We all love vacation, but 16 weeks fully paid? Really?
When John Copley was asked to direct “La Boheme” at London’s Royal Opera, he was told the production had to be good enough to last at least five or six years.
Mad scenes help make opera so enjoyable. Think of Lucia di Lammermoor, her nightgown soaked in blood, singing cuckoo duets with a flute.
In a picture-filled house in leafy Rye, a half-hour outside Manhattan, an attractive, very lively blonde in pumps, red jacket, black skirt and gold earrings begins to sing.
The bar staff is collecting empty glasses. Crowds of drinkers are chatting and laughing. A shifty- looking guy tries to sell pirate DVDs from a dirty bag. It’s a normal night out in London’s Soho.
Luciano Pavarotti once described the acoustics of the Colon Theater in Buenos Aires as so perfect that they challenge singers because “if one does something wrong, it is noted immediately.”
Mimi, Rodolfo and their band of boastful poets, proud losers and eternal ravers crowd onto the stage of La Monnaie/De Munt tonight for a year-end run.
Have you ever wondered what became of Rodolfo, the penniless poet in Puccini’s opera “La Boheme,” after the death of his beloved Mimi?
Rodolfo is a filmmaker living in student squalor, sleeping on a mattress on the floor in Damiano Michieletto’s cinematic “La Boheme” at the Salzburg Festival.
Once a popular musician or writer has been around the block a few times, he acquires the tag “national treasure.” It’s the kind of pat on the head that usually spells creative death. Not for Thomas Allen.