A Night at the Opera

We went to the opera last night. I thought it was too hot to really get dressed up, so I wore a kind of beachy-type long skirt, navy floral with a jacket. A lot of other women weren’t so done in by the heat and I enjoyed the sight of lovely ladies decked out in fabulous little dresses and incredibly high heels. I was especially intrigued by the gals with the long silk shawls across bare backs that then wrapped elegantly at the elbows. I don’t think I could wear a long shawl. I’d probably get it caught on something and hang myself.
Which might have been an act perfectly at home in TOSCA, Puccini’s tragic love story. I am new to opera. It is more Bill’s thing than mine. Not a lot of opera was being performed around my hometown (Oilton, Oklahoma) when I was growing up. And somehow in the busy years getting on with my life, college, career, kids and finally writing, I just never got around to it. I attended my very first performance maybe five or six years ago.
I like it. Who wouldn’t? Beautiful music performed by a live orchestra and amazing young people whose voices can make sound that just melts your heart. Add to that all that fabulous sets and incredible costumes and wow. It’s great.
Being unlearned in this area, I wouldn’t presume to judge Puccini on his art or his music. But I came away very sad. If you haven’t seen it, I hate to ruin the story, but basically everybody dies in the end.
A lot of people really like that. It’s almost as if they don’t get enough opportunity to shed tears in the normal activity of their day.
Some people really like to be frightened. They read Dean Koontz or Stephen King and just get thrilled to have the wits scared out of them. And they sit through all those terrifying movies with alien creatures or serial killers behind every door.
Now, I’m not truly bothered by people who look a things a little differently from me. But I do wonder about this sort of thing. Is the world not already frightening enough for Stephen King? Did Puccini not see more than enough suffering in the lives around him?
I am, without question, a happily-ever-after kind of person. I want things to turn out well in the books I read, the movies I see, the stories I tell.
Following the same logic as above, that must mean that I have not experienced enough happiness. But I know that’s not true. I’ve had my share of frightening moments and devastating tragedy, but I look at my life and see that I’ve mostly been happy.
So why are some of us attracted to thrillers or tragedies while others, like myself are more into Pollyanna’s "glad game"?
I would imagine that some very bright and enthusiastic graduate student is conducting brain studies at the very moment to determine if such things are hard wired or learned through experience. We’ll have to wait to find out.
In the meantime, I will continue to enjoy the sight and sound of opera and maybe make up alternate endings that more suit my taste. Like maybe, when Tosca tells Cavaradossi that the firing squad is a farce and he should fall down and pretend to die, he answers. "I’m no actor. I could never pull that off. We’ve already got the letter of safe passage. Let’s sneak away while the guards are off stage." The two make a break for it and race toward the approaching army, where they are received with welcome. And news that Tosca has murdered Scarpia makes her a heroine to the French, lauded in song and story for decades to come. She and Cavaradossi move to Paris. He becomes a great painter. She is a virtuoso performer and they marry and have four bright happy children.
Now really, isn’t that better than throwing yourself from the parapet?