o é per l'opera

Earlier in the week we walked over to La Scala to see the second opera in our subscription and began the night by pinching ourselves. We often do this; the pinching ourselves routine. Living in Italy, in general, kind of lends itself to it. You'll be walking along and stop in your tracks, woozy at the realization of the luck of your situation. And seeing an opera at the "real" La Scala in Milan only brings on more pinching.

For several years we had a subscription to the Lyric Opera of Chicago where we sat several stories above the stage, the performers were the size of Barbie dolls off in the distance, and inevitably one of us would nod off -- but we loved it. It's only when you come to La Scala that you realize it has its stand-alone reputation for a reason. A rather intangible reason, but one you feel as soon as you enter the space.

Maybe it's proximity. La Scala, by comparison to the Lyric, feels nothing short of intimate. Embracing the main floor is a horseshoe of balconies and our seats are on the second balcony from the top. A golden glow blankets the whole auditorium and the red seats give the space a fireplace warmth. We sit in the first of two rows on the left side of the stage, our seats facing the other side of the horseshoe rather than the stage itself.



To see the stage we lean forward and peer over the edge and to our left. It's like a little kid trying to see what's on the kitchen table except you can't throw yourself too far over the edge or the person seated next to you will elbow you in the ribs because you're blocking their already tenuous view. Stefano likes to note that during his brief stint selling tickets at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra he had to make very clear when a seat had any sort of obstructed view of the stage. At La Scala, you find out about the obstruction only once you show up. We found an obstruction of about 20%. As in: we can't see 20% of the stage, ever. And don't even ask about the people sitting behind us.

Having mentioned the difficulties involved in spectating a La Scala performance I can only say that it's well worth it. In fact, these are the most enjoyable performances I've ever seen. We've been to Madama Butterfly (Puccini) in February and now La Traviata (Verdi) this past week and I have never felt so connected with the performers, the music, and the story.

That being said, understanding exactly what's going on in the opera is not as important as you'd think. At La Scala each seat has it's own small subtitle screen which displays the libretto in real time in either English or Italian. Sometimes we choose Italian and it's fascinating to realize that these operas are being performed in a language we (sort of) know. But as you might imagine, it's hard to lean entirely over the edge of the balcony, and at the same time read a small subtitle screen located near your knees. Somethin's gotta give.



The most confusing moment for us at La Traviata had nothing to do with the narrative. As a story, La Traviata is about as direct a melodrama as possible: couple falls in love, couple runs away together, evil father does evil deed, couple parts, the truth comes out, fatal illness strikes, couple comes back together, she dies in his arms. No confusion there. Rather, after a long aria by the main character, which ended with her falling to the ground, one lone individual shouted a short but confident "boo." Quickly after, there was a mix of light applause and general noise but it was the "boo" that still hung in the room. And we weren't entirely sure what he had found so appalling.

The reputation of La Scala's audience as difficult and critical is valid. In fact, earlier this year they literally booed someone off the stage and his understudy took over for the rest of the engagement. (To be a bit of a gossip I'll let you know that the woman who was boo'd at our performance just so happens to be married to the performer who walked off the stage never to return - and rumor is that the crowd hasn't forgiven either of them for it.) During a performance there are often shouts of brava/bravo, but then there are also the whistles, which are very negative in Italy, and boo's. It's kind of freeing to be in the midst of a crowd that feels it has a right to shout at the stage - be it positive or negative. At La Scala, the performers don't get credit just for showing up; there is no guarantee of respectful applause awaiting them. It's really quite primal.

But that's part of the glorious wilds of La Scala I guess. The whistles and boo's, the bravo's and brava's, being as much a part of the performance as the libretto. These are the things you learn only once you come inside. Only once you squeeze yourself into that tiny seat, lean yourself over the balcony's edge and twist your body towards the partially-obscured stage.

And the peak of excitement? The most pinch-yourself worthy moment of all? It's quite possibly feeling free enough to scream your very first "Brava!" at the stage. (I'm happy to report I've not felt free enough to "boo.")