out of the strong came forth sweetness

Actual overheard dialogue during the first intermission of Samson et Delilah at San Francisco Opera last Tuesday:

Man with ratty shoulder-length iron gray hair: “You’re not wearing any panties?!?”

Woman who sounded (and looked) like Lunch Lady Doris from the Simpsons: “Tell the whole world, why dontcha!”

It’s nice to see people getting into the spirit of the opera. You know who else got into the spirit? The San Francisco Opera Chorus. They switched from anguished pleading with Jehovah to the sybaritic laughter of Dagon’s devotees with the assurance, conviction, and steady tone with which a Republican politician switches from denouncing gay rights to cruising public toilets for rough trade. Their contribution may have been such a highlight because the Samson of Clifton Forbis was so disappointing. I thought he sounded strangled and wavering in tone. He got better in the later scenes, but there’s not much left of this fairly short opera by then. (Here’s a little digression on opera length, and it’s not my usual plea that anything that lasts over three hours start no later than 7:30: I was recently reprimanded by another commenter over at The Iron Tongue of Midnight for saying that Messiaen’s St. Francois lasted five hours. I thought he had a valid point about how much music there actually is, but since I’m not discussing the works as a musicologist (because I’m not one) but as an audience member, I do include the intermissions in the running time because I find they affect the total experience. So in order to avoid getting overly pedantic about saying “the performance” instead of “the opera”, I should make it clear that any references I make to running time refer to the time you’d spend in a theater and not what you’d spend listening to a CD.) The various High Priests and Old Hebrews were fine but no one really knocked me out. That leaves Olga Borodina’s Delilah, emerging like Kundry from ululating flower maidens, who was our best hope, if not Samson's, all along. Before the overture the disembodied voice from above had informed us that Ms. Borodina had been suffering from a cold – a great groan went up – but she had agreed to sing tonight – sighs of relief – and she asked for our understanding. We understood. I thought she sang richly and acted with conviction. The announcement could have been an insurance policy. She might have held back at a point or two, but the scenery and costumes were always there to supply any necessary extra oomph. I’ve heard that these were officially inspired by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, but the usual reference I hear is to Cecil B. DeMille, who might actually be ranked higher these days by tastemakers who care about such things. The dusty garments of the oppressed Hebrews were in tasteful muted shades that matched the palm trees and temples, but the Philistines glittered and glowed with many colors and sparkling jewels. To the Righteous may be salvation in the form of a kick-ass final curtain, but the ungodly (or the differently-godded) always get the best tunes and all the big dance numbers. I kept thinking of the wonderful intertitle from DeMille’s 1927 King of Kings: “Harness my zebras – gift of the Nubian King! This Carpenter [that would be Jesus] shall learn that He cannot hold a man [that would be her boyfriend, Judas] from Mary Magdalene!” (For those unfamiliar with the story, it is in fact she who learns so very much from the Carpenter.) The only major costuming mistake was for the male dancers in the orgy (I can’t really call it a Bacchanal, since it’s for Dagon – you see, I’m overly precise by nature, so I try to avoid extra pedantry), who wear baggy golden briefs that look like diapers designed by Liberace. It is naturally difficult for one of my retiring and melancholy disposition to judge an orgy, but what I saw on stage seemed fully as overwrought in intention yet listless in action as such things undoubtedly are in real life. I don’t mean to condescend to the opera by referring to DeMille; it’s just that type of thing, and excellent of its kind. I find the music quite beautiful (since Saint-Saens actually wrote Vinteuil’s “little phrase,” who am I to be more aesthetically refined than Charles Swann?), and the story is dramatic and effective (though without the Miltonic depth of Handel’s version), but I don’t know if the feelings it inspires can actually be called religious. It’s not the Saint Matthew Passion, but what else is? If you were looking for a film about religion, one that makes you think or feel about it, you’re better off watching Ordet or Dead Man Walking than King of Kings. Musically, you might even be better off with purely instrumental, non-descriptive music and leaving yourself open for the vertiginous and occasional descent of grace that can smack you out of your seat and spin you through the celestial spheres. Hoping for this sensation is of course what also keeps opera goers returning to the theater, so I leave it to the lucky individuals experiencing it to decide if their ecstasy is religious or other, and if the distinction really matters.