Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Opera in the Outfield

Last Saturday night I witnesed marketing genius. The Washington National Opera sponsored a live simulcast (I think that's redundant) of the opening night of "La Traviata" at Nationals Park, and Jeff and I joined approximately 15,000 other Washingtonians to enjoy the music and hot dogs. What better way to get people like me--although preferably younger--who've never been to an opera to sit for three hours and listen to sopranos than to broadcast it in a unsnobby atmosphere where they can wear shorts and eat Ben's Chili Bowl?

I had my doubts about opera, although I love classical music without knowing much about it. What I know about opera I can pretty much attribute to Bugs Bunny. (You must have seen the immortal 12-minute rendition of Wagner's entire "Ring Cycle." Much better than the original.) Having sung alto in the church choir my entire childhood, I have no love of sopranos. I think recitatives are silly and boring. Most tenors leave me cold. (I guess I prefer low-pitched noises in general.) Nevertheless, I was enthralled. The HDTV bigger than my house certainly helped to make the event watchable, but I even loved the music. I did occasionally want to laugh because the facial expressions on someone singing a high note at a tragic moment are priceless, but I appealed to my better nature and kept my amusement to myself.

I must admit that I can't recall the names of any of the performers off the top of my head. I mean, come on. But the soprano singing the part of Violetta was pretty and hardly screechy at all, and I adored the baritone who sang the part of Alfredo's father. It helped that I already knew the story, but I still was moved to tears at the ending, corny as it may seem to a modern audience. How could I not be when facing the grand spectacle, the music and emotions, the lyricism and athleticism of the performances? It's safe to say that this was the first time that I have ever cried in a major league sports venue.

The Washington Post, in their typical crabby fashion of the last few years, found the performance only "adequate." I'm glad at times like this that I don't know enough about music to know when something lovely just isn't right. I'm glad I couldn't hear, as Jeff did, that the soprano was flat and the tenor sharp--or was it the other way round? I was just thrilled to be there, sucking down chili dogs to Verdi, and watching little children frolic on the bright green grass of the outfield in time to the music. Maybe these kids will never acquire the fear of and misconceptions about opera and the arts in general that so many Americans labor under. Perhaps they'll adore Mozart and shrug off Puccini the way I love the Beatles but snicker just a bit at Queen. And if the arts at the ballpark go completely over their heads, there's always Ben's Chili Bowl.