(Opera glasses, by Carolita Johnson)
It’s not often I get to the opera, because, hey! it’s expensive, right? Luckily I was offered the chance to see the opening night of Puccini’s Madama Butterfly, gratis, this past Thursday. You lucky ducky, you’re thinking. Unfortunately I accepted the tickets on the assumption that my flu symptoms had abated, and halfway through the performace I was overtaken by a relapse and obliged to leave. So I plan on using the New York City Opera’s very democratic (practically socialist!) “Opera for All” program to buy myself a ticket to see the other half, as soon as I’ve done coughing!
Madama Butterfly opened with giant Japanese sliding doors lit to look like they were made of glass, or ice. A good metaphor for Cio-Cio San’s world whose fragility will be made evident by Pinkerton’s selfish, horny stomping around in her life. Clearly Valenti’s Pinkerton was channeling blue-balled frat-boy. “I’m aflame over her!” on the over-titles translates in modern terms as, “OMG! She’s so hot!” There were moments when he was kneeling to Cio-Cio San in his foreplay, singing with his pelvis gently pumping that familiar way of boyfriends who wake you up in the morning, with, let’s just say, ideas. It was pretty obvious where Pinkerton was coming from, and yet it was still jarring when the hubris moment came as he toasted is “real” wife-to-be, even as he awaited Cio-Cio San (his actual wife-to-be, but only in the unreal land of Japan). The rest of the first act showcased Pinkerton as the unwitting cad. (Because cads rarely set out to be cads, do they?)
The idea that one can go to Japan and do things that don’t “count” anywhere else — as Pinkerton does — is a theme I’m familiar with, having modelled there. Only twenty years ago it was a common phenomenon to see models arrive in Tokyo, find themselves instantly rich and adored for their Western beauty and simply go quite mad, behaving as if they think nothing they say or do will have any consequences in their “real” country back west. It’s a form of temporary insanity, and to see Pinkerton do the same is to understand him as a human being under the influence. The only thing I could possibly reproach James Valenti’s Pinkerton is that his voice sometimes didn’t project well — but only when he was not facing the audience. It’s possible that the acoustics in the NYCO are at fault. Anytime anyone did not face the audience they were hard to hear over the orchestra. Perhaps the conductor should take note.
Shu-Ying Li’s first appearance on stage as Miss Butterfly nearly brought tears to my eyes. Actually it did bring tears to my eyes. But that’s probably because I had a fever — normally tears almost come to my eyes. Still, why begrudge Shu-Ying Li the slightest tear? Her voice carried through the music and the stage space in the organic way a whale’s song cuts through the waves — there was something not just operatic about her voice. It’s a natural sound that Shu-Ying Li has, something visceral, which is rare in sopranos, who are often mostly artifice. I could only ask her to be a little more fluent with her geisha-like movements, which seemed to come only now and then as an afterthought.
The Gonze’s first appearance seemed to run into a little technical difficulty with his fan-opening technique which resulted in making him seem that much more blusterous, which was fine.
All I ask of this opera is for the audience to lighten up a little! There are moments when I was chuckling at the dialogue and noticed I was the only one. Yes, opera has plenty of tragedy in it, but every tragedy has its laughs. All the better to contrast with the tears when the moment comes.
NYTimes’ review of Madama Butterfly, same night, here.
