Opera in the cinema is a mixed blessing, to tell the truth last Saturday was the evening from hell. I mean really, as the delicious Jonas Kaufmann himself put it, most people would tell Werther, Masenet’s hero to “give us a break”. Actually I have seen practically every opera known to man many times over, but this one has cured me forever, the man ( Werther) needs treatment and medication. After three hours of moaning and ranting, there is slow death from self inflicted wounds, because he couldn’t get his leg over with the prissy heroine. Just when you think it’s over, he starts on again. The one consolation was that Jonas Kaufmann is, literally drop dead gorgeous. As for the two ladies sitting next to me, they set out a four course meal on their laps and noisily consumed some sort of vile fish salad ,spaghetti Bolognese, trifle, sweets and biscuits rounded off with a Thermos of instant coffee smelling of fart, quite a lot of which they squirted on yours truly through ill fitting dentures. The Gun would have come in very handy, well enough said. Except of course for the idiotic opera talk from the groupies who get opera on the cheap and eat repulsive food out of plastic trays as if they are on a flight to Lanzarotti (however you spell it) while they watch but don’t really listen. I have thought about this; opera is not meant to be on the cheap, it is supposed to be a real live experience without other peoples sound effects. To each his own, give me the ballet any day, but never in the cinema.
Werther or as the phonies say “Wertharrrrgh” accent on the last bit, needed a good session with Family Constellations. I wish I were twenty years younger, I would have understood so much more about breaking the destructive patterns in families, it may only take one person to do it. What I never realized was how voices from the past reflect in the subconscious DNA in the family dynamic, like sheep who inherit a knowledge of their grazing territory. One session brings many of these cycles out of the shadows. That is of course why early intervention when children are bereaved is so vital, before the cycle of guilt and blame takes a pernicious grip.
There is something about some opera lovers, take for example the Sainted One, who by and large does not express any emotions except about sport on the TV, he cannot empathize with real things like “The Life of Jayne,” spelt with a Y of course. She is the beautiful black and white dove who feeds in our garden, and has been here for three years or more. Jayne has taken to mixing with very low class pigeons. She brings three of these birds home for dinner, and I am in a state of near nervous breakdown, because I think she is in a serious relationship with one of them, he is an ugly brute with no table manners, she could do so much better for herself. The SO will not talk about this, or offer any helpful suggestions, except for the nasty mention of a gun the other day. I tell you he obviously doesn’t cry, politicians don’t, except for George Osborn who blubbed theatrically at Margaret Thatchers Funeral, because he was apparently thinking about his nan it was a sickening vision. Well the S.O. weeps in opera’s, he did while the idiotic “Wertharrrgh” blew his innards out. This is rather creepy and I try to pretend we are not together, but then, I do know there have been some very deranged men who wept like babies to Wagner and suchlike and then did some really horrible things. I have talked to Jayne about all this, watch this space.