I would love somebody to post a comment that convinces me that talking at length during an opera - or concert, play or film - is acceptable. I don't know anybody who has the slightest tolerance for anyone who does so, but the behaviour is so commonplace, there must be entire gangs of people out there who can convince me of the positive reasons.
I used to have a housemate and 'friend' (of sorts) who, watching a newly released film, would routinely ask "What's happening next?" or "Why's she doing that?" or "Where are they going?". It used to drive me mad, and it happened whether it was psychological thriller, rom com or whatever. She couldn't bear to wait for the plot to unfold and reveal its denouement, or that people behave/things happen for reasons that aren't immediately apparent.
In my view there are occasions when talking is permitted. Either: 'Fire has been detected in the building' or similar. Or: 'I'm about to (or my companion is) have cardiac arrest or stroke, faint or throw-up'. No one chooses those circumstances, occasionally they are thrust upon us, and we have to deal with them as appropriate. I'm not stupid enough to criticise people who talk in those uncommon circumstances.
I read somewhere that anyone who can't abide human behaviour in the opera house/theatre/concert hall should stay at home in their living room. I would agree that there is a level of sensitivity to other humans that suggests the problem does lie with the observer. For example, I -and others - comment on outbreaks of coughing, and even discuss why it happens in some works/performances and not others. We even moan about particular individuals (Simon Rattle once turned to the audience in between acts and requested that people use handkerchiefs to stifle their coughs). But on balance, we know the occasional cough, sneeze or even loudly dropping something isn't deliberate.
The other day I suddenly couldn't remember if I'd switched off my phone; my companion said she'd kill me if it went off during the performance. I told her she needn't bother, I'd kill myself. I still managed to turn it off long before the house lights went down. My responsibility, you see. I have heard people's phones going off at several performances & it always causes a disruption, not least to the performers.
I really couldn't believe my 'luck' that occurred twice in Simon Boccanegra. The first time was the Friday, when I paid an obscene amount of money to sit in the Orchestra Stalls. Before things started I overheard the two women to my left discussing why they were there. "I thought I might regret it if I didn't come". Perhaps it's just a turn of phrase, but it seemed quite weak compared to my 'Desperate to...wouldn't have missed it for anything..."
The second time was on the Tuesday, when I had paid considerably less, but still more than normal, to be in the Balcony. This time the two women were to my right, the older one I had noticed was in a wheelchair.
Simon Boccanegra starts with a prologue of about half an hour, followed by a pause of a few minutes for scene-changing. On both occasions, I had been disturbed twice by an exchange between the two women during the Prologue. Each of the four exchanges were prolonged, more than merely 'Pass the binoculars, dear'. Each time I feared that these exchanges would continue throughout the performance and ruin my evening.
Each time I used the pause between Prologue and Act 1 to summon up my best manners and say "Please could you refrain from talking during the music".
The first time the younger woman came back with "I have to explain to my mother, she can't hear!". I'm still trying to puzzle that one out - she can't hear, so she had to be told when Plácido Domingo walked onto the stage. She couldn't hear, so she had to have explained what was written in the programme, cast sheet and any synopsis available online, as CD notes or in Kobbé. So, no logic in it, but also so unbelievably rude. I explained that I had paid a lot of money for my ticket. She replied that they had, too. But the difference was, I paid to hear the opera (not them talking). I will freely admit there is nothing in the small print that contractually obliges them not to talk, but there is such a thing as observing conventions, and if they had stopped to think about it - nobody else was talking.
Later in the evening, I had cause to stand up between acts; when I sat down again the silk belt of silk dress inadvertently landed on "mother's" lap. She flicked it away with the utmost contempt, like it was a snotrag or something. And they conspicuously glared at me at every opportunity.
On the Tuesday, the response was "My mother has dementia. I need to explain who Plácido Domingo is".
Ooh, ethical dilemma, here!
I don't suppose many of us will go through life without having someone close - or ourselves - succumb to dementia. I find it impossible to imagine how someone copes with the day-to-day burden of caring for such a person.
It didn't take much effort to imagine that 'mother' may have been a fan of Plácido for decades. I can see exactly why daughter wanted Dementia Mother to witness one final performance from him, maybe even hoping that his wonderfulness would reach a mind that is nearly gone. I'm not hard-hearted, honest.
But I did sense that Dementia Daughter was determined to provoke me into some unwise derogatory comment about dementia. Not me, mate, you see my mother is a social worker (retd.). I simply stated that she didn't need to explain anything and disturb anyone else.
As a post-script, the evening I was seated near Dementia Mother was the night that John Tomlinson sang from the wings whilst Ferruccio Furlanetto, silenced by a throat infection, mimed on stage. I have admired Sir John Tomlinson in many things (as recently as The Minotaur), but I share the consensus that his voice has gone (he's well into his Sixties). There was one bit where he wobbled even more than normal in a way that was spectacularly off-pitch, and Dementia Mother let out a howl of anguish, which seemed a fitting commentary. I laughed to myself.
