Prague, my next immersion, was a shuttle between the Národní Divadlo and the Smetana (formerly German) Theatre, taking in 11 Bohuslav Martinů operas in a week, washed down by a couple of Dvořáks. The Národní was built with shillings and pence chipped in by common folk. It burned down before opening night. The citizens sent more shillings. Where else is opera more valued?
I will skip the rest of the travelogue, but down the years I have missed none of the great houses, from St Petersburg to San Francisco, Paris to Tel Aviv (where Placido Domingo got his first break), Bologna to Helsinki, and Bayreuth to the Met, where a Wagner night could seem endless when Jimmy Levine conducted Parsifal. Been there, done that. Everywhere, except the motherboard of the art, which is La Scala. So what was I missing? Everything.
Last summer, being nearby, I dropped an email to a new press chief, who made the necessary arrangements. La Scala has opened up to the world since Riccardo Chailly, who grew up in the house, returned as chief conductor. The new password is access-all-arias.
Dear readers, I don’t think I’ve been so excited about going to the opera since my first boyhood outing and I’m not going to spoil the memory by performing an act of music criticism. Instead, I will do something really useful and furnish you with a user’s guide to La Scala.
The first thing you need to know is the doors open exactly half an hour before performance. That’s the street doors. If you get there early and it’s raining, they won’t let you in.
People dress up, on the whole, and they bring the kids. There are lots of tourists in the house, but the Milanese middle classes set the tone. They lead the applause, and show you when to whistle disapproval (only rock fans whistle when pleased).
The ushers, of both sexes, are delightful. One prevented me from buying a programme, explaining that it was all in Italian and I’d be better off with a free cast sheet. There’s nothing else to buy.
Let me repeat that: you don’t go to La Scala to buy stuff. That includes interval drinks. Unless you purchased a ticket on arrival, you won’t be allowed into a queue for the bar. And even if you do have a ticket, you might not reach the bar in time. So here’s what you do: tell an usher you’re stepping outside for a smoke and make a dash down the street to the right where, 200 metres on the other side, you will find two of the finest gelato dispensaries on earth. Some cognoscenti can consume four flavours before the second act bells ring.
Back in your seat, prepare to suspend disbelief when the tension is broken by a noisy scene change that takes half an hour. The stagehands have not modernised since Verdi’s day. Take a selfie, talk to your neighbours. Inhale the history.
At the end, expect drama. Some divas spend more time rehearsing their curtsies than their arias. Kissing the stage floor is customary. On the fifth call, a boy of six or seven came running down the aisles, arms aloft, yelling “Bravi! Bravi!”
Straight out of Fellini. Only at La Scala.
I will skip the rest of the travelogue, but down the years I have missed none of the great houses, from St Petersburg to San Francisco, Paris to Tel Aviv (where Placido Domingo got his first break), Bologna to Helsinki, and Bayreuth to the Met, where a Wagner night could seem endless when Jimmy Levine conducted Parsifal. Been there, done that. Everywhere, except the motherboard of the art, which is La Scala. So what was I missing? Everything.
Last summer, being nearby, I dropped an email to a new press chief, who made the necessary arrangements. La Scala has opened up to the world since Riccardo Chailly, who grew up in the house, returned as chief conductor. The new password is access-all-arias.
Dear readers, I don’t think I’ve been so excited about going to the opera since my first boyhood outing and I’m not going to spoil the memory by performing an act of music criticism. Instead, I will do something really useful and furnish you with a user’s guide to La Scala.
The first thing you need to know is the doors open exactly half an hour before performance. That’s the street doors. If you get there early and it’s raining, they won’t let you in.
People dress up, on the whole, and they bring the kids. There are lots of tourists in the house, but the Milanese middle classes set the tone. They lead the applause, and show you when to whistle disapproval (only rock fans whistle when pleased).
The ushers, of both sexes, are delightful. One prevented me from buying a programme, explaining that it was all in Italian and I’d be better off with a free cast sheet. There’s nothing else to buy.
Let me repeat that: you don’t go to La Scala to buy stuff. That includes interval drinks. Unless you purchased a ticket on arrival, you won’t be allowed into a queue for the bar. And even if you do have a ticket, you might not reach the bar in time. So here’s what you do: tell an usher you’re stepping outside for a smoke and make a dash down the street to the right where, 200 metres on the other side, you will find two of the finest gelato dispensaries on earth. Some cognoscenti can consume four flavours before the second act bells ring.
Back in your seat, prepare to suspend disbelief when the tension is broken by a noisy scene change that takes half an hour. The stagehands have not modernised since Verdi’s day. Take a selfie, talk to your neighbours. Inhale the history.
At the end, expect drama. Some divas spend more time rehearsing their curtsies than their arias. Kissing the stage floor is customary. On the fifth call, a boy of six or seven came running down the aisles, arms aloft, yelling “Bravi! Bravi!”
Straight out of Fellini. Only at La Scala.
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