The Umbrella Twirler Enlists an Accomplice
Oh. Unbeknownst to me, he was purposely giving us cues.
What a concept. We redid the passage, and at the key moment, sure enough, he lifted his baton, looked right at us, and signaled that it was OUR TURN TO SING.
Later that night, as I shamefacedly described the scene to my husband, I felt like an idiot for never even imagining that the conductor would actually help us. Pondering a bit more, I realized there were three reasons for my blankness.
One. I remembered from the acting days of my youth that when the stage lights are up and the house lights are down, you can’t see the audience. They are there as a strange, dreamlike, breathing presence whom you are trying to please, but you can’t see them. So while preparing for an opera performance, I assumed I would not be able to see the conductor. I thought he was there in the blackness to watch the stage and try to keep the orchestra caught up to the singers.
Two. I was sure that people onstage are not SUPPOSED to look at the conductor – that doing so would break the illusion of the “fourth wall” (the impression that the audience is secretly peeking into other people’s living rooms). They don’t do it in the professional productions I’ve seen, maintaining rigorous discipline and looking only at each other.
Three. It had never occurred to me that we lowly choristers would actually have someone to rely on, that we wouldn’t have to flounder in a shapeless sea of sound.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Meanwhile, I’m looking forward to seeing my (blond) self in a black wig, white makeup, and kimono. With parasol and fan, I might just pass as a geisha if you’re a near-sighted person in the second balcony. I think I’ll send a photo of this spectacle to my faculty colleagues at Saybrook Graduate School and see if they can guess who it is.
A key character in Madama Butterfly is her little son, who is born after Act I. A toddler when he appears onstage, he is the focus of his mother’s adoration and part of the heartbreaking finale. One day at rehearsal, one of the younger chorus members brought her son to meet the director. However, he is seven years old and a husky youngster, too large for even the most forgiving audience member to mistake for a two-year-old. Certainly too heavy for a soprano to lug around onstage while warbling a lullaby. I wondered if my little neighbor Olivia would do… she is five and part of a family heavily involved in music, dance, and theatre. As we drove to her “audition,” she boldly sang the entirety of the title song of “Hello, Dolly.” Since Butterfly’s little son does not speak or sing, this impressive talent would regrettably not be exhibited to our operatic audience, but I pondered whether to nudge her to sing it for the director. As it happened, he just wanted to talk to her, explain the plot (expurgated), and see how she reacted. He is in his 70s and was a busy tenor for decades, so I imagine he has interviewed numerous tots and knows how to pick the one who will steal hearts onstage without picking his nose or starting to cry.
Behold, she has been given the role! I’m a little nervous about this, as the job of the toddler (nicknamed “Trouble”) is to sit here and there without moving very much. How can you expect a very young child to sit still for so long? But my little friend did splendidly on her first rehearsal. She was more patient than I was! Maybe it was a test, but the director made her wait almost three hours before he called for her to rehearse. All this time, the principals were singing, the stage manager was taking notes and whispering to various assistants, and the conductor was stopping and starting the action to give comments. Olivia sat on her mother’s lap or wandered around quietly looking at the artificial cherry tree, which was being festooned with blossoms by a woman who would stand back, look critically at her work, then step forward to attach another blossom. Olivia had been given her costume, so dressed in red and black embroidery with a flowing red robe, she was a bright little dot in the cavernous warehouse cum rehearsal hall full of people in blue jeans and t-shirts.
Finally, she was called. I was agog* to eavesdrop, but I was sitting too far away.
* Actually, I was two gogs.
I could see her listening solemnly to instructions and dutifully falling asleep on command. By the end of her rehearsal time, she had made such an impression that the director decided to give her extra little things to do. I’ll have to wait until her next rehearsal, or maybe even opening night, to see the staging they’ve given her. Go, Olivia!