Libiamo

An opera post? Surely not.

I know about as much about opera as I do about maths and philosophy but, ever one for the expansion of horizons and the evasion of work I'm supposed to be doing, I'm slowly getting there. I've actually attended a grand total of three operas (Dvořák's Rusalka, Puccini's Madama Butterfly, and Verdi's Macbeth) and own recordings of two others (Mozart's Le nozze di Figaro and Verdi's La traviata), which I suppose isn't too bad on the face of it.

I've always appreciated opera in the same way that you would appreciate any other piece of orchestral or choral music: simply as music. While that approach is fine to a point - and naïve as this may sound - it's only very recently dawned on me that opera is as much about the staging and performance of it as anything else. Sure, the music is at the very centre of the whole thing but an opera - far more than, say, a symphony or even a choral work like Handel's Messiah - is meant to be performed. It's meant to be staged. We're meant to immerse ourselves in it as we would a play.

This has been starkly brought home to me by my recent viewing of the 2005 Salzburg Festival staging of La traviata with Anna Netrebko and Rolando Villazón singing the parts of Violetta and Alfredo. I cannot recommend this highly enough.

Netrebko is wonderfully cast as the Parisian courtesan - beautiful, flirtatious, impassioned, physically and emotionally racked - and the chemistry between her Violetta and Villazón's Alfredo is palpable. Both internationally acclaimed singers, but also both wonderful actors.

Traditionally set in the Parisian salons of the 18th century, this production modernises the action and dispenses with chandaliers and chaises-longues in favour of a bare set. The only prop that remains on stage for almost the entire performance is a simple clock, menacingly counting down the hours that Violetta has to live. One particularly effective moment occurs in the first act as Violetta's pleasure-hungry guests leave her party and the clock's hands speed up, hurtling her, to her panic, towards her grave. The clip is here:



If you're not familiar with the plot of La traviata it's worth reading through a synopsis beforehand to appreciate what Willy Decker has done with the staging. Aside from that the best thing to do is get stuck in - if for no better reason than it'll have you singing the brindisi for days after:

Snow Gush (...Slush?)

So the snow is gone. On Friday night I had never seen so much white in my life; by Sunday morning it was as if god had said "Right, that's quite enough of that. We apologise for the interruption and will now return to normal winter programming".

It's incredible how different snow makes a place look. Myself and the wife-to-be went for a midnight wander on Friday around streets I've known intimately for nearly 15 years. It was like being in another country. It was a beautiful time of the night: around 12.30 - too late for regular traffic, too early for anyone who had braved the cold to drunkenly stumble home. A pure blanket coated Dublin and it was impossible to tell where the footpath ended and the road began.

The fiancee strode purposefully down Cowper Road leaving very deliberate footprints and remarked, "This is great. Snow is just free fun." She was right. We found Palmerston Park open for business so crunched our way through the white lawns, attempted to manufacture an avalanche on the slide in the playground, and built the best snowman of both of our lives. Pretty tame by many's standards, but as it's never really snowed before in Dublin - and as I've never been skiing - I've never had the opportunity and, as a result, have rarely been so proud. He even had a scarf.

The good people at Met Eireann promised further heavier falls over the weekend but they were not to be. It's Tuesday now and as I type rain is whipping the windowpanes and washing away whatever clumps of watery snow remain.

I suspect our snowman may be no more.