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Rating: Tears. Truly. And the urge to stand up, in front of the TV, for once turned on, and applaud. I did it once. The Pirate was sprinting. And there were tears there too.
First of all, the finale. The applause. A massive chorus, stage machines, special effects, angels, devils, an entirely golden king with a mantle that echoes blue. A father, who is about to become Germont. France, England, the wars, the sieges, the things. Everything and only false. Everything and only to convey what's in a girl's head. Who in one of the last scenes takes what she calls her flag. And it's just a sheet.
First: Patty Smith, interviewed in the foyer. Her hairstyle is scandalous. She looks like an Indian. She looks like a man. And she's beautiful.
Second: Pereira, who takes the stage before the show. A shiver runs down the spine. Instead no, it's just to announce. The main baritone can't be there. A young man replaces him.
Third: forget Joan of Arc. The herring battle, the Bastard of Orleans, everything. It doesn't matter at all, Peppino didn't care about it.
Fourth: okay, Temistocle Solera's libretto was described as an offense to common sense. Here, a sense, THE SENSE, maybe, they find it.
Fifth: beginning, symphony. The symphony starts dramatically. Then it calms down. At that moment, the curtain rises. It's just a little scene, in black and white. There's Mimì dying. Or Violetta. The father, sitting next to her, weeping. Whether it's Annina or Musetta rushing to her aid, who knows. You stay like that. The curtain drops again, the symphony returns to drama. Was it a coming soon? You know those things, at the cinema, from a long time ago? No. It was the idea.
Sixth: alright, at certain moments it resembles the Salzburg Traviata of 2005. When Netrebko was really something to look at. But it makes sense.
Seventh: okay, the baritone arriving on stage, replacing the sick one, also has a nice voice. But he's missing that thing that a Verdian baritone must have: authority. It must be that when he sings, he sings and you think he has said the thing that must be said.
Eighth: what to say about that little waltz? There are some rather frightening little devils that enter the scene and sing to her that she's beautiful, she's young. With a little waltz. Cute and whistleable. Which made the contemporaries quite angry. But, come on, a waltz? A waltz that Peppino will return to. He will slow it down. And it will become the leitmotif of Traviata.
Ninth: the shadow of the father. He may not have the voice, but the set design provides. A massive shadow dominates the scene.
Tenth: the furniture. A chair, an armchair, a bed. You see them in the first scene, Joan is in bed, it's an 1800s room. It's Mimì's as she dies, or Violetta's. The beginning of the story. But those pieces of furniture remain on stage. And they also flip over. And remain overturned. Until the end. Whatever the scene, whether they talk about a battle, a coronation, anything at all.
Eleventh: the news that Joan returns to battle. Absolute marvel. The father, who betrayed her, jealous of this entirely golden and very weak king, understood. She told him, I only loved for a moment. And he understands. And so she returns to battle. But not really. She is on the bed, the father holds her hand. And they recount the feats. And even her death. That she, Joan, watches them. Watches her father. Watches this entirely golden and very weak king. Who without her is nothing. Watches this father, who despairs for not having understood.
Twelfth: Anna Netrebko. Who was certainly a thousand times more beautiful ten years ago. But who sings like never before. And it's the second time she makes me fall in love. At the third, I'll marry her.
Thirteenth: the direction. That dares and finds a way. To explain a story. Of a young boy from the Po Valley, who began to understand how much mystery, and power, and life, were inside a woman's body. And then he takes a story, that is History, and changes it, and transforms it. None of it is true, not the battles, not the coronations, not this entirely golden king, not even the stake. The only truth is that there is a girl. What she has inside, no one knows. You can't know. You can imagine. Approach it, try to understand, remain dazzled. With patience, attention, respect. And love, too, for a Joan who is almost Violetta. It's all here. And it's tearful. Yes.
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