The inevitability of traffic jams on the Littoral into Barcelona ensures that on an Opera day I am in the city well in advance of the performance.
This also, of course, allows me to meander my feckless way through shops and then pride myself in not buying the latest gadget with flashing lights. Sometimes.
Rain was an unwelcome feature of this visit to the opera; but it was a sort of half-hearted type of precipitation and one which hardly justified my parading about the Ramblas with my umbrella embellished with weather orientated quotations from Shakespeare.
This also, of course, allows me to meander my feckless way through shops and then pride myself in not buying the latest gadget with flashing lights. Sometimes.
Rain was an unwelcome feature of this visit to the opera; but it was a sort of half-hearted type of precipitation and one which hardly justified my parading about the Ramblas with my umbrella embellished with weather orientated quotations from Shakespeare.
I did so, however, in a spirit of education, allowing the passers-by to appreciate the superiority of our national playwright in comparison with the Spanish equivalent - Lope de Vega!
I was early enough at the Liceu to have a coffee and cake in the café and was gifted a fragrant vision in gold.
A lady, too ancient to be flattered with the appellation of “a certain age”, sat at the next table in a cloud of expensive perfume and glittering with precious metal at cuff, throat and ear. Her jacket of shimmering yellow satin with irrepressible ruffs led the eye to her wide sided glasses where the expanse of white served to show up the gold detailing which even extended to the age defying golden highlight in her age defying hair.
Her mobile was frankly disappointing but the wrist that supported it was encircled with a watch that was swamped with sparkling diamonds and the bag which received the phone after her piercing voice had subsided was a burning fantasy of sequined gold.
Such a character was always going to outshine the characters on the stage for the opera but before I could make any comparisons I was early enough to join the serious opera goers for a pre-performance talk. Which was in Catalan.
I have become a grand master in looking vaguely intelligent when listening to fast speaking Spaniards and Catalans. I must admit that I did not do my homework for the opera for which I had paid a surprisingly large amount for a seat. ‘Tiefland’ by Eugen d’Albert based on a stage play ‘Terra Baixa’ by Àngel Guimerà was all unknown territory to me, a territory which was unlikely to be illuminated much by a discourse in Catalan.
By dint of concentration and guesswork I managed to gain that the play was about mountains and lowlands; shepherds and Romanticism; that it was a modern version set in an office; a love triangle; something about a wolf; Glasgow and Barcelona were mentioned. I wasn’t a great deal more informed and I rushed to get a programme and read the short synopsis given in English and French.
‘Terra Baixa’ turned out to be something of a staple in past years of traditional Spanish and especially Catalan theatre: the story of true love developing and winning out against the machinations of a wicked character set in the ‘good’ mountains and the ‘bad’ lowlands. The mentioning of a wolf I learned was a reference to the last lines of the opera when the baddie had been despatched by the hero and hero and his girl were able to leave for the mountains and goodness.
I was prepared for the opening scene which revealed four glass cases which contained four human characters.
I was early enough at the Liceu to have a coffee and cake in the café and was gifted a fragrant vision in gold.
A lady, too ancient to be flattered with the appellation of “a certain age”, sat at the next table in a cloud of expensive perfume and glittering with precious metal at cuff, throat and ear. Her jacket of shimmering yellow satin with irrepressible ruffs led the eye to her wide sided glasses where the expanse of white served to show up the gold detailing which even extended to the age defying golden highlight in her age defying hair.
Her mobile was frankly disappointing but the wrist that supported it was encircled with a watch that was swamped with sparkling diamonds and the bag which received the phone after her piercing voice had subsided was a burning fantasy of sequined gold.
Such a character was always going to outshine the characters on the stage for the opera but before I could make any comparisons I was early enough to join the serious opera goers for a pre-performance talk. Which was in Catalan.
I have become a grand master in looking vaguely intelligent when listening to fast speaking Spaniards and Catalans. I must admit that I did not do my homework for the opera for which I had paid a surprisingly large amount for a seat. ‘Tiefland’ by Eugen d’Albert based on a stage play ‘Terra Baixa’ by Àngel Guimerà was all unknown territory to me, a territory which was unlikely to be illuminated much by a discourse in Catalan.
By dint of concentration and guesswork I managed to gain that the play was about mountains and lowlands; shepherds and Romanticism; that it was a modern version set in an office; a love triangle; something about a wolf; Glasgow and Barcelona were mentioned. I wasn’t a great deal more informed and I rushed to get a programme and read the short synopsis given in English and French.
‘Terra Baixa’ turned out to be something of a staple in past years of traditional Spanish and especially Catalan theatre: the story of true love developing and winning out against the machinations of a wicked character set in the ‘good’ mountains and the ‘bad’ lowlands. The mentioning of a wolf I learned was a reference to the last lines of the opera when the baddie had been despatched by the hero and hero and his girl were able to leave for the mountains and goodness.
I was prepared for the opening scene which revealed four glass cases which contained four human characters.
Stage left was a bank of scientific equipment complete with flashing lights, while stage right was a sort of dentist’s chair which was linked to the characters in the cases with a scientist wearing an interactive glove to make contact with the human specimens in the cases.
We were therefore presented with a concept of virtual reality in which people were being conditioned to behave in certain ways. This idea was fine and an interesting slant on a very traditional story, but it was not sustained throughout the action of the opera and was only reintroduced in the final moments to give a short of enforced coherence to the directorial view.
The majority of the action was confined to the art deco ‘office’ of a bread mill. We could see the sliced product slowly going by on a short conveyer belt throughout the action of the opera. Presumably we were supposed to make the link from the processed bread to the processed people.
Frankly all I saw was a fairly vapid melodrama indifferently acted and unimpressively sung. Musically I found the piece undistinguished even if d’Albert was born in Glasgow and is reputed to have written the overture to one of Sullivan’s operas!
The hero, Tommaso, was sung by Alfred Reiter. The role calls for a Helden tenor and I felt that he lacked the consistent power and definition that was necessary. His heroine, Marta, sung by Petra Maria Schnitzer was the undoubted star of the evening and gave a powerful performance with a voice that was compelling. The other roles were sung adequately but the insistence by the director, Matthias Hartmann, that the piece is not a ‘realistic’ one does not excuse the two dimensional acting which accompanied the music.
As my seat was in the fourth row of the stalls (did I mention how much it cost?) my new black and gold opera glasses were a little redundant! It did allow me to experience the orchestra at close quarters and I think that they, and their conductor, Michael Boder were more than creditable.
Is it truly shallow of me to admit that I enjoyed the Indian meal afterwards without reservation?
Who cares!
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