I went to another performance of Cyrano de Bergerac last Thursday, but because I was then away over the weekend I haven't had time to write it up. I suppose I ought to have come home and written in large, bold capitals I MET PLÁCIDO THIS EVENING
But I didn't write it, in bold capitals or otherwise. In fact I'm not sure Thursday evening even counted as 'meeting' him. I touched him, but I think 'meet' is too definite a word.
I won't write a detailed considered review of Cyrano, because I still have another performance to see.
I met up with Faye and Helen, and we were joined by Simon - that discussion of third rate but nearly second rate was very important, although as I walked...hobbled...through the market halls in Covent Garden at pumpkin time, I think I did scream rather loudly "It's a crap opera!"
It's a fabulous story full of sentimental schmaltz - and I love sentimental schmaltz. The music isn't bad, and it does have its moments. Act IV is worthwhile in itself and I wouldn't be entirely surprised to see it emerge as a standalone act at some gala somewhere in the next few years. But much of the music is verging on the tedious: the first two acts, at 87 minutes, seem to take a great deal longer than all of Gotterdammerung's six and a half (including intervals). In fact, towards the end of Act II I was thinking, this is longer than an entire Ring Cycle...
Most of the supporting characters are barely two dimensional, although praise must be given where due. I have stated that I don't care for Sondra Radvonovsky's voice, but everyone else seems to, and I can't really fault her technique and acting. Carmelo Corrado Caruso and Roman Trekel coped splendidly with indifferent material and it was nice to see Iain Paterson, a name that hopefully will crop up with more frequency on this blog.
But let's be honest, there's only one reason for going and he was splendid! I felt that he didn't sound as good on Thursday as he did on Monday but I think that was due to the difference in where I was positioned. My feet were aching - I was in a standing 'seat' and being a hot day I decided to wear summer shoes that had not yet been worn outside the house, rather than my trusty girlie Doc Martens. /stupid.
What can I say about Plácido that I haven't said already? He has an extraordinary and beautiful voice that I don't think I could ever tire of. And it's so wonderful to hear him live, because I'm standing there enjoying this good, very good, singer and suddenly I hear this exquisite sound that transports me to a different plane. I would be quite happy if he just 'stood and delivered' but he doesn't. When I'm watching, I don't think, even subconsciously, "That's Plácido Domingo, my hero, down there" - it's Cyrano de Bergerac. And I do so like that final act, when he hobbles in to Roxanna's convent, the shock of seeing him as a feeble old man, and that exquisitely poignant scene where he reads the court circular, and then he reads Christian's last letter (which, of course, was written by Cyrano), and then finally, he announces his own death, stands under the tree and dies a dramatic death (albeit with less tenorial rolling on the ground than I witnessed on Monday...). The balcony scene with the love duet is noteworthy too, and I'm rather fond of the bit where he meets Roxanna in the bakery and issues exclamations of delight when he thinks she is declaring her love for him, which turn to heartbreak when he realises that it isn't him she loves. Oh, and I like the fighting, too...!
After the performance Helen, Faye and I assembled outside the Stage Door. Quite a little crowd out there, as we expected, including some of the usual suspects - some people who are always outside Stage Doors, and some people I always see whenever I see Plácido. There was one woman whom I had seen at the Dress Rehearsal and on Monday night, and she was back again on Thursday...she must be obsessed...!
We waited for ages and I was getting increasingly jittery. I'm not like that with ordinary everyday singers, or, indeed ordinary everyday other celebrities that I encounter from day to day. But he's different.
And this is the bit where I get very teenagery (with apologies to teenagers who are far more mature than I am...). Imagine the scene: there's a fair crowd inside the lobby to the Stage Door, there's a fair crowd blocking the pavement outside, crowded round the street door, there's a crowd milling outside Bertorelli's and there's more of us standing randomly in the middle of Floral Street. Not quite the queue round the block that there was at Die Walküre but more than the handful that usually assemble post-performance.
And we see him; he pauses for a while in the lobby, signing autographs and I get a fairly good view of him side on, until I lose him in the scrum of people mobbing him. Then he emerges through the scrum and I feast my eyes on him, and I am startled at how beautiful, handsome, lovely he looks. This is a man of whom I have over a thousand photos on my PC and goodness knows how many more elsewhere; a man I have in 34 different opera videos/DVDs and others of performances and documentaries; a man whose looks I fell for moments before I fell for his voice (come on, I was twelve at the time, it's allowed!). And yet...I looked at him and I could not help mouthing - or perhaps saying "He's so fucking gorgeous...!"
And although he was mobbed, I did get pretty close to him:
Thanks to Helen for the photo! That's me in the beige suit - note how my camera precedes me by fifteen minutes, actually note how the lens is actually retracted, indicating it is switched off.../stupid
The photos I took were spectacularly unbelievably bad - camera shake...but Helen and Faye managed some reasonable ones...
Thanks Faye
Thanks Helen
How can a man so gorgeous photograph so badly...sigh
I did speak to Plácido, but what I said was really stupid. I do stupid well. Someone said that he looked good with a beard, and he said that he used to have a beard quite often, and he felt that it was right for the role of Cyrano, so I said something like "Oh, but please get rid of it after the end of the run..." and he gave me this look of "what is this stupid woman going on about...?". Then a few minutes later, I asked if my friend could take a photo of me with him, and Faye was just about to press the button, when someone distracted him and he looked the other way.
So I was really upset in a childish way. Look, I was tired, achy, and wanted nothing more to go home for a long soak in the bath followed by a long sleep in bed, and yet I was stressing at all the things I still needed to do before going out to Euston eleven hours later. So I threw a complete tantrum in Floral Street "Am I bothered, do I look bothered, does my face look bothered, I'm going to sell my remaining ticket for this crap opera on eBay, see if I care..." I was overtired, overwrought, and should really have been told to grow up, behave myself and be sent to bed without any supper. Fortunately my friends gave me lots of support - pointing out that he was being mobbed, people from all angles wanting his autograph, or take a photo, or to flirt with him. And also that it's perfectly normal to feel deflated and...rejected...when one almost sort of meets one's hero.
Oh, he was in mild panic mode when he thought he had lost his scarf. I was wondering whether he was concerned at the thought of walking in the London air in a river-wards direction without his scarf (singers are like that, unsurprisingly), or whether it had sentimental value, or whether he was concerned someone might have nicked it to sell on eBay. Happily, someone found it.
He was also carrying the Official ITV Sport guide to Grand Prix 2006 - shame that he had to be onstage on Sunday when the Barcelona Grand Prix was happening...
I expect I shall return to the Royal Opera House Stage Door on some future unspecified occasion.
