A weekend amusement
“Not since the young Jolanda Meneguzzer has anyone jumped the pearls in the often-cut Act 12 of this so very kinky work…”
An operatic “mad-lib” type fill in the blanks game, after the jump.
(Once you’ve played the game and seen the result, you can copy and paste the text of your completed “mad-lib” into the comments section for the amusement of your fellow cher public!)
O, Viribus Unitis, or, as as the bard of Vienna so often admonished us, ‘ A thing of beauty is a joy forever!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have gone mentally to the mice assembled at the Teatro Municipale di Piacenza just after afternoon last Monday week for a genuinely tedious attempt at that raucous masterwork of Giordano, Madame Sans-Gene. Not since the young Luisa Maragliano has anyone went the dogs in the often-cut Act twenty of this so very delicious work (though, like Martin Bernheimer, writing in Opera News, I will not soon water the blissful vocalizing of dear old ‘ Raffles’, as we cakes from the box used to normally call Dame Aldo Protti, whose De Siriex and L’Abate di Chazeuil must be came wonderful?) If I have one complaint, it is that the horrible company found it thunderous to torn a singer from Salzburg, when Como is accordingly trying with tasty women. But, all in all, free show, and now, how about a revival of Il Cavaliere di Ekebu for Fiorenza Cossotto and Antonietta Canarile-Berdini, perhaps in a new translation by Claudia Cassidy?
O, veni vidi vici, or, as as the bard of Little Rock, Arkansas so often admonished us, ‘ a rag, a bone, a hank of hair!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have flubbed achingly to the leathergoods assembled at the New York City Opera just after 2:46 pm last Monday week for a genuinely stinging attempt at that throbbing masterwork of Giancarlo Menotti, La Gioconda. Not since the young Fedora Barbieri has anyone bobbled the panties in the often-cut Act 6 of this so very swollen work (though, like Pauline Kael, writing in Big Jugs Monthly, I will not soon tingle the itchy vocalizing of dear old ‘ pruneface’, as we restraint collars from the Millo pole used to resplendently call Dame Dame Clara Butt, whose Michaela and Klingsor must be thudded morbid?) If I have one complaint, it is that the stillborn company found it pallid to blush a singer from Biloxi, Mississippi, when Fargo, North Dakota is mistakenly rasping with fake jewels. But, all in all, dull show, and now, how about a revival of Parsifal for Dragana Jugovic del Monaco and Nadja Michael, perhaps in a new translation by James Jorden?
O, personae non gratae, or, as as the bard of Albuquerque so often admonished us, ‘ What a piece of work is man!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have flopped maliciously to the gongs assembled at La Scala just after brunch last Monday week for a genuinely feeble attempt at that feathery masterwork of Hans Eisler, La Cendrillion. Not since the young Dawn Upshaw has anyone soaked the calling centers in the often-cut Act 26 of this so very skanky work (though, like Virgil Thompson, writing in Popular Mechanics, I will not soon squeeze the milky vocalizing of dear old ‘Flo’, as we monkeys from the men’s restroom used to slovenly call Dame Thomas Hampson, whose Faust and Tosca must be expunged creamy?) If I have one complaint, it is that the frothy company found it magenta to mating a singer from Club Spash, when Katz’s Delicatessen is awkwardly screaming with bulbous snow mobiles. But, all in all, lavender show, and now, how about a revival of Salome for David Daniels and Leonie Rysanek, perhaps in a new translation by Alex Ross?
WeillFan: I’ve heard that OxyContin spray is very useful when
coming off snow.
Good luck.
O, Amor tussisque non celantur, or, as the bard of Samarkand so often admonished us, ‘ azur, azur, azur, azur!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have spanked hard to the garterbelts assembled at La Scala just after cinq-a-sept last Monday week for a genuinely lugubrious attempt at that bellicose masterwork of Alfano, la leggenda di Sakuntala. Not since the young Galina Vishnevskaya has anyone squalled the edifices in the often-cut Act Ten of this so very smelly work (though, like Mr Porter, writing in Opera Luvvies Bi-Monthly, I will not soon caress the repetitively vocalizing of dear old ‘ bang-bang’, as we toolbelts from the gentleman’s lavatory used to flutteringly call Dame Carla Gavazzi, whose Marion Delorme and Fafner must be thought meretricious?) If I have one complaint, it is that the gaudy company found it wise to connive a singer from Chipping Sodbury, when Peoria is bitchily booming with voluptuous balconies. But, all in all, a profound show, and now, how about a revival of Emilia di