Henri Murger has a lot to answer for. In the 1840s he popularized the myth of dropping out of respectable society to devote yourself to music, art, love or ones idiosyncratic personal style … and almost two centuries later we have the current situation in Echo Park, and analogous hipster centers in every city in the world.
Last Wednesday I got the impression that Puccini, like most people, initially found something appealing in the antics of bohemia, but, then—like most people—quickly discovered that the carryings-on, which are supposed to be amusing and touching, can become hopelessly boring. A theatrical pro like Puccini didn’t care and simply focused on the ill-fated love aspect of the material. In the resulting opera the default setting of the music dial is set pretty low, and is only turned up for Mimì, Rodolfo, and—in the second scene—Musetta. Their bits are indelible—the rest is negligible.
The production at best supported Puccini’s strategy. Stephen Costello was an excellent Rodolfo, and Janai Brugger brought Musetta to life.
Gerard Howland’s sets were brilliant and beautiful tableaux, but they cramped the action mercilessly. The opening scene was confined inside a tiny box suspended above the stage. Precariousness, agreed, is one of the themes, but that’s supposed to be an expansive moment.
As if this didn’t provide enough to think about, after the performance there was an afterparty in the lobby with KCRW’s Aaron Byrd spinning live. An novel idea, but perhaps not totally appropriate to the geriatric crowd, and the opera’s tearful finale. We hung around admiring the funky stage benches installed for the masses, but left before things heated up.
[Image: Robert Delaunay, Windows, 1912]
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