Allow me to preface this by stating that as a woman who has curves, I am the last person to call another woman "fluffy". Until now.
About two years ago, on a visit back east, while speaking with an older gentleman about his love of opera, he insisted that if I were going to go alone to my first performance, that I see "La Boheme". He said in his thick Spanish accent, "Darling, you will fall in love with the opera--I promise you." So, making my promise to him, and in the need to expand my cultural base, I purchased a ticket to Puccini's "La Boheme" at the LA Opera.
In my anticipation of attending the Sunday matinee, I bought a black dress and new heels ... I couldn't wait to be amongst other patrons of the theatre ... of the arrrrrts. Actually, sans the black dress and heels, I felt like I was a kid again when my mother would take my sisters, me, and the neighborhood kids to the museum or ballet--it was quite an exciting adventure then, and even now.
After ascending the stairs, my beautiful afternoon quickly became ugly when I was confronted by some of my fellow patrons dressed in "California casual" attire. Seriously, how hard is it to leave the jeans, t-shirts, and flip-flops in the closet, on the floor, or in this case, the garbage? Anyway, I walked past them, had a glass of champagne, and then made my way to my seat after the second bell. All I can say is that before intermission, I was completely captivated; and before the end, I couldn't wait for the beginning of my next Puccini production. My Spanish friend was correct ... "La Boheme" made me fall in love with opera.
Months would go by, and then one day, I saw that Puccini's "Madama Butterfly" was at the LA Opera. Of course, without hesitation, I immediately snapped up tickets for closing night. This time, I was going to be amongst the crowd who would dress for the occasion--the crowd who appreciated the pomp and circumstance of such an amazing event!
Much like yours truly, most of the attendees were clad in black, and some of the men actually wore tuxedos. Champagne was being sipped, women were wearing couture, and I was ready for yet another performance from my Puccini prince.
She walked onto the stage, and for a brief moment, I thought the stage manager sent out the wrong Butterfly. But no, she was there to stay ... for the entire two and a half hours.
Now, just in case you're not aware of who Butterfly is--she's a delicate, graceful, 15 year old, Japanese girl who married an American soldier that ultimately leaves her in his dust. Apparently, the casting director didn't get the memo. This Butterfly was a "fluffy" farfalla (portly butterfly), in her 50s, and black. To make matters worse, throughout the production, the actors do a lot of kneeling; and when Butterfly knelt too long, she struggled getting up and nearly fell back down. It wasn't pretty or graceful (it was as if her wings had been clipped) ... neither was her never-ending death scene. It was quite painful to watch her slowly bend down, then lay down, and then engage in a mini-epileptic seizure.
Should I even mention that the curtain was stuck for at least ten minutes after intermission which gave way to hysterical laughter from the audience? Or what about the four or five bows the cast gave while people were fleeing the scene under the cloak of darkness? Wasn't the final performance suppose to be better than opening night? Maybe I was in a time warp and that was opening night? It's as if the entire cast and crew just gave up and gave us the budget Butterfly.
I will never look at an Italian man the same again ... at least those with the last name of Puccini.
