the credit, though. Or if it would want to.
I'm just a little Brechtian, when it comes to theater. High production values don't impress me in themselves. I'm also simple. Competence awes me. When Violetta fell dead in her lover's arms and the curtain fell, I didn't cry, I grinned like a fool. This was not Aristotle's catharsis, despite the fact that Aristotle seemed to be haunting the evening altogether. My cold, diamond brain had been sorting themes for hours: redemption, romantic love, financial responsibility, social obligation, religious conviction, social judgment, Manon Lescaut, and Campion. I did not find the story wanting in depth or nuance. All that thinking: I was entertained. I was impressed, even awed. I actively watched, but I was not touched.
What would Brecht say?
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