Un Bel Di

Tutto questo avverrà
Te lo prometto.
Tienta la tua paura
io con sicura fede l’aspetto.

I tend to prefer symphonic and chamber music to opera, but my stack of CDs at home includes a collection of Puccini arias. I was listening to it one night last summer, when my daughter came into the room. She smiled at me and launched into a nice bit of diva mimicry.

My daughter is an unpretentious nine year-old. She likes to listen to Hilary Duff and Kelly Clarkson. Her diva send-up made me laugh.

When she was finished, however, she didn’t leave the room, but sat down to read her book. As the music played on, one song in particular seemed to catch her attention. It was “Un bel di, vedremo,” the famous aria from Madama Butterfly. Something in Kiri Te Kanawa’s voice made her look up and listen. Afterward, she asked me what the song was about and I told her as much as I knew of the story.

A few days later, I was browsing the Web and decided to check the Los Angeles Opera page. There it was in black and white – Madama Butterfly would play on a series of dates in January and February. Impulsively, I called the box office number listed on the page and purchased four tickets for a Sunday matinee in mid-February.

As the date got closer, I began to have second thoughts. Was it wise to try to impose three hours of high-decibel Italian on a nine year-old? Would she find the somber tragedy of Butterfly appealing…or even comprehensible? My intention was to encourage my daughter’s interest in a great art form, but was this too much too soon? Could it backfire?

My misgivings increased when I learned that the staging was to be avant-garde and very austere. There would be no bright kimonos, no ornate wigs, no starched Navy whites. Instead, the cast would be draped very plainly in black, white or gray. In place of naturalistic movement, action would be slow and stylized, similar to the movements in a Noh play. The sets would be as simple as a Japanese rock garden.

Robert Wilson, who created this approach to Madama Butterfly to great critical acclaim in 1992, explained his objective this way:

I have conceived a décor of extreme simplicity because the music is rich and moving enough… I just want to offer a space in which the music can unfold. It is a kind of music that provokes in me an emotion that is almost unbearable.

Wilson’s approach intrigued me, but made me even more concerned that my daughter would not find the experience engaging.

On my way home from work one night a few weeks ago I stopped at the Central Library and found a book I thought would help – it was the libretto to Madama Butterfly appealingly illustrated in a style reminiscent of Japanese prints. My daughter read it and responded enthusiastically. “I can’t wait ‘til Sunday,” she told me early in the week of our engagement. I began to feel more optimistic.

The day of the performance arrived warm and bright. We dressed up – my daughter was pretty in pink cotton and white dress shoes. Her best friend joined us and the four of us – my wife and I, our daughter and her friend -- made it to the Music Center about 40 minutes before the scheduled start.

We took a few snapshots at a Los Angeles landmark for which my daughter and I share a special fondness -- the Jacques Lipchitz-designed “Peace on Earth” sculpture that sits in the courtyard in front of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. It is surrounded by the kind of fountain that you can get very close to on a hot summer day – an expanse of vertical jets, with water streaming up from multiple points on the courtyard surface. The day of the opera, however, we just looked and kept a safe distance.

The courtyard was full and the mood festive. It was very much an older crowd. We sat on a low wall west of the fountain next to a father and his two daughters. One looked to be in her early teens, the other about the same age as my daughter and her friend. I tried to catch the father’s eye to share a smile of solidarity and encouragement, but he was preoccupied and didn’t see me.

I saw only a handful of children all afternoon.

We drifted into the Pavilion, rode the elevator up to Balcony A and found our seats. The hall filled up quickly. The anticipatory buzz grew louder. At last, the lights dimmed and the audience grew quiet. The curtain rose and the musical drama began to unfold with great vividness and intensity.

The story of “Madama Butterfly” is both familiar and simple. The setting is the Japanese port of Nagasaki, circa 1900. An American naval officer on temporary assignment there takes a young geisha as a wife. He finds her attractive and beguiling, but views their union as a short-term expedient.

The geisha-wife – “Butterfly” or Cio-Cio San – is motivated by a sharply different set of feelings. She has fallen in love and throws herself into the marriage with complete abandon. She even adopts her husband’s religion and rejects her own, only to be renounced by her family.

Pinkerton, the naval officer, is reassigned and leaves Nagasaki and Cio-Cio San behind. Three years later, his ship reappears in the harbor and the tragedy rapidly mounts to a climax. In the end, sincerity is cruelly betrayed, with devastating results.

Puccini’s score is both extraordinary and profoundly emotional – Robert Wilson has his finger on something true when he calls its beauty “almost unbearable.” Cast and orchestra did the opera justice in the performance we saw, particularly Patricia Racette, the New Hampshire-born, Texas-educated soprano who sang Cio-Cio San with clarity and warmth. I had mixed feelings about the Robert Wilson staging – I liked the simplicity of set and costume, but disliked the exaggeration and artificiality of the “Noh”-like movements.

Although enraptured by the spectacle unfolding on the stage, I managed an occasional glance at my daughter in the seat next to me. Early on, I got an indication that our reading the libretto together had been a good idea. In the first act, Pinkerton sings of the charm of a butterfly’s wings, then casually observes how easily they are crushed. As his words in translation flitted across the screen at the top of the stage, my daughter nudged me with her elbow, then flashed me a look that said, “What a creep!” Then she leaned her head against my shoulder.

Later on, to be sure, things got wearying for her and her friend. Midway through the second act, I caught them both busily engaged in braiding and re-braiding strands of hair. But the climactic scenes, so full of drama and pathos, recaptured their attention. The entire audience was rapt during the penultimate scene, as Cio-Cio San’s faithful maid Suzuki learned the harsh truth with her mistress offstage. When Butterfly’s voice was heard rising up from the wings, still full of hope and anticipation, the audience stirred with a palpable shudder, all too aware of what was to come.

The ending was simple and direct and delivered with crashing chords. The lights came on and the illusion was broken. The cast returned to the stage for a thundering ovation from the matinee crowd. When it ended, we stood and stretched. The time had flown by for me. I wanted more.

Leaving, we spurned the elevator and joined the crowds marching down the great staircase with its view of the famous chandeliers that grace the Chandler mezzanine. My daughter and her friend drew admiring looks and smiles. An elderly man asked them how they liked the show, but I didn’t quite catch their reply.

Outside, it was still light and warm. I took my daughter’s hand as we prepared to cross the street. “How did you like the soprano,” I said, “the one who played Butterfly?” Her eyes took on a mischievous look. “She was OK,” she replied, “but I think Hilary Duff is a better singer.”

We laughed together.

Photo of Patricia Racette as Cio-Cio San by Robert Millard, Los Angeles Opera.