This is the first time since 2019 that Lessons and Carols, a Christmas Eve tradition at Rockefeller Chapel, has been held in person. I remember in 2020 and 2021, it was streamed. This year it was both in person and streamed. I attended, but within a few days had developed my first bout with COVID-19. I held out almost three years.
Rockefeller is always an experience. The snow was a great touch.
I love that the children don’t have to make or buy costumes to be farmyard animals. These days they can wear pajamas. My favorite was the Holstein cow (possibly an anachronism).
After receiving a reprieve from work, J. was able to go to Ravinia with me for A Prairie Home Companion. After a brief stop at Treasure Island for supplies and at Bonjour for sandwiches, he graciously agreed to drive, a boon to my knackered back.
Despite the string of slow traffic south of Addison, we still had the time and freedom to make a quick stop at the Chicago Botanic Garden, where the Rose Garden is in bloom, along with with a number of brides. This (the blooming roses, not the blushing brides) was a rare treat for J. because he usually misses them by a few months (see: Work). After having seen flowers covered by hundreds of honey- and bumblebees one day at Morton Arboretum, I was disappointed to spot only a lone bumblebee, who wouldn’t stay still long enough for me to get a good photo. (It doesn’t help that I can’t lean over very well or very long.) What really made my day, however, were the cedar waxwings I glimpsed in the bushes. I spotted one by its yellow tail tips and got a great look at them as they flitted about. One of our most beautiful birds. J. missed them.
After J. took a fruitless spin around the gift shop, we made it to Ravinia just before the train did, and while he picked up his ticket I parked in a spot near the path that catches some shade (when it’s sunny) and a view of the screens if not the stage.
Shade wasn’t needed on this overcast day, which almost became cool enough to require a light sweater. Thoughtfully, J. rented chairs, which I have to admit is a lot easier than sitting on a blanket on the ground. One day into my fifties, and I’m already making concessions to age. I don’t like this.
As usual during the Chicago-centric show, J. disappeared for long periods, to shop at the gift store and to take photos and video before and during the show. He returned, I suspect, mainly to refuel on Pirate Booty, falafel, cheese, tuna sandwiches, and cookies.
With comfortable weather, good music and storytelling, and an obvious dearth of mosquitoes, I could have asked for no more to fend off the post-birthday blahs.
JT took me to another opera, the April 21st performance of Rossini’s Mosè in Egitto at Chicago Opera Theater.
Altogether, this was quite a different experience from that at Chicago Lyric. Harris Theater is nestled in the bowels of the earth at Millennium Park. Attendees cram onto one relatively small elevator, which fits the parking garage aesthetic of the entry and other public areas. It’s more than just stark and cold, or minimalist. It’s aggressively industrial, the kind of place where you’d expect the scent of leaked oil, disintegrating rubber, and pervasive dampness. Not a place where you’d expect an art like opera to grow and thrive. JT said her husband hates Harris Theater; it’s easy to see why.
Off the elevator and in the theater we descended steep gray steps made of a hard material that suited the garage theme and flanked in spots by flimsy handrails. As the average age here doesn’t seem to be any younger than at Lyric, the purpose of the design seems to be to facilitate vertigo followed by a fall — fortunately, not mine this time. As I looked around, I half expected Blue Man Group to appear.
Baritone-bass Tom Corbeil (Faraone), who is very tall and looked to me to be very young, couldn’t project beyond the first few rows — that’s where we were, and we could hear only just barely. In addition to a weak voice and unvarying volume, Corbeil’s performance suffered from awkward staging exacerbated by his idea that a pharaoh should be stiff, down to his rigid fingers. As his wife Amaltea, mezzo-soprano Kathryn Leemhuis overcame the silliness of the padded gold lamé gown/shroud she’d been stuffed into, to put on a passionate show as the voice of womanly care and reason. Baritone-bass Andrea Concetti (Mosè) and tenor Jorge Prego (Aronne) sang and acted capably, although Prego’s expressions at time reminded me of a young Brent Spiner. To me this seemed a difficult role because it’s superfluous to the plot; he’s overshadowed by the two couples and Mosè. Second banana, fifth wheel — never easy, and the role of Aronne adds little.
The real show stoppers are tenor Taylor Stayton as the Pharoah’s son, Osiride, and soprano (and flaming redhead) Siân Davies as his Israelite lover Elcia. The plot is thin and straightforward, so they end up singing about the same things over and over. Fortunately, both have the vocal power and acting range to stretch the material.
