Prima Donna

I'm really pleased i went to see Rufus Wainwright's opera Prima Donna last night - although much pleasure was arguably derived from several things rather unconnected to the actual opera itself, it has to be said - Wainwright, clad in a Tartan suit was there with mustachioed boyfriend, plus the sort of famous people you might want to be friends with... Bella Freud for eg, which created a grand sense of occasion, plus the completely bonkers crowd of all ages, fashion sensibilities, and general walks of life were thoroughly over-excited, which contributed to a frenzied buzz that fizzed around the auditorium and foyer of Saddler's Wells, and finally, i had a much longed for kiss-and-make-up with a dear friend before curtain up - always guaranteed to lift one's spirits to the point of enjoying something desperately dire. This wasn't dire, but it certainly wasn't La Boheme, as aforementioned dear friend was quick to note.


The Opera, Prima Donna, tells the story of a Norma Desmond-esque opera diva, Regine Saint Laurent (Yves, no relation, je pense), who is living in faded elegance (what else?) in Paris (where else?) with her controlling, Mrs Danvers style butler and flimsy maid (who stole some of the best tunes if you ask me). the last time she sang was over six years ago, when she had a vocal breakdown, but she's set to make a triumphant comeback, in the same role she crashed and burned performing last time. But then she's visited by a young journalist (who also happened to train as a tenor, handy for duets) and who flatters her ego and encourages her to sing with him. caught up in the moment, they end up in a heady embrace. Strangely though, he's forgotten to mention he has a girlfriend (that old trick) and after Regina has been left to moon over him for a while and remember her glory days, he then returns to the apartment with girlfriend in tow to ask Regina to sign a record for him (yes, it's seems totally mad on stage too). RSL is less than happy as you might imagine and has another breakdown, at which point her long suffering, draconian butler walks out and she's left alone, bereft, with no voice, no hope, nothing.

My main problem, really, was having an opera about a singer who can't sing. she obviously has to sing even when she's supposed not to be able to. and when she finally sings her major number, it makes less of an impact as she's been, well, singing the whole time.

Also, however the plot grabs you, it really isn't punchy enough to be eeked out over 2 1/2 hours. Pacey it ain't. by the end i was so desperate for some drama i way baying for blood and kept wishing someone would kill someone - the butler kill the diva with a spoon? (no, just putting it back on the table) murder with keys? (no, just returning them). maybe she'd kill herself? (no, just left a tragic wreck).


And so to the music... Many of the melodies I loved, and was happily swept along by the choppy passions of the alternately rumbling, haunted, wispy, melancholy and furious strains which darted throughout. What i was never really swept off my feet by, however, were the really moving, strong, passionate, heartbreaking or loving arias. where were they? please excuse the completely technically inept explanations which'll follow, but there was much singing-talking and not much singing-singing if you know what i mean. where was the OPERA? who knows. and we couldn't help thinking that the libretto was in French simply to hide the fact that not much of note was being said.

Which sound like i hated it, which i didn't. but it was a tiny bit like Rufus himself was the Prima Donna (or the main attraction, certainly), the audience were the spectacle and the opera itself was a slightly forgettable chorus girl.