Journey to the Center

I just recently finished up Pattern Recognition by William Gibson. I absolutely loved this book. It was so absorbing that I actually had a day where I was disoriented after reading for an hour. I could not figure out how to use my body parts properly and had to be careful on stairs as my vision was hazy.

My husband had picked up this book a while back, but I’d been avoiding it as I’d read Neuromancer and had a tough time with it. The writing style made it so that I had no idea what was happening through most of the story. I couldn’t tell plot movement from random chatter. So naturally, I wasn’t interested in another Gibson story. At least, until I was stuck with a choice between it and another book I was avoiding.

I am extremely happy that I picked this story up. The plot was compelling and immediately presenting, sucking me into the action. The characters were approachable and empathetic. In fact, I was pleasantly surprised at Gibsons ability to write a convincing female character. I had none of the problems with this story that I’d had with Neuromancer - even though the language was occasionally esoteric (who says outre anyway?) and the sentence structures were complex, setting the story in a familiar time and place allowed me to puzzle through the more complicated sections without losing the thread of the story.

The only thing that detracted from this story was my brains compulsion to analyze the plot and try to predict what will happen next. It distracted me from the writing enough that the last third of the book was less engrossing than the beginning, but I still had a tough time putting it down.

I find it interesting that Gibsons use of language was more difficult for me to grasp than that of Dickens. But now that I’m more proficient with his way of writing, I will definitely be rereading Neuromancer. Again.

She hit the lock button on the remote again, aiming it carefully at the car. Nothing happened - no click, no beep, nothing. Of course this would happen today. The car had to be freaking out on Halloween of all nights. She’d been in and out of the house several times trying to figure out why the alarm was going off. There didn’t appear to be any logical reason for it, she was tempted to blame the flashing of the lights on pranksters that were undoubtedly hiding in the bushes and snickering every time she’d come out of the apartment.

She had to keep running back in, interrupting her fretting and troubleshooting every time kids would appear. It was odd to see so many of them, but she enjoyed all of the costumes. The little demon had been her favorite - he was very polite after hissing at her initially and his costume looked hand made. Of course, having a parent peering over his should probably didn’t hurt any.

She looked up form her car, noticing the trick or treater approaching from the street. Exasperated, she opened the car door, locked it manually and headed back for the door. It really would have been smarted to turn off the lights and discourage them, but it was rainy and dark out and she didn’t want to rely on just her flashlight.

It looked like this might be the last of the stragglers though. The kid was all alone, walking up the path with his flashlight, a plastic shopping bag for candy and a costume that looked like it had come straight from leftover clothes in the closet. She stepped inside as he reached the bottom of the steps to her front door, reaching around to grab the bucket of candy she’d laid on the floor. But the time she straightened up, he was in the doorway behind her.

“Trick or treat.” The bandanna underneath his eyes muffled his voice.

“Happy Halloween. That’s a great bandit costume.”

“Thanks. So what were you doing with my car?” The boy laughed, it was oddly low pitched.

“Excuse me? Your car?”

“Just hand me the keys.”

It was then that she noticed the gun peeking out from behind the empty bag of candy.

Based on the book by Graham Greene, The End of the Affair was adapted for opera in 2002 or so by Jake Heggie. It debuted as an opera in 2004. I mention these things as this was my first exposure to modern opera and I’m certain that it colored my perceptions of the work. I’ve performed modern symphonies, particularly Holsts The Planets. They may not be quite as modern as the word would imply, but by operatic standards they are practically newborn.

All caveats aside, I had high hopes for this opera. The story is moving and dramatic, told by one of the secondary characters who is searching for answers. Maurice’s plight is sympathetic and approachable - he’s lost his love to unknown circumstances shortly after their rendezvous and his near death in a bombing raid in London in 1944. He is still tormented by the loss of Sarah, 18 months later and takes advantage of her unhappy husband to get the answers he wants. This plot practically begs for a tragic opera, particularly with all of the characters coming to God at the end.

I was hugely disappointed in the production. Between the tricks of a Broadway musical (highlighting individuals in spotlights during a choral moment), the gratuitous nudity and the utter failure of the music to evoke any emotion whatsoever.

My expectations for opera are fairly simple. The production is mostly people standing around and singing, exceptional productions have less posing, but for the most part it is necessary for the singers to be stationary to provide the support necessary to get the music out properly. It’s nice when there’s more than posing, but not required. Second, an opera should not try to be another type of medium. If I wanted to go see a musical, I would. Likewise with movies. Therefore, nudity is absolutely forbidden.

Nitpicking aside, I was disappointed in the score, which is generally the heart and soul of an operatic production. The atonality, the conflict within the score and the overall lack of direction left me feeling that the opera was fighting with itself. It was as though the music didn’t know what it was supposed to be, let alone where it was going. Scenes that were supposed to be heart wrenching fell flat due to the conflict within the score. There were two scenes in the first act that had clear direction and an emotive content that provoked sympathy. The rest of the showing was an exercise in futility.

After the intermission, I noticed that the seating was much more sparse than it had been when the show started. I was sorely tempted to leave about half way through the second act and kept waiting for it to end. Some of the other operas were slow, but this was the first that I actively disliked. I find it amusing that Speight Jenkins has an article up on the opera site entitled “What Was I Thinking?” I find that this now has a whole new, unintended, meaning for me.