The set, dominated by a slanted glass pyramid sheet, and the costumes lacked flair or imagination, even on a budget, and the staging detracted from the interrelated dramas — Pharoah vs. the God of the Israelites, and the son and his lover vs. his father and her God. Too much was performed straight on or at 180 degrees to the audience (not unlike a first-grade play), random movements were substituted for action, and the ensemble (serving as both Egyptians and Israelites) was too small to project either an Egyptian force or an Israelite throng, making the plot’s very large sticking point (emigration) seem very small. At times, the combined staging and lighting reminded me of Catholic mass — surely not the desired effect. Worse, the staging of the piece’s deaths and the parting of the Red Sea was clumsy, confusing, and on the border of laughable — also surely not the desired effect given the human and personal drama that has gone before.
I couldn’t help noticing one of the ensemble members, partly because he is very tall — as tall as Corbeil — and because, sporting a beard, he’s very handsome. I liked him, too, because he seemed comfortable in his own skin, fluid in his movements, and, despite his height, never calling attention to himself to the detriment of the principals. Through clues in the program and on the Chicago Opera Theater Web site, and my intuition, I figured out he’s baritone-bass Benjamin LeClair. JT looked at his history and declared it impressive for an ensemble member. She speculated that he simply wished to appear in this rare production, even if only as an ensemble member. He also served as cover for Moses. I’d like to hear his voice, especially if he can project better than Corbeil. I’d love to see him again, even if not on stage!
And so, with the deaths duly died and the Israelites on the other side of the Red Sea, we departed, and I was able to get home early enough not to suffer the next day at work — at least I was alert enough to discover the tall and handsome (and too young) Benjamin LeClair.
The week began badly when overnight Sunday I felt restless and unwell and woke up Monday unarguably sick. How or why cooked fresh spinach sometimes but not always seems to have that effect is a mystery. I meant to get to work around noon, but as time passed the symptoms did not. i even considered giving up my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see Mozart’s The Abduction from the Seraglio at Lyric Opera of Chicago. Of course, that would have been insane, and I couldn’t let JT down, so after an internal pep talk I dragged myself to Trattoria No. 10, where I’d intended to eat only a little sorbet, but was tempted by squash-filled ravioli. Good food. Bad timing.
I thought I felt better after dinner, but as the opera progressed my head started to swim, and pain set in among my various innards. I wanted to outlast it, but by the end of the second act, around 9:30 p.m., I had to leave. My sensitivity to light and the pain had overbalanced the novelty and enjoyment of a night out and the experience.
It’s really unfortunate. Last January JT had taken me to my first opera, Doctor Atomic, also at Lyric, and was eager to show me something more traditional but not overwhelming (like Wagner). The Abduction from the Seraglio, with its somewhat campy, comic plot and serious overtones, seemed like a good candidate. And, despite the distraction of my sensitive eyeballs and roiling guts, I did like it — or at least the first two acts.
I had read some reviews that alluded to the political indelicacies of staging Abduction in today’s climate. Most people are savvy enough to understand that Mozart wrote in a particular context at a particular time, and that both are part of western cultural history. Isn’t it a sign of the success of democratic principles that we don’t choose to repress knowledge and expression of the past or its unpleasantnesses? Banning Huckleberry Finn won’t eliminate hundreds of years of slavery or their legacy; reading Huckleberry Finn keeps alive the idea of where we have been and how much we have changed. If we don’t stage Abduction, we may as well not stage most of the Shakespeare canon, or indeed much of anything before, say, 1960. There is something to offend someone in almost everything.
So I begin near the beginning, perhaps my favorite part of the two acts I saw — a number in which a captive of the harem goes missing, and harem overseer Osmin (Italian bass Andrea Silvestrelli) and his eunuchs enthusiastically stuff their pretty young charges into covered baskets as though they were annoying animate objects. It’s sexist. It’s slapstick. And it’s funny. JT and I later agreed that this was one of our favorite scenes. In another that we both liked, the spunky English maid Blonde (soprano Aleksandra Kurzak) preferring the company of the eunuchs to that of the domineering, lust-struck Osmin, tells the would-be master what works for women like her — and it doesn’t include threats or bullying demands.
There are only six characters in Abduction: Pasha Selim (David Steiger, who doesn’t sing), Osmin, Belmonte (tenor Matthew Polenzani) and his Konstanze (soprano Erin Wall), and Pedrillo (tenor Steve Davislim) and his Blonde. To me, the standout character is Osmin, with Blonde a close second. Perhaps the Belmonte role is too stiff for my taste, but he and Konstanze were not that interesting to me. Part of this may be that the comic bits overshadowed the serious, and I never felt (during the first two acts) a genuine threat to the women. Perhaps that was stronger in the third, as was foreshadowed by the darkening of the set as the second act progressed. The tone throughout swung back and forth between comic cultural disconnects and the more serious theme of cultural, social, and sexual gulfs.
