By
David Trivett
I don’t know much about opera, know very little Italian, and know
absolutely nothing about how to critique anything, other than
my wife’s cooking or Southampton’s defensive 4-3-3 strategies.
In she comes, coughing all over the place, and dies in the
armchair
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I
do, however, like ice cream, smart casual clothing and the discovery
of cheap binocular suppliers.
It
was for these reasons that I found myself in Chino’s and open-collared
shirt, eating Cornettos and desperately trying to stuff my last
50 pence piece into the mechanism in front of me at the Oxford
Apollo. How do they make them so cheap?
The
orchestra tuned up, the conductor emerged, the lights dimmed,
and I finished my second Cornetto whilst raising my bargain binoculars
to my eyes the wrong way round, pretending the orchestra was miles
away.
After
five minutes of this deafening silence and tunnel-vision-simulation
(perhaps the leading lady couldn’t get through the door of her
dressing room), the long-range spectacular began.
The story is fairly straightforward, if surreal.
There
are these four blokes – a painter, a writer a musician and a philosopher
– who are all great mates in Paris in the mid-1800s.
They’re flat broke. The musician arrives at the flat that the
painter and writer share after earning some cash by killing a
parrot. He achieved this – as a bet – by playing music at until
it fell off its perch.
Actually, he cheated, and fed it some parsley – you know, as you
do.
The
whacky bunch decide to go out for a meal in the Latin Quarter,
but the
writer, Rodolfo, has to hang back for five minutes to write an
overdue article.
A
strange woman by the even stranger name of Mimi (who knocks on
his door because her candle has gone out and she wants a light)
interrupts him. He
nicks her key so she can’t go home, and they fall in love.
At this stage, I get the feeling the romance won’t last.
They
tootle off to the restaurant to meet the rest. There,
the painter (Marcello) has his night ruined when he bumps into
his ex (Musetta).
She is intent on getting Marcello back, and fobs of her date for
the night by saying her shoes are too tight, sending him off to
get her another pair. Either this bloke’s in love, or he's an
idiot.
Anyway,
Musetta gets her man Marcello back, and the four bohemian blokes,
Mimi and - let's be honest - the tarty Musetta leg it, leaving
the idiot who trotted off to get some new shoes to pay the bill.
Nearly there.
Two
months later, Mimi is upset by Rodolfo’s jealousy, and – riddled
with TB – finds Marcello to ask what to do. Rodolfo
comes out, and feels guilty that Mimi’s so ill.
It’s his fault because he’s got her shacked up in a bedsit with
a nasty through draft.
Caring
and dutiful as Rodolfo is, he splits up with Mimi. This is in
her best interests, of course. Oh,
and Marcello and Musetta split up too. Nice guys really.
Another two months on sees Marcello and Rodolfo alone again in
the same flat that they started the opera in; whinging about their
lost loves.
The
musician and philosopher turn up with some food, and all seems
well - the crazy bohemians enjoying their poverty once again,
but with no women and even less feeling of having done good things
over the last six months.
You
can bet they were never in the Scouts.
But, oh no, Musetta turns up to say Mimi is outside their apartment
dying. In
she comes, coughing all over the place, and dies in the armchair.
The
end.
All
this was in Italian, so how did I have a clue as to what was going
on?
Well,
those canny promoters Ellen Kent and Opera International had a
digital LED board above the stage, displaying a running translation.
I
half expected to see "calling at… Didcot Parkway… Oxford… Reading…
trolley offering pies, pasties, hot drinks..."
in green dots, but – alas – opera isn’t supposed to be that funny.
One can’t help but feel that if Rodolfo had worked harder at school,
he’d have been able to live in a nicer apartment, and Mimi wouldn’t
have TB.
But
that would have ruined the opera, and resulted in a story of young
sweethearts splitting up instead of a soul-crushing tragedy.
The
singing was sublime, if not a little quiet at times against the
background of the magnificent orchestra, and the plot well delivered
via the tone of voice, acting, musical arrangement and the Chiltern
Railways message board.
The
end of the show saw a tear in my eye (I’d dropped my forth Cornetto
on my Chinos), and a feeling of sadness for all characters involved.
I
felt drawn into the story, and therefore – in my mind – it was
mission accomplished: cultural, educational, professional and
slick, La Bohème provided an excellent evenings’ entertainment.
I’d go again but I know what happens. Maybe
I’m missing the point? It was £25 well spent, and highly recommended.
Read
our feature
on
La Boheme and Carmen
(at Oxford until 22 March)
Click
here for Oxford Apollo
details
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