Earlier this month, George Osborne, Vince Cable and Jeremy Hunt were spotted in a Royal Opera House box surveying the country's most expensive artistic patrimony. What they thought - and how they and the Arts Council might wield their axe - will change the musical landscape of Britain forever.
Fairy tales are fear tales really, the sweetening (and sharpening) of every child’s worst nightmares, emotions long buried in adulthood but very easily tapped back into with good theatre productions. The Witch in Hansel and Gretel should be the queen of the team of the ogres who lurk in forests or homes waiting to kill children, along with lieutenants the Wolf in Red Riding Hood, Snow White’s wicked stepmother and Carabosse in The Sleeping Beauty.
Now that The X Factor's finally over, can we please get back to heaping opprobrium on the only Wagner that really deserves it? In the coming year opera houses around the world will be deciding whether to temporarily bankrupt themselves in 2013 to celebrate the composer's centenary. Opera Australia have announced a £10 million Ring Cycle. LA Opera and the Met are in the middle of new bank-busting cycles (£20 million and £15 million respectively).
The double standards in opera are amazing. If heldentenor Johan Botha - a man the size of a small Eastern European country - had been a woman, he would have been refused re-entry to the stage till he'd had a gastric band fitted. But his size was the least of our worries. For those of us who vainly cling to the idea of opera as a viable dramatic art form, Botha's return to Covent Garden as Tannhäuser was one of the most profoundly depressing experiences of my life.
It takes a diva to play a diva. The death of Adrienne Lecouvreur, great Comédie Française actress beloved of Voltaire, spawned legends and a well-made French play, an appropriate vehicle for the likes of Sarah Bernhardt and Eleonora Duse. Francesco Cilea's tender lyric dramatisation, the greatest Puccini opera that composer didn’t write and a piece of perfumed melodrama not much in favour recently, turned tragic muse Melpomene into her singing sister Polyhymnia. After Tebaldi, Freni and Sutherland, who better to play her than the ultimate prima donna of our time, Angela Gheorghiu?
It takes a diva to play a diva. The death of Adrienne Lecouvreur, great Comédie Française actress beloved of Voltaire, spawned legends and a well-made French play, an appropriate vehicle for the likes of Sarah Bernhardt and Eleonora Duse. Francesco Cilea's tender lyric dramatisation, the greatest Puccini opera that composer didn’t write and a piece of perfumed melodrama not much in favour recently, turned tragic muse Melpomene into her singing sister Polyhymnia. After Tebaldi, Freni and Sutherland, who better to play her than the ultimate prima donna of our time, Angela Gheorghiu?
We sophisticates aren't really meant to enjoy Gounod. His simple 19th-century brew - five parts sentimentality, one part religiosity - isn't supposed to wash with modern palettes that crave layers of meaning, irony and social context. The ENO's solution last month was to present a version of Gounod's Faust that had these elements filled in. It flopped.
Joan Sutherland’s was the voice of my childhood, the voice on the record-player when my mother, a coloratura soprano, practised her Lucia and Traviata. It was a clear and ravishingly carefree sound, as fluid as a stream bubbling in sunlight, effortlessly scintillating in the highest registers, a voice that almost sounded regretful as it descended to earth.
One after the other they came. Stunning aria after stunning aria. Affecting in their harmonies, infectious in their rhythms, arresting in their textures, vivid in their melodies. The Royal Opera had taken a mighty gamble with Agostino Steffani's 300-year-old Niobe, Regina di Tebe, a forgotten opera by a forgotten composer. But they were completely right to do so. For Niobe is a masterpiece. And last night's performance was a triumph.
Anticipating revivals of productions that were hardly vivacious in the first place, you can always find reasons to hope. Perhaps there'll be a dazzling house debut. Maybe someone, preferably the revival director, will bring a more focused individual zest to the kind of rough character sketches Jonathan Miller leaves flailing around his beautifully conceived historic locales. Not on this occasion.