Director Chas Rader-Shieber tacked on two bits that didn’t add anything. One is the periodic appearance of the pasha as an old man, watching his scenes as though looking back on a memory. Perhaps it was in the execution, but it was more of a distraction than an enhancement. Perhaps the idea was to make him seem sad or wistful as he looks back on what he has learned or missed. In another scene with Konstanze and Blonde, several women in burqas watch their performance. This seemed to be nothing more than a provocative non sequitur. Abduction would have been better without the additions.
As for the costumes and staging, I’m on the fence. One critic thought the costumes awful (with Osmin and the eunuchs dressed like samurai, according to him), while JT thought they were fabulous. Although perhaps not true to Mozart, I would have liked to have seen less campy, more authentic costumes. The sets weren’t anything special, and the second act took place on one that JT described as like a surreal Rene Magritte painting — nearly solid, almost flat colors, with saturated green grass and blue sky. Its simplicity (and the turning of it mid-act) were almost distracting. If the idea were to evoke an artist and style, perhaps I’d have considered emulating Maxfield Parrish — exotic, erotic, and illustrative. To me, it may have suited the setting and the tone better. But perhaps I’m being too literal.
The singing performances were good if not notable (which is possibly a function of the opera). I felt that the orchestra, conducted by Sir Andrew Davis, overwhelmed the singers in a few places, but JT, who had seen a dress rehearsal a while ago, didn’t notice that. As for Mozart’s composition, in my condition it was difficult enough to focus on the characters, plot, and translation (especially since I had to close my eyes several times against what to me was painful brightness), but I didn’t note his “too many notes” embellishments, although I’m told they were there. Subconsciously, I did keep an ear out for eastern influences, but didn’t hear them. JT said there were some but that they were not of the traditional style I may have been expecting. It was a different time.
Am I a convert to opera now? Hard to say. Doctor Atomic, which was modern, arrhythmic and unmelodious, brooding, and laced with dark humor, embraced enormous themes of life, love, and mass destruction, while The Abduction from the Seraglio seemed almost frivolous in contrast. I need to see more, I suppose.
The last few times I’ve gone to Ravinia with J., we’ve brought a few things, but we didn’t plan ahead. This time I decided to overcome my work-related aversion to planning and to try to have a real picnic, taking into account our mutual desire — and need — to watch what we eat more closely. After a stop at Caffe RoM (Hyatt Center) and three trips to Walgreens and Treasure Island (four blocks away), I packed the following:
Picnic gear
2 blankets (1 has never been enough, I finally realized)
J. brought film, digital, and disposable cameras; the Caribou coffee in an enormous vacuum bottle, an extra shirt, green tea from Italy, gifts, etc.
I had told him that, to make the 2:35 p.m. train, we had to be on a bus by 1 p.m. When I talked to him at 12 noon, I thought he was on his way from Homewood. When he hadn’t shown up by 1 p.m., I decided a cab to the train station was the only way left, so I called to tell him — to find out he was at home. He’d run errands and gone shopping after his dentist’s appointment and was just now ready to leave. Even if he drove off immediately (which he did), and even if we flagged a taxi right away, it would be close, and I tried to manage my anxiety and to resign myself to taking the later train, which wouldn’t give us much time to set up, relax a bit, and hear the show’s off-air preliminaries.
J. appeared at about 1:45 p.m. and had me bring up a gift that needed refrigeration, so we lost a few more minutes. I met him at the back gate, assigned him the heavy cold goods bag, then raced ahead of him toward 55th Street and Hyde Park Boulevard. A cab passed us as I was halfway down the second block — unfortunate timing. As I was looking anxiously down Hyde Park Boulevard, J. labored up and asked from 20 feet away, “What time is the train?” “I told you — 2:35,” “Oh!” he said in the tone of a man who has had an epiphany. “We need to catch a cab in the next five seconds to make it! I thought it was at 3!” Researchers: Take note of a classic case of male homo sapiens selective hearing syndrome. He really has no memory of what I’d said, and I have no idea where the 3 came from.
Before I could get myself too upset, I spotted a taxi, which was piloted by the only cab driver in Chicago who doesn’t drive at breakneck speeds like an FBI fugitive with the agency behind him. He took us down Lake Shore Drive, Roosevelt Road, and Canal Street like a Sunday driver, which feels very strange when you’ve become used to breakneck speeds.
