Puccini’s doomed lovers
I arrived at Glyndebourne this year just as a clap of thunder shattered the darkness. Rain dropped from the sky and detonated the muddy landscape like tiny cluster bombs. From every direction desperate people were stumbling towards the tents clutching bags, bits of furniture, blankets, and clothing. They took shelter under heavy wet canvas. As they gratefully received food and drink, the sense of relief was overtaken by nervous expectation, even trepidation, as to what lay ahead.
We were all there to attend a revival of David McVicar’s 2000 production of Puccini’s opera La Bohème. The pre-show drinking and laying out of damp picnics seemed almost an extension of the Jubilee celebrations. The same defiant spirit in the face of the capricious weather—the same endearing British eccentricity. As we quaffed champagne and chattered, one elderly woman perched on a shooting stick was confessing, “Don’t get me wrong I like Puccini, but I’ll always be Mozart’s little virgin.”
After this we took our seats in the beautiful wooden auditorium. It is wonderfully unexpected to find an opera house in someone’s garden. Since the first theatre was built in 1934, the seating capacity has expanded from 300 to 1200.
I vaguely knew the story of La Bohème having seen Rent and Moulin Rouge (which are based on Puccini's opera). Even so, I was glad there were subtitles. These are always fascinating. People sing passionately for ages—you wait on tenterhooks—and then it just says: “Goodbye, old coat!”
La Bohème is written in Italian, about Bohemian life in Paris. But this modern production seemed to be set in London. In fact the ensemble had lots of drag queens, fire-eaters, reindeer on stilts and Father Christmases. I found this a bit distracting. That said, my only other Puccini experience was Turandot. This involved dancing pigs with meat cleavers, Elvis Presley impersonators and a Chelsea pensioner.
Opera and theatre often seem to be “concept” driven. This can indulge puerile humour in some of the more nincompoopish audience—a sniggery enthusiasm for debauching tradition. But this production was staged relatively simply and realistically. There is a lot of fridge-centred buddy bonding, and then the two leads, Mimi and Rodolfo, fall in love with a speed-dating rapidity. But the performers (David Lomeli as Rodolfo, Ekaterina Scherbachenko as Mimi, Andrei Bondarenko as Marcello, and Irina Iordachescu as Musetta) were all tremendous, and the score is so rapturous that I was enchanted. I tried writing notes in the dark. On one page I just wrote “Parsley Poison Parrot Mad” in reference to one more eccentric section.
I found the second half terribly moving—except for the cocaine-snorting moment, which was frankly under-researched. But Scherbachenko’s Mimi, in particular, was heart-breaking, and it can’t be easy singing lying down. There is a magical moment when Mimi dies unnoticed by her friends, but observed by both the orchestra and the subtitle screen.
I remember opera curtain-calls being rather long-winded and precious, but this one was joyous, brief and funky. I almost expected a disco mega-mix of aria highlights, and a “Your Tiny Hand Is Frozen” clap-along.
As we left, we saw the cast enjoying a few drinks outside what appeared to be their own pub on the premises. Lucky them. Lucky us.
I arrived at Glyndebourne this year just as a clap of thunder shattered the darkness. Rain dropped from the sky and detonated the muddy landscape like tiny cluster bombs. From every direction desperate people were stumbling towards the tents clutching bags, bits of furniture, blankets, and clothing. They took shelter under heavy wet canvas. As they gratefully received food and drink, the sense of relief was overtaken by nervous expectation, even trepidation, as to what lay ahead.
We were all there to attend a revival of David McVicar’s 2000 production of Puccini’s opera La Bohème. The pre-show drinking and laying out of damp picnics seemed almost an extension of the Jubilee celebrations. The same defiant spirit in the face of the capricious weather—the same endearing British eccentricity. As we quaffed champagne and chattered, one elderly woman perched on a shooting stick was confessing, “Don’t get me wrong I like Puccini, but I’ll always be Mozart’s little virgin.”
After this we took our seats in the beautiful wooden auditorium. It is wonderfully unexpected to find an opera house in someone’s garden. Since the first theatre was built in 1934, the seating capacity has expanded from 300 to 1200.
I vaguely knew the story of La Bohème having seen Rent and Moulin Rouge (which are based on Puccini's opera). Even so, I was glad there were subtitles. These are always fascinating. People sing passionately for ages—you wait on tenterhooks—and then it just says: “Goodbye, old coat!”
La Bohème is written in Italian, about Bohemian life in Paris. But this modern production seemed to be set in London. In fact the ensemble had lots of drag queens, fire-eaters, reindeer on stilts and Father Christmases. I found this a bit distracting. That said, my only other Puccini experience was Turandot. This involved dancing pigs with meat cleavers, Elvis Presley impersonators and a Chelsea pensioner.
Opera and theatre often seem to be “concept” driven. This can indulge puerile humour in some of the more nincompoopish audience—a sniggery enthusiasm for debauching tradition. But this production was staged relatively simply and realistically. There is a lot of fridge-centred buddy bonding, and then the two leads, Mimi and Rodolfo, fall in love with a speed-dating rapidity. But the performers (David Lomeli as Rodolfo, Ekaterina Scherbachenko as Mimi, Andrei Bondarenko as Marcello, and Irina Iordachescu as Musetta) were all tremendous, and the score is so rapturous that I was enchanted. I tried writing notes in the dark. On one page I just wrote “Parsley Poison Parrot Mad” in reference to one more eccentric section.
I found the second half terribly moving—except for the cocaine-snorting moment, which was frankly under-researched. But Scherbachenko’s Mimi, in particular, was heart-breaking, and it can’t be easy singing lying down. There is a magical moment when Mimi dies unnoticed by her friends, but observed by both the orchestra and the subtitle screen.
I remember opera curtain-calls being rather long-winded and precious, but this one was joyous, brief and funky. I almost expected a disco mega-mix of aria highlights, and a “Your Tiny Hand Is Frozen” clap-along.
As we left, we saw the cast enjoying a few drinks outside what appeared to be their own pub on the premises. Lucky them. Lucky us.
