Hey Rufus Wainwright, Your Opera Sucks

Or maybe it doesn’t? No, I think it does. Right off the bat I have to admit I don’t really know squat about opera. I went once, to the Metropolitan Opera, in the late ’90s. My friend Joe had purchased two tickets well in advance, but was worried that his relationship might not last until the performance. I promised him that if he and the girlfriend broke up, I would pay for the ticket and accompany him. I had a good time—the Met is a nice joint, you know? But my lingering memory is that some sketchy couple tried to steal my backpack during intermission. I returned to find it under their seats, which turned out to not even be their seats. Who knows, perhaps it was an early heist by the Salahis.

Beyond that, my knowledge is pretty thin. I can name two of the Three Tenors. My friend Mary Ellen works in the costume shop of the San Francisco Opera. I have a track by Maria Callas on the Philadelphia soundtrack. I enjoyed Adam Sandler as Opera Man. I know that Enrico Caruso was an overrated old-timey opera guy. Sometimes they sing the national anthem at baseball games, like Robert Merrill at Yankee Stadium or Enrico Pallazzo in The Naked Gun. Oh, and “What’s Opera, Doc?” of course.

So that was all I knew as I arrived at the Brooklyn Academy of Music (courtesy of my friend Liz) for one of the U.S. premieres of Prima Donna by Rufus Wainwright. Brooklyn, huh? How do these things work? If it does well, it might get to move to Manhattan someday? Well, the local ironic-facial-hair set was out in full force for this scrappy regional production. The crowd was filled out by a few fancy lads and some oldsters who may have BAM ticket subscriptions. The couple in front of me were both working Sudoku puzzles during intermission; that was cute but I still took my belongings with me to the lobby, lest they turn out to be another operatic Bonnie and Clyde.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, skipping to intermission. Wishful thinking, maybe. Note to the Howard Gilman Opera House: I know that people used to be shorter and live near water, but it might be time to put a little more space between the rows of seats. I’m barely 5’9″ and was contorted like Mummenschanz. Still, we had a good view, and the luxurious living-room set was pretty sweet. All seats in the house were $25 that night, which I did think was a cool move, allowing younger people to check out an art form normally beyond their price range.

Too bad they couldn’t experience a better version of the form. (I can hear people now: “I have devoted my life to opera. I can name all three Tenors. This was an earth-shatteringly good performance and you are just showing how little you know. Go back to your dingy rock club, you Hebraic cretin!” Hey, hey, easy now, no reason to get anti-Semitic. And anyway, this is just my man-off-the-street’s opinion, nothing more, nothing less.) I flipped through the program looking for a detailed synopsis; these operas can be confusing. (And this one is in French, because Rufus is so continental.) Well, all it said was:

Bastille Day, 1970, Paris. It is six years since the internationally renowned soprano Régine Saint Laurent last sang in public. Her final performance was legendary. Playing the lead role in Aliénor d’Aquitaine, an opera written for her, she confirmed her reputation as the world’s leading soprano. She has now decided to return to the stage…

Oh, so you wrote an opera about… an opera. How original, Rufus! Where did you ever come up with that idea? Ooh, I can’t wait till you write a rock song about how tough it is on the road when you’re a touring musician.

Now, you should know that I am actually a huge fan of Mr. Wainwright, and his whole extended musical family. Saw daddy Loudon sing “Dead Skunk” on Letterman’s morning show when I was a wee child, and have been hooked ever since. Have seen sister Martha play live and own a record or two by her. Have utmost respect for the McGarrigles, the alive one, the other one. Bought Rufus’s debut album back in 1998. Liked it so much that I bought another copy for my pal Sean (though I wouldn’t be shocked if it’s still in the shrink-wrap). Bought his next four albums, before he got all… theatrical. Saw him live at Central Park SummerStage; it was a very entertaining show though he couldn’t seem to get through an entire song without stopping, laughing, saying he screwed up….

That might’ve actually been a very refreshing move at the opera. Walk in from the wings, ask them to turn up the house lights, and then: “Sorry, folks, I thought this song would be super good—like, amazing, but, hearing it now, it just kind of sits there, like, I don’t know—a big old toad or something, haha….” A distraction like that would’ve been most welcome. Because nothing happens in this opera. That description from the program? It wasn’t longer because there is nothing else to say! An opera lady stopped singing, and then thinks about singing again. (Possibly inspired by family friend Linda Thompson, ex-wife of Richard Thompson, who had a condition where she didn’t sing for years and years? Eh, if I cared more, I’d Google it.) Oh it was so BORING. Oh I got so SLEEPY. Flimsy. It just felt… flimsy.

But the songs, the songs were great, right? Because Rufus is an awesome songwriter, right? Well, he is, but, sadly, they weren’t. The orchestra seemed solid; I particularly enjoyed some chime-y noises throughout. And the cast was… good, but I was never all, “Wow. That was outstanding.” And I think the audience agreed with me. The first song after the intermission, people applauded. Which made me realize no one applauded after any of the first-act songs. And then after the next song, a couple of people applauded, but no one joined in, and then a couple of other people applauded, and by then it was just awkward.

And there were a couple of jokes, I think, but when I was reading the projected English subtitles, it wasn’t clear if they were intentional jokes or just amateurish writing. The smattering of laughter showed I wasn’t alone in this. The whole thing just felt kind of tossed-off. I really feel that I could’ve written this opera in the course of an afternoon. Let’s see, how about… an opera about an opera singer. I’ll set it in… Paris on… uh…. Bastille Day. Throw in some la-la-la-LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAs, and voilà, we’ve got ourselves a show!

I really thought things might pick up after intermission. I was refreshed and ready: Had splashed water in my face, and Liz and I shared some chocolate-covered almonds. Kept rooting for something—anything—to happen. Murder. Incest. War. I was keeping score in the program: There are six in the cast but we’ve only seen four so far. So someone will come in and spin the plot in an entirely new direction! Nope; we had already seen one of the two (who was briefly sitting on the floor in act I, I don’t even think he had any lines), and then the other has a wordless cameo in the second half. When the protagonist throws some photos in a fire, I prayed she’d burn the house down. That would be drama. Or when she looked out the window later, I hoped she would jump. Tragedy! Nope. She just… looked out the window.

When it was all said and done, there were standing ovations for the leading lady, and especially when a grateful, humble Rufus came out and acknowledged the crowd. So, again, quite possibly I don’t know what I’m talking about. Or maybe the crowd were just a bunch of starfuckers who don’t know a good opera from a bad one either.

As I said, I like Rufus. He’s extravagant and that’s fun. I like that he wanted to write an opera. That’s totally over-the-top, you know? I was rooting for him and wanted it to be good. But maybe he’s surrounded by too many people telling him how wonderful he is. I read a lot of British music magazines and it’s even worse over there; he is beloved. Lionized. This past summer, they released a freaking 19-disc box set over there. Perhaps he just needs someone to tell him when he’s out of his depth. Maybe opera isn’t for him—there’s no shame in that. McCartney has dabbled in it to a collective ho-hum. And he was a Beatle, for crissakes. Rufus, I see you’re coming out with a pop album in May—your first in five years. That’s good. That will make people happy. We can just forget this little diversion; file it off to the side with Eddie Vedder’s ukelele, Sting’s lute, Woody Allen’s Interiors, Michael Jordan’s baseball career….