I bypassed the women’s room (long line, no time) and bought tickets. As J. longingly eyed a pretzel counter and mentioned how hungry he was, I reminded him that, if he hadn’t noticed, we were carrying 20 pounds of food. He had to settle for one of the bottles of green tea with dextrose and sugar, which he drank on the train.
We settled on the train with eight or nine minutes to spare. This sound like an ample margin, but the train was already nearly full; it would become standing room only after the north side stops.
This brings me to Metra, which doesn’t offer a Ravinia Park stop for the 2:35 Saturday train. Normally, this would make sense because most Ravinia performances are in the evening. A Prairie Home Companion is an exception, broadcast live from 5 to 7 p.m. CT. As a bureaucracy, Metra is unable to conceive of or adapt to exceptions. The conductor informed those going to Ravinia Park that they would need to get off at Braeside, walk through a parking lot, and take the bike path for “about a block” to the park. So, instead of making the unscheduled stop the occasion would seem to call for, Metra representatives helpfully tell the hundreds (or more) people crammed into the train with their lawn chairs and picnic gear to take a hike. It’s worked this way for years, as far as I can tell, and it makes no more sense now than it did when I first noticed it. Surely somebody besides me thinks this is mindless and inflexible bureaucracy at its best.
At one point I lost J., and vice versa (I stopped mid-trail to look for him in the sea of humanity, but didn’t spot him because he’d stopped at the beginning because he hadn’t noticed me right in front of him). His feet hurt, so he walks slowly; I walk fast to keep my lower back from seizing up, so separation was bound to happen. After I picked up the tickets at Will Call, I found him by the gate, so that too worked out. I had to laugh when one of the employees handed him a plastic trash bag, and J. said, “Thanks, sweet — er, thanks.” (He’s so used to calling me “sweetie” that it’s become a habit.) He’s lucky the man didn’t say, “No problem, darlin’.”
Although a swathe of the lawn was “extremely wet” and off limits, we found a spot in the shade close to the path (my preferences). After an obligatory rest stop, I unpacked, and the feasting began.
Of course, we didn’t eat most of what I’d brought. My intention had been to offer some choices. We didn’t touch the goat cheese, red Leicester, second sandwich (we split the first), yogurt, or Walker’s. Speaking for myself, I was well sated.
Before the show started, I noticed an elderly couple nearby, each with his/her nose buried in a book. It looked as though they hadn’t brought anything else with them, and their reading was intense. I should have checked on them later to see if they’d put the books down after the performance began.
As usual, the off-air warm up began with the singing of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” which was complemented on air by renditions of “America, the Beautiful” and “My Country, ’tis of Thee.” As the countdown segued into the intro, I was amazed by how seamless this always seems to be, given the nature of a live broadcast. Even for radio veterans like the A Prairie Home Companion crew and some of the guests, this must be an anxious moment — fraught not only with the jitters before any performance but worries about the technical and other issues that could derail a live broadcast. I imagine that it’s hard to forget the possibilities.
After noting that the country seems to be headed in a better direction, Keillor stayed away from political humor and references, talking and singing about the “working class” in the pavilion and the “elite” on the lawn. He’s not far off — I spent a lot on food, but it’s not only that — on the lawn you can eat, drink, and be merry. The reward for the holders of the cheap seats is freedom.
You can also wander around. As soon as the show began, J. took off with his camera collection, reappearing just before the intermission. Later, I went up to look at the stage. On the lawn, you do miss some of the humor in the body language, but mostly I’d trade that for the liberty of the lawn experience.
I hope Da Mare does not hear about the “Guy Noir” episode, in which an ad agency tries to change Chicago’s image from the city of the broad shoulders to something a little more Parisian. Da Mare has enough ideas already, some of which we could do without. It was funny, as was the skit about the bewildered groom and the dialogue between the controlling mother and her hapless adult son. Keillor and Jearlyn Steele also paid tribute to Mahalia Jackson.
All through this, the weather was perfect, like the best summer days in western New York that I remember — comfortable and sunny, idyllic in every way.
When we got back, we walked over to Promontory Point. I was irked to see a boy breaking branches (at least two) off a tree while his family ignored him and tried to regale J. with my views about empathy, but the few stars visible in Chicago were out, and so were the fireflies against a backdrop of dark Lake Michigan water, so we sat on the rocks and watched the fireworks at Navy Pier.
And so back to the necessary insanity tomorrow . . .
