Leo Muscato
Carmen

Praise for Carmen. And I know that praise - for this Carmen, the one from the Maggio Fiorentino - you won't read anywhere else. But you are not elsewhere.

Praise for this Carmen. And until yesterday, I would have thought of writing the opposite.

A quick recap for those who missed the previous episodes.

The Maggio Fiorentino, in the person of director Leo Muscato, stages Bizet's masterpiece. And decides on a couple of things.

• - to set it in the present day, and Carmen is a gypsy in a Rom camp. Don José a policeman.
• - to make Carmen - in the end - not die. Why? Because enough with femicides.

From there - from this second choice - the delirium. Predictive. Political correctness. Boldrini. The Pope. Changing the endings (on this, I know I'm a fool, but I can't help but quote a fake Boskov read on Twitter: if changing endings, I want to change the final of the Champions Cup 1992. Thank you. (And thanks also to those who - in the face of such a nice and fake post - took a long phone call)).

Articles, editorials, essays, everything. And everyone (including me, I confess) sure of one thing.
No, you can't. Worse than putting Maradona statuettes in the nativity scene. It's not done, we defend traditions, culture, history.

Or - even more simply - we defend intelligence. Do you want a woman who - with every reason in the world - kills a policeman? Do Tosca. Not Carmen.

Then January seventh arrives. And I - I don't go to Florence - listen to it. Thanks to Radiotre (can we - once and for all - say thanks to Radio Three? Answer: I don't know, but I do: thank you).

Clearly, listening to it is not the same as seeing it. But, come on, let's try.

First impression. The conductor is either in a hurry or likes military marches. Well, I think, he will get along with the children's choir of the first act.
Second impression. Apart from the parts I ruined by singing them myself (and it's known that I know all the parts by heart, even in French), I like Carmen, Don José scores six and a half, like Micaela, Escamillo not far from sufficiency.
Third impression. Until the second act, the audience - those there who see - applaud, convinced.
Fourth impression. During the intermission, they interview Leo Muscato. Now, believe me, there are few things that give me prejudices like someone who comes and tells me: I am an opera director. I swear, if someone comes and tells me look I've exterminated the family, I give him an excuse. If he says I direct operas, no.

Well, Leo Muscato seems like a nice guy. And he says some things that are serious and sensible. One about Don José (a violent man but almost in spite of himself) that I don't know if I agree with. I think more of no. But it doesn't matter. He says it gracefully. And I - when someone says things like this, which seem wrong to me, but says them that way - I give birth to a little worm. Inside the head. And I carry it inside. A little discourse, a discussion. Between me and myself. Then we'll see who's right.

Then what you've read happens (actually not on all newspapers, someone was told and didn't understand it, but oh well).

It happens that the fourth act arrives.
And Carmen, to Don José who implores her, says no.

(Brief aside. You will thank me. Tomorrow, or when you finish reading this lengthy stuff, you can show it off while you drink coffee with friends. Believe me, only good stuff...
Carmen - the opera - says a very simple thing. To say says the same thing that Dead Poets Society says. Or any Peter Weir film. There's this Don José, who is a policeman. A secure, state job, the thirteenth salary. And he even has a woman. Beautiful, nice, virgin, with braids, who talks to the mother when she goes to Holy Mass. Her name is Micaela. And - with much difficulty - already in the first act Don José manages to kiss her. All is well, I would say. And instead, no. Because at some point a cyclone arrives. The cyclone is named Carmen. Carmen is a gypsy, a Rom, whatever the hell you please. She is one who - in life - has decided to do whatever she damn pleases. And pays the consequences. Carmen is Moby Dick. She is the power of nature. That doesn't speak the language of men. That if you see her, you can't not love her. But - and this is Carmen the opera - loving her is not enough. Don José - to love her - tries. A La Scala staging a few years ago saw everything from Don José’s side. Poor and desperate lover. In my opinion, a scandalous interpretation. And too politically correct. In two words, a mess. But enough aside. Our policeman sees Carmen. And loses his mind. But not enough - at least for Carmen. For which - she, after a while, tells him enough. He doesn't accept it and stalks her. Those facebook-like things, which you well know. She doesn't even care to listen to him. She - now - likes the fool Escamillo (he's also handsome). Last act. Don José finds Carmen. Alone with her. He's finally solved the problem of his mother, of the virgin girlfriend with the braids, of everything. He has the flower she gave him. He kneels in front of her. He says I'll do everything you want. She answers no. Everything I want is already past. And you haven't done it. So one choice. Either you let me do what I want or you kill me. There are no alternatives. You choose)

End of aside. Carmen says no. In a wonderful 1965 staging I discovered two days ago, Carmen takes the knife from Don José's hands. And kills herself. She - alone. He - then - the libretto predicts, surrenders to the authorities. He says I killed her, arrest me.

