OPERA was born in Italy at the end of the 16th century. Some say that opera is a stepchild of the arts—a sort of mongrel offspring to ballet, music, drama—and is not a pure art form.
Opera is emotional, with jubilant chorus, wild wailings, dolorous themes, melodic preludes, symbolism of torments and delights, as it offers comedy, tragedy, pageantry and romance in an almost inexhaustible repertoire.
No one in real life, would pause to express his feelings in the lengthily soliloquies, within the scope of its own possibilities and lamentation as barrel organ music, for that twittering coloratura.
Recall the dashing Don Giovani, the resourceful Figaro. The marriage of Figaro makes us laugh and clap, because among others, it is so funny, proving that reality was above all, sad—even with its humor and extravaganza.
The one who probably has less passion for it asks, why the opera? What causes one to fall in love with that sad stumpet, instead of a virtuos woman: in the first place when he might have chosen a good painting, sculpture, poetry or instrumental music. And if he wanted to suffer, what about films, which offer plenty of opportunities of exasperation? Others say that opera is not pure art form, since it rarely approaches the detached realism of drama, instead of the intellect plays of George Bernard Shaw, Henrik Ibsen or T.S. Elliot.
Verdi’s La Traviata, the woman gone astray is a classic product of her century and of a single country, France. We’re told you wouldn’t find her in London nor Madrid. But she is also a universal, misunderstood woman of easy virtue. The Magdalen, MDLL Flanders, Doestoevsky’s Sonia, Sartre’s Respectful Prostitute, Tolstoy’s Malova, In the temple of love that Violella Valery our high successful cocotte of one special fallen woman, who has consumption within her frail chest, burning her up—allied to the passion that will inevitably devour her, a wasting disease beside which mere dissipation (wine and late hours)—is harmless child’s play; her theme “flitting from joy to joy: let me live for pleasure only.”
Verdi wrote this in 1853, the first performance was a complete failure, performed in modern costume which aroused the distaste of the audience, the leading tenor was hoarse, the soprano cast as Violetta was a fat prima donna, and when it was announced in the last act that the heroine was dying of consumption, the audience howled with laughter. It was next presented a year later, putting back the period for 1850 and 1700, costumed accordingly. It was an outstanding success and since then, La Traviata has been a favorite of opera lovers.
This special fallen woman is alluring, with luxurious taste and accommodating habit: the kept woman, high class courtesan…but a girl of her time, completely unknown in this our time…without parents or relations but a good heart, that even in her dissipations, there was something high minded, abstract, almost principled about her, you can’t imagine a fallen woman would posses.
It is love, love, love that her lover Alfredo sings, as it repeats itself like an incantation carried by wine. But to Violeta , it is not the wine, or love but simply a homage to pleasure laughter and merriment till dawn. “Life is having fun, the flame of love is born but dies in a day.” That is Violeta’s sumptuous style of entertainment, and she has taken measure to ensure herself against love, while Alfredo finds nothing but joy in his capacity to feel love.
When a supreme sacrificed is asked of La Traviata, for a young girl, pure as an angel, she has made a gift of life—the unchaste one, a temple of purity.
This opera with its melodrama and pageantry, found an eloquent expression amide the merrymaking in a desert of people.
