Tell Me What Love Is

Wednesday 26 October

I went back for a second dose of The Marriage of Figaro at the London Coliseum tonight.  I haven't been able to get Cherubino's arias out of my head, and I wanted to see the show from the stalls where I could see the faces of the singers.  I had been in touch with one of the singers who had invited me to "come round" after the show on Friday, but it didn't seem a thing Cheryl would have enjoyed, and I wanted to talk with her after the show that first time around. I planned to go back to say hello tonight, but my mood at show's end didn't make room for that.

Earlier in the day, I bought a silk shawl that had some magic in it I think.  It is soft and lush and quite a contrast to these clothes I have been wearing for seven weeks.  My jeans were clean, though the hems have become frayed from too much hiking, and my shirt I have only worn for two days, so I was about as spiffed up as I could manage so long away from home.

Of course I arrived at the Coliseum way too early, but I thought I would settle in with a drink and do some people watching.  My mistake.  Each area of the theatre has its own bar, creating a kind of class system in drinking.  Since I was sitting in the stalls tonight, I thought I would be in the coolest bar, but no, there are private bars beyond even the stall patrons' reach.  I went up to what I believed to be the appropriate bar and, noting there was no Bombay Sapphire on the shelf, asked for a Tangueray and tonic.  Blank stare.  I repeated myself.  Blink.  What? I repeated myself a third time and pointed to the green bottle.  The bartender's hand hovered over the bottles as he asked a fourth time.  I said "the green bottle right under your hand."  He: "why didn't you say a gin and tonic?" I had a brief moment of feeling stupid, but recovered surprisingly quickly and said "because Tangueray is better than most well gins."  He pours me--no kidding--about half a drink, takes my six or seven pounds, and says "really?   Is it better than Beefeaters?"  I don't know still if he was trying to recover from a bad moment himself, or if he was giving me the business, but by this time the seats around me were filled with people who were not alone and who actually looked like they belonged there, so I wandered over to another bar where no one was sitting.  Suddenly I was struck with panic that I was not allowed in this area (oh no, only people with tickets in the center section go here or something), so, like a child, I asked if this area was open to the likes of me or if it was reserved.  The (rather sexy) woman behind the bar spread her arms and her smile wide and said "It's all for you."

Wish I could have felt that way about the whole evening.

As I settled in for some people watching and eavesdropping on different accents, I was soon surrounded by about 8 American college students, like, you know, so, like wondering where they were going to, you know, party after the show.  I gulped the last of my half drink, forwent getting a second from the sexy bartender, and went to my seat.

One of the differences in theatre audiences in London is that they are very mixed in terms of ages.  I know ENO has great prices for young people, but even the Donmar and the other theatres I visited had lots of young people mixed in with the bluehairs.  Another thing that is striking to me is that there is considerably lower quotient of pinched and pulled women with older, disinterested men.  In my row was an elderly couple, a couple of people my age, and some folks I would say were in their late 20s.  All dressed better than I, but I touched my shawl periodically for reassurance (and because I had no idea how to wear such a thing and keep it on my shoulders).  I was on the end, and everytime someone wanted to enter or leave their seat, they apologized profusely.  This, in a country where I never once heard anyone say excuse me for bumping me on the street or pushing past me to exit the tube.

I love the time in the theatre before a show.   The place is buzzing with excitement, and you can feel the happiness in people all around you.  I like going to the theatre alone so I can just listen and absorb that.

I realized a few minutes before curtain that the director Fiona Shaw was in a box just a few feet away.  Fortunately it was just enough behind me that I couldn't stare, but occasionally I heard her voice or her laugh, so I allowed myself to think "I am about to watch an opera with Fiona Shaw" as I sat in my magic shawl.

From the stalls, the opera had a completely different effect on me.  The video projections, which were too dominant from the balcony, in their blurred slow motion provided relief to the business of the household and the sharp angles of the maze in which the characters were caught.  I think there were some problems with the revolve that night, but the singers moved through them with ease, and their voices were so clear and strong from that closer distance that their bodies just seemed to flow with them.  Kate Valentine as the Countess was glorious; I know to a singer it is the voice and the music that carry the fulness of expression, but for me, faces and movement and bodies in space matter too, and being able to see her face, the slowness of her step relative to those around her made me feel the character's sorrow in a way I had not a few nights earlier.  Opera works better for me if it knows it is theatre too.

The scenes that haunt me, though, are the ones involving Cherubino, who did not for a second convince me she was a boy, but, rather, seemed a tomboy, uncomfortable in dresses, but oddly mismatched to her boy's clothing too.  And when that voice rings out, any belief that she is male is obliterated anyway.  So.  The plaintive "tell me what love is," the pull of desire from one untouchable woman to the next hit rather close to home, and I found the scenes involving the Countess, Suzanna, and Cherubino the most compelling, and far richer than the stuff involving those goofy men trying to one up each other.

These ruminations put me in thoughtful mood, even as the music exhilerated me.  After the final curtain, I looked over at Fiona Shaw and gave her a thumbs up.  She thumbed back, and I walked on.  Out in the hall, I couldn't resist the desire to look her fully in the face, and I turned back to compliment her on the show.  She chuckled a bit, and we had nice chat for a minute or two.  I then, in a rare attack of self control, said my goodbyes without either fawning or demeaning myself or trying to make the moment last longer than it should, and walked in my ragged bottomed jeans and shiny magic shawl back to Covent Garden, past the jugglers and street musicians, to my tiny hotel room.  Alone in a big world.