Raves for Rufus!!
The composer voguing for the cameras
Thoroughly enjoyed Rufus Wainwright’s wonderful new opera, Prima Donna, which made its premiere last night at the Elgin for the Luminato Festival, even though walking in, I was terrified it would be a repeat of the horrendously misguided and truly dreadful John Malkovich Infernal Comedy, which I had the misfortune to attend the other night (when Malkovich had nothing to do but make jokes about his laptop and wander around the stage strangling the wonderful German singers with a purple bra, I really just had to block it out. I started making grocery lists, thinking of things I had to do just to space out). I have to say, much as we want it to succeed, the jury is still out on Luminato–the curating is really hit and miss.
And then on our way to our seats, we bumped into Jeanne Beker, who had heard terrrible things. ” Apparently Viktor and Rolf were doing the clothes, but they pulled out at the last minute”. I too had heard the Met was going to stage a production but that they too had nixed it. But Jeanne’s BF Barry was approaching it with an open mind. “Whatever anybody says, it’s a huge challenge to write and stage an opera”, he reminded us.
And then the lights dimmed, the curtain came up and it was this marvellous production of a real classic opera, sung in French and set in this cartoonishly gloomy bourgeois Parisian apartment, but with a truly modern theme–the tragedy here, as in Sunset Boulevard, was about growing old and the recognition that even the most fabulous divas must eventually decline the spotlight.
A theme which, one would think might resonate with many in the fashion set who seated around me (and yes there were many, professional curmudgeon David Livingstone, Fashion ed Bernadette Morra, More Beauty editor Vanessa Craft, all guests of cosmetics giant L’Oreal), whereas I had actually paid to be there (maybe that made the difference?) Yet at half-time, they were still surprisingly negative. The biggest objection seemed to be about the set (“when a set designer fills the space with vases of roses on the floor you know you’re in trouble”, quipped David). True, but wasn’t her apartment, like her life, supposed to be run down? It appeared that somehow, for this crowd, it was too much like a real opera and not campy enough.
Thomas and I headed downstairs at intermission to avoid the naysayers and get ourselves a drink, and ran into producer Marty Katz (Hotel Rwanda, Spectacle with Elvis Costello), a dear friend, and his brilliant funny wife Laura Trachuk, a labour arbitrator, and they were also full of praise. Sucking on his Haagen Dasz ice cream bar, Marty set me straight about the Metropolitan Opera objection–apparently they were only acquiring operas written in English, but Rufus Wainwright, ever the iconoclast, refused to abandon his commitment to writing the libretto in French. Since he’s in the biz, I thought he was most probably better informed.
“You guys are troopers”, said Bernadette when we took our seats for the second half. “If I wasn’t a guest here, I would be leaving.” Not me. I loved it. How brilliant, to be completely classical, and then draw modernity in via the story, rather than the staging or some horrendously atonal score.
The diva Regine St Laurent (love the name, clearly an amalgam of Yves and the disco-era Parisian nightclub owner, Regine, whose eponymous club was also a sensation in 70s NY) is moving when she bemoans, of the firecrackers on Bastille Day, how short they burn bright. As the curtain closed, I was on my feet with the wildly appreciative crowd in the front rows, who were clearly there for Rufus.
“They shouldn’t encourage him”, joked Bernadette behind me. “Who knows what he’ll come up with next time”. I had to laugh. But whatever Rufus plans next, I, for one, can’t wait.