27: There is no there there

A look a the Opera 27

It had all the pretentious hallmarks that would make my haughty inner self delight. It was an opera, in one of my favorite playhouses, about the salon era of Paris, focused on Gertrude Stein, her lesbian relationship, and jammed packed with culture icons like Fitzgerald and Matisse — Hemingway and Picasso, and to top that one of my friends from high school was in it. I can find the joy in most productions because there is always staging or some form of artistry that can carry me. I write this from the safety of my room, clean and well-lit, during the second act. Here all is quiet, and there is no affront.

The first act was a jumble of knit one, purl one, geniuses, door knocking, genius, painters, genius, wives, genius, the address, genius, in case you bloody forgot genius. 27 was the self conciseness of a libretto writer who wanted to make the point that this era was filled with genius because his treatment of the period would have barred him from invitation to such a salon. A rose is a rose is a rose; this was not.

The music was devoid of any hit of Paris or the vibrancy of a salon; it was as if Adam Sandler’s opera man were taken seriously and given free rein to write the most generic opera ever. I considered that I might be being pranked, but the geriatric audience that was faithfully suffering through this to seem like they were cultured indicated the pedantic hellhole we were trapped in together was very real. When asked my opinion I commented on how I thought Stein herself would walk…