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Sylvie, Les and I went to the Waterloo Galaxy to see Eugene Onegin live from the Met on the big screen today. I was unfamiliar with the opera, but expected Tchaikovsky's music to captivate me, and wasn't disappointed. Several of the dance interludes are popular concert pieces, of course, but the entire work's lyricism and poetry drew me along from beginning to end. Renée Fleming's performance was intense and convincing, and I was particularly stirred by one aria in the long bedroom scene where Tatiana contemplates her attraction to Onegin: "Are you my guardian angel, or a terrible seducer?" Her plight is common to human experience: the bewildering and sometimes humiliating passions of a young innocent overwhelmed by her first throes of infatuation. The worldly Onegin is self-centred and reckless, but not heartless like Don Giovanni. Ultimately his regrets—upon succumbing to love, too late—are equally moving. It reminds me of the maxim that people approaching death are inclined to value their lives by how well they have loved. The particular tragedy of this tale is not death, but living with unfulfilled love.
The staging also was pure poetry, especially during the first act, which takes place entirely on Tatiana's family estate. The performance opened with a view of several tall tree trunks and the stage littered with autumn leaves, through which the harvest celebrants came dancing and singing. These leaves in their hot and dying colours provided symbolic significance throughout the act. During the bedroom seen, Tatiana's bed and desk appeared in the midst of them, under an indigo backdrop and sliver moon.
Sylvie, a casual but accomplished seamstress, marvelled at the costumes, especially from the ballroom scenes. She pointed out that even in the final act, where all the guests were dressed in formal black, every gown was unique.
One surreal aspect of the experience was having to contend with an audience mostly from a generation (or at least from a subgroup of that generation) that is obviously unfamiliar with modern movie theatres. One fellow unwittingly pushed past me in line to pick up pre-ordered tickets, but was gracious when I pointed out his error. One woman tried to butt in front of me deliberately. Learning that tickets were sold out, she proceeded to beg the manager to admit her, detailing some pathetic story about her husband locking her out of the house. During intermission I had never heard so many people complaining at once—about the sound volume being too loud, or the screen too fuzzy, or the rudeness of strangers. It was a comical and sad glimpse into the future.
Sylvie brought up the common complaint that operas are too long, but after almost four hours in the theatre we were hungry for more. More opera in general, but specifically, I could sit and watch Onegin all over again. The story itself appealed to me as much as any opera I've seen, and add to that colourful music from the master of melody. I might attend the encore presentation which is bound to appear in a few weeks, so I can immerse myself completely in the dramatic experience without having to follow subtitles.
