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Rating: REASONED GUIDE FOR A CERTAIN TYPE OF DEBASERIAN TO THE OPERA THEATER (OTHERWISE: ...Assistance service for the unwary recipient of free tickets or "authority," who, when it comes to so-called "classical music," doesn't even know where its home is, but goes anyway because "it's so chic" and also because the battle-ax of his wife demands it...)
The issue is as follows: how to survive 4 hours and 50 minutes of "Die Götterdämmerung" when your Germanic culture is limited to the 80-90s calendars of Claudia Schiffer and your musical culture to Tiziano Ferro or Aurelio Fierro? On some rare occasions, indeed, the Debaserian is certainly not an expert in what is snobbishly called "art music": his classical knowledge is essentially based on the hold music he's subjected to when calling the Box Office to book two tickets for the Pooh - a skill that, if nothing else, allows him to know the complete works of the damned Rondò Veneziano. The last time he entered a theater was the Excelsior in Fucecchio, in a state of confirmed priapism since the Prato Est tollbooth. Under these conditions, the options to survive the dramatic event are limited to very few:
1) Fall asleep deeply. It's not easy, however, with a Valkyrie from the proscenium yelling terrible curses at you in thick Bavarian and the noblewoman next to you giving your knuckles a Prussian fan beating because you're snoring;
2) Bring a walkman from home and enjoy the complete works of the Alunni del Sole;
3) Fall into a state of regressive hypnosis, return to the age of 5, and play doctor with the Infanta of the Panfili-Colonna family, seated two rows in front of you.
However, there is also the possibility that the unfortunate Debaserian is driven by a genuine interest in this unknown reality. In that case, certain to perform a welcome operation, we take the pleasure of providing here some guidelines, useful for taking the first steps in a world that, otherwise, can seem arduous and hostile.
PLOT: Forget about understanding anything, unless you've read at least Natalia Aspesi's summary in "Donnamoderna" magazine. The chances of grasping the plot of an opera through dialogue and singing are essentially the same as contracting tennis elbow by exchanging toothbrushes with Adriano Panatta. At most, you can hope for surtitles. Keep in mind, though, that they are located 10 meters high, and, therefore, especially if you are in the front rows, they will make you return home with a scientifically defined posture of "Bernadette cervical dystonia." Arm yourself with the libretto and, assisted by your spouse - who will quiz you every evening the week before the event - try to digest as much as possible. As a last resort, bear in mind that, at least for Verdi, Donizetti, Bellini, Puccini, and all Verismo, the opera subject is quite simple: "Opera is the thing where the tenor wants to sleep with the soprano but the baritone doesn't want to," as someone I can't remember said.
Some scattered indications useful for identifying characters: the tenor is that dresser dressed like a late Empire sofa singing like Albano (but without the Apulian accent); the soprano is the one who wants us to believe she's on the verge of dying from consumption, tuberculosis, or other respiratory system complaints, even though she has the bearing of a medium-sized tanker and is moved on stage via a complex system of winches and pulleys; the baritone is often a dashing and charming type, which - given the soprano's blatant preference for the tenor - confirms our first impression of dealing with a bunch of fools.
CLOTHING: The fact that you go to the opera in a tuxedo, tails, or "sciammèria," is one of the greatest urban legends ever existed. Unless you are a descendant of the Orsini del Balzo, seeing you burst into the foyer with an overcoat before which even Nunzio Filogamo would have hesitated will surely not enhance your popularity. Be sober, for God's sake! Women should avoid bold and teased hairstyles, which make it difficult for spectators up to eight rows away to see, and above all, consider that there will surely be other occasions in life to show off one's collection of joys, gems, ornaments, and jewels. By doing so, proceeding through the rooms of the building, they will minimize the chances of producing, besides the general disgrace, the typical "Christmas sleigh sound." To be avoided: glowing bandanas, t-shirts with "touch me!" written on them, leather jackets with the image of Iron Maiden printed on them.
HOW TO REACH THE THEATER: generally, such a building is located in the most exclusive area of the city, whose car entrance is allowed to ecclesiastical dignitaries, aristocrats, plenipotentiaries of foreign countries, De Filippi's tronisti. Also for this reason, the preference of the "doc melomane" surely goes to the taxi: it allows you to arrive on time and not have to circle the building 18 times in hopes of finding parking (and therefore making your entrance with the mood of the Count of Luna), also receiving 18 fines for unauthorized entry into the ZTL. Also discard the bicycle, unless you are sufficiently trained and prepared: entering puffing like Galeazzi after Christmas lunch and the ermine coat stained by chain grease would not speak in your favor. Some cities have a bus service that takes the melomaniac to the theater entrance. Beware of oversights, though! Taking the 58 barrato - generally used by port laborers - dressed like Daniele Piombi or the Countess De Blanck at the opening ceremony of a Rotary club, could certainly alienate you the sympathies of the humblest and proletarian portion of the vehicle's travelers.
PRACTICAL ADVICE: Eat before, for heaven's sake! Some operas end at 2 in the morning and when you leave you will be as hungry as Ferrara after an unlikely Dolomite stage! Then the foyer bar serves things absolutely useless to the hungry viewer: caviar sandwiches at 3 euros each, snacks, stuffed olives, and the like. There are, it's true, sandwiches and tramezzini... but their appearance does not speak in favor of their freshness.
ABSOLUTE DON'TS: 1) knowing that the foyer bar is outrageously expensive, bringing a homemade artichoke omelet sandwich; 2) reading the libretto's plot using a miner's helmet; 3) on the aria "Là ci darem la mano" lighting a lighter like at a Masini concert; 4) confusing "Gianni Schicchi" with Riccardo Schicchi or Manfredi with Siffredi; 5) asking the noblewoman next to you for the binoculars and looking at the violinists' thighs; 6) at the first notes of Carmen's overture saying "Uh...this is my phone's ringtone!".
At the end, to recover from the 19th-century language, return home and watch all the late-night reruns of "Al posto tuo" with Alda D'Eusanio or, alternatively, a random show on MTV. The next morning, when you return to work, don't get involved in dangerous discussions about what you've seen. Just sit at your desk and say, depending on the case: 1) "Verdi is band-like"; 2) "Puccini is always so sensual"; 3) "Wagner, at times, is a bit heavy".
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