A mixed bag

It wouldn't be Monday morning without a postmortem report on the weekend weather. In a word: beautiful. The tulips are coming into their peak and there are more than ever. I think I planted some new bulbs last fall, but the memory is hazy. This is what happens when you get old. On the other hand, if you're going to have a surprise in life, then extra tulips is a nice one. It's raining again this morning which is also nice, because it's finally warmer and the flowers will soak it up.

We ignored the sunshine and went to "The Met" on Saturday morning. I love saying that, because it really is the New York Metropolitan Opera which happens to be showing at a shopping mall theater. It's a wonderful world-- that is, if you're up early and have your act together to get there by 10 am.

The opera was La Traviata and this weekend was the last live broadcast for the Met's HD series until October. Verdi's La Traviata (the story of the dying courtesan Violetta and her doomed love) is one the most popular operas in the repertoire. But-- the theater just had the usual sprinkling of old folks and ladies carrying large handbags. Am I starting to recognize faces in the audience? Anyway, there was plenty of room to spread out and relax with our home-brought snacks during intermission. The singing was excellent, especially my favorite baritone, the hunky Dmitri Hvorstovsky.


The La Traviata production was new, so I'm going to be an opera critic for one paragraph. The stage was bare except for a few leather sofas. The costumes were modern: a short red cocktail dress for Violetta and unisex business suits for the chorus. There was an enormous clock twirling in the background, just in case you didn't realize time was indeed running out for Violetta. I'm never sure why artistic directors feel the need to remove a story from the original time period-- I suppose to showcase their own genius and hit us over the head with "universal themes of life, love and death that transcend time and place." But it's hard to improve upon Verdi, or for that matter, ruin him. After much vocal anguish, Violetta dies as usual in the final act. They didn't give the poor diva a bed or even a hard sofa, so she had to fling herself down on the bare stage in her petticoat. As John said when we were leaving, what a tribute to Verdi that his music shines above all those distractions. The End.

But wait! There was still more entertainment for the culture vultures on Sunday afternoon. We went to Beyond the Score at the Seattle Symphony, the last concert in this series -- you may remember this is produced by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra with a live multimedia presentation. The program was Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 4, an emotional work written at the pinnacle of his unhappiness. Poor Tchaikovsky, born a hundred years too soon. On the other hand, all that suppressed angst resulted in magnificent music. If he only knew...