Off To The Opera

My daughter Victoria was in town, she who supplements her income by playing dead people, or those shortly to be, but also has her doctorate in history, and was giving a series of lectures at the University of Toronto on the Medici popes, and their influence on European morals and mores. Good luck with that, I thought.

She was at loose ends one night, and I suggested the opera. Toronto has a new house that I had yet to visit, and the performance that evening was Donizetti's Maria Stuarda, which was (sort of) within the time framework of Vicky's lectures. A quick phone call to my friend and enemy Don Guido, and two tickets in the Grand Ring became available. What Don Guido got in return...well, never mind about that.

It was certainly time for a night out. Greece appears to be in free fall, Spain, Portugal and Italy are looking shaky, and the U.K. was no hell itself, given its arrival into clutches of a hung parliament. In this regard, I fired off a note to Billy Cameron, urging him to have a meeting as soon as possible with Stephen Harper, who is proving brilliant at minority government. On top of all this, the Taliban -- but enough. Donizetti beckons.

The new house was OK in the front, but inside was magnificent, IKEA on amphetamines if you will. The warm, rich wood gleamed, and the acoustics were spectacular. Toronto owes a great deal to architect Jack Diamond and the late Musical Director Richard Bradshaw, who is sorely missed.

As for the performance, the first half, dominated by the soprano singing Elizabeth, was magnificent. It was, however, the second half that intrigued me. At the original dress rehearsal, in 1834, the sopranos singing Elizabeth and Maria were severely at odds. When they confront each other, (something that never happened historically) Maria, succumbing to taunts from Elizabeth, screams at her "vil bastarda!". The tone in which this was given was apparently a bridge too far, and Elizabeth hurled herself upon Maria, and a grand fight began. On this night, however, all was serene.

Things did drag along somewhat in the second half, and at one point Vicky leaned over and hissed, sotto voce, "Oh, for all our sakes, woman, suck it up and put your head on the block!" It should be noted here that Vicky herself had been in this position about three times in Grade B slasher movies, so the remark is at least understandable.

The last five minutes, however, made up for everything, and all involved in the production received a standing ovation. Several, in fact. Every so often opera pulls it all together -- no mean feat -- and the experience is staggeringly beautiful. Doesn't happen a lot, but when it does, well, worth every penny.

Later, over some Grey Goose at a nearby hotel lounge, I queried Victoria on Elizabeth's reputation as an esteemed monarch. Victoria's position was that here was a strong, capable woman that was bent on success. "After all, Mum, it was you that told me the Damon Runyan thing."

"What Damon Runyan thing?"

"The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong -- but that's the way to bet."

Can't argue with that.