Rigoletto

Opera has never amused me. For one thing, Italian is not a language which I particularly enjoy listening to.  Two, the overdose of dramatic irony always greatly irritates me. Thirdly, the three operas I had seen were in uncomfortable theaters with sound systems that were less than adequate for the deep, full-bodied voices of opera singers.

I walked into the Metropolitan Opera House with the same low expectations I had for the other operas I had seen. When the orchestra began warming up, I sighed, wishing I was at the New York Philharmonic instead, so I could hear the music without the distraction of loud, non-rhyming singing. I braced myself for three hours of frustration.

When the curtains opened, and with the first line of lyric, I thought that maybe, just maybe, this opera could be different from the others that I had seen. The set was breathtakingly realistic, with a sky that seemed to go on endlessly. The costumes were bright with richly colored fabrics, but managed to stay away from the gaudiness that many opera costumes have. Everyone’s voices were unified and, lo and behold, the singing actually added to the orchestra, rather than distracting me from it.

I would have completely changed my opinion of opera, had it not been for the usual  ironic ending. When shows, plays, operas, anything have endings like the one Rigoletto has, I cannot help but feel like my time was wasted. After such passion between the duke and Rigoletto’s daughter, after Rigoletto goes through so much to protect her, his efforts are all in vain. I cannot understand the point of watching something which ends in tragedy. Even though the music was much more beautiful than any I had heard at an opera before; even though I could appreciate the huge amount of talent the opera singers had as their crystal clear voices rang out in soprano, alto, tenor, and bass, I still left with the same overall opinion of opera. It does not amuse me.