But I open a lot of parentheses. And then you lose the thread (but you will thank me!). Because what I want to talk to you about is what happens here.

On January 7 of 2018 at the Maggio Musicale Fiorentino. It happens that the director - or whoever - decides that enough with femicides. This time it will be Carmen who kills José!
Now, at my house, these things are not called ideas. They are called nonsense. And - why am I telling you this - he is an opera director, do you tell me?

Then something even worse happens. It happens that - when it comes to the point, Carmen's gun doesn't shoot. It jams. Twice. Poor Don José resolves the embarrassment. And dies. Probably of a heart attack. Then - as the libretto predicts - he goes to surrender to the authorities (dead. Will he have mitigating circumstances?).

Curtain. End. The audience - who was very happy before - begins to boo. Says - certainly - but how? we're the best country in the world in building weapons and you give Carmen a gun that jams? You can't! It's a scandal! Worse than Bin Laden statuettes in the nativity scene!

And from here articles, in all the newspapers. The ironies, the things.

And a thank you.

Mine.

That for two days, since seventh of January, I have to (they know that "I'm the one who likes operas") explain Carmen to everyone.
But not only Carmen. Also Otello on a cruise ship.
Also Bohème in a supermarket.
Also Bohème who takes off her cap and has no hair.
Also Zauberflote set in a school.
This afternoon I showed a sadomasochistic and almost Matrix Tosca they did in Oslo. The guy I showed it to says: damn, but the tenor is good. (the newspapers, the opinionists, of that Tosca didn’t talk. If you have patience, like giving candy to children, at the end, I'll put a link (but won’t you fall in love with the parentheses???)).

Parenthesis open. And flashback music. Think of a little (he still is, but there even in terms of age) andisceppard student on school benches. In high school. Reading Hegel, who said THE NOVEL IS THE MODERN BOURGEOIS EPIC.
Because he - Hegel - spoke like that. Capital letters. Always. Those things that must stick in your head. Forever. Even to me.
And also the question that consequently arose. But damn, we, we Italians, have only one novel. The others - the French, the Russians - all, have a million! Questions like these, to me, baptize a small worm, that moves in the head. And to discussions. Between me and myself. Let's see who wins.
In the specific case a wonderful essay - by Quirino Principe - answers. Says a simple thing. Do you want to know why we didn't have the 19th-century novel? It's simple! Because we had melodrama! Which did the same thing. Flashback music ends. Parenthesis closes. My little worm dies.

So it happens that I argue, on a little fascist website, because they talk about Carmen. And I don't allow it. So it happens that after eating two rubbish things, I explain that the Star Wars version Zauberflote I hold very precious on my computer. And I'm angry. And in love. And every emotion of mine and of every interlocutor, is very strong. And I read the reviews, the comments, the editorials, the mockeries, everything. And I get mad. And I say mine. And I make them feel. And see. And each of us has an opinion. And we are all - there - talking about the same thing. Like those days when it snows in Milan. And everything goes into tilt. And every person talks to you. And tells you theirs. And listens when you tell them yours.

A thing like that.
That no one else has.
Only we had it.
And I - not the nativity scenes - hold this tight.
A thing that makes you fall in love. That makes you mad. That makes you speak your mind. That makes you feel better than the best critic, better than the best Conservatory teacher.

IT'S CALLED OPERA, FRIEND.

AND I - I'M STRANGE - I LOVE THIS STUFF.

So - you won't hear much praise - but this is praise. For that damn Carmen there. For that gun that didn't fire. For that fool Leo Muscato. That every newspaper, every single passerby you met had something to tell you theirs. For having managed to do something like that, in 2018. Basically - but it’s always like this - it took little. A gun that misfires. A damn changed ending. It's called craft, friend.