Feeding Our Opera Addiction at the Operahaz

When The Ed Sullivan Show occasionally had an opera singer on the Sunday night program ,my father would call out, "Shut that #*# off." I don't think we ever did, but we knew without the slightest iota of doubt how he felt about "grand opera." Now, the Grand Ole Opry, that was another matter. We purchased a television set for the express purpose of watching the Opry on Saturday nights. I grew up listening to Kitty Wells, Ernest Tubbs, June Carter, and, well, the list could go on and on. I didn't give the other kind of opera another thought, except when I tried to sing some watered down arias in my vocal songbook when I briefly took voice. I wanted to be a singer. But I didn't know what kind. First I wanted to be Connie Francis, then Patsy Cline, then Aretha Franklin, followed by Emmy Lou Harris. Emmy Lou had been hanging around Greensboro close to the time I'd been there, and besides I loved her fringes and boots, almost as much as her songs. Sometimes I still wish I could be Emmy Lou.

More times, though, I wish I could be Renee Fleming, Natalie Dessay, or Cecilia Bartoli. I've developed an addiction to opera as intense as my father's addiction to Hank Williams and country music. How did this transformation happen?

First, I had to get married to a man who would not, ever, curse the soprano singing on Ed Sullivan's show. Then he had to take me to the Brevard Music Center to hear "Tosca." That was my first opera. I fell in love with it. And not because I knew I had to in order to stay married to this man sitting beside me. Over the years we've seen many opera productions, from London to Cullowhee. I've been happy at all of them. What heaven last spring to sit way back, away from the students, in the new WCU Performing Arts Center and watch "The Barber of Seville"! (A fine production) I was in my own world, totally carried away by the music. I only glared once at a student, who got up to leave right in the middle of Rosina's famous aria. How could he? I bared my teeth at him. He looked startled and fled.

To be in Budapest is to be in Opera Heaven. I know NYC thinks it has all the goods (about everything), and I'm sure London, Paris, and other great cities think the same thing. But Budapest, first off, has an old, lavishly beautiful opera house with a company that produces some of the best acting, if not necessarily the most renowned singing, in the opera world. Before performances, dozens of folks roamed around taking photos of the interior of the Operahaz. I was one of them.



Here's the description of the House from the terrific website, www.fsz.bme.hu/opera/bud_operahaz.html. Just perusing this site is an aesthetic experience. (All photos, save those of my interior shots, come from this site.)

Designed by Miklós Ybl (1878-1884)

The Opera House was designed and built in Renaissance style according to the plans of Miklós Ybl. Ferenc Erkel conducted the inaugural concert in 1884. Underneath the risalit is a drive-in entrance for cars and carriages. The statues of Ferenc Liszt and Ferenc Erkel, outstanding contributors to Hungary's musical life, can be seen on either side of the risalit. Both statues are the work of Alajos Stróbl. Between the Corinthian columns are statues of the Muses. Beyond the main entrance is the vestibule, decorated with allegorical frescoes from Bertalan Székely, and at the entrance to the foyer are landscapes from Árpád Feszty. The ceiling of the horseshoe-shaped three storey auditorium is decorated with the paintings of Károly Lotz. The Opera House was reopened after reconstruction in 1984, the year of its centenary.



Most of the singers were native Hungarian voices we'd never heard of before. No matter. They were wonderful. Our first opera, Beethoven's "Fidelio", was, shall we say, experimental in its set and action, but after our initial dismay, the music took over and carried us through to the end, where the freed prisoners turn out to be ordinary folk who now can get married, have babies, jobs, wear bright clothing, and rejoice in all sorts of diverse and celebratory ways.



We were almost hanging over the orchestra pit in our last-minute procured seats, and believe me, those cellists tore into the Leonora Overture with such energy that I feared they might have a stroke. I'd seen plenty of symphonies on stage, but this was sheer arerobics, nevermind the predictable gyrations of the conductor. By opera's end we decided the experimentalism had worked --or maybe we'd finally gotten used to the designer's "vision", though we agreed we might not wish to see this particular production again. Listen to it? Sure. The singing was fine. We left the opera house feeling what I call our "opera high." It was Friday night and lots of people were out in the parks, the restaurants, skate-boarding, drinking, shopping. There was a full moon. Life was good, it was even worthy of an opera stage!

Wagner's "Die Meistersinger" was staged more traditionally, and despite Mark Twain's comment that the opera's music was a lot better than it sounded, it sounded pretty darn good to me. Again the set, the acting, and the sheer passion of the performers in their roles left us feeling we'd seen something special, especially since this was an opera we had only listened to on recordings. Hans Sachs putting David through his paces with his famously sublime aria touched me deeply. The aria got better and better with each suggestion from the master. How it warmed my battle-scarred poetry teacher's heart! And my poet's heart.



The night before we left for Gyor, we had nothing planned so we asked ourselves, Why not Tosca? We bought tickets and settled into the narrow seats to watch our old favorite, my inaugural opera. The first act brought tears to my eyes, yet again. Cavaradossi's and Tosca''s love for each other overflowing both in voice and action. Scarpia! I still get chills thinking about how evil he looked. He was perfect, and oh, the heartbreaking last scene when Cavaradossi sings his heart out! Facing death, he loves la vida more than ever. How many times have I seen "Tosca"? Not as many as I've seen "Gone With the Wind," but whereas I never again want to see GWTW, I'd gladly see "Tosca" again and again, especially at the Budapest Opera House. Below is a shot of the scene in which Tosca, upon leaving Scarpia's apartment, after stabbing him, sees herself in the mirror beyond the door. A powerful way to end a powerful second act. The soprano's performance of Vissi d'arte was wrenching, a tour de force of acting and a fine vocal performance as well. Yes, she finally did end up on her knees to finish the aria, where all Toscas are supposed to be at that moment.



Seeing two operas set in times of political repression was a completely different experience in a country that has itself suffered such repression, for so long. We had wondered how the Hungarian company would present the liberation of the prisoners at the end of "Fidelio." To us, it seemed the perfect way--ordinary Hungarians now free to be colorful, lively, diverse! Harold Schiffman had mentioned that t wenty years ago when he was in Hungary, people seemed drab and beaten down. They were not like that in the conclusion of "Fidelio"! To be honest, it reminded me of a Bollywood movie conclusion. Yes, indeed!


Speaking of "Gone with the Wind," the repertoire at the Operahaz included a ballet of GWTW. We could have see that, too, but, well, I felt I'd overdosed big-time on Miss Scarlett, even though I was tempted by the photo in the program booklet, the lead dancer standing before a fan, with her hair being blown about. The music was by one of my heart-throb favorites, Antonin Dvorak, but one can't do everything in a brief visit to a country, and I felt it was time to let Scarlett go her way and I'd go mine. The scene below must surely be Scarlett dancing in the dress made from the draperies she pulled down, just before her journey to Atlanta. Maybe she's dancing with Rhett?



Or maybe poor Mr. Kennedy whom she charms away from her sister Sue Ellen? No, this dancer looks more Rhettish, I'd say. I wonder how they handled the burning of Atlanta? Maybe next time we go to Budapest, they'll be performing this ballet again and I'll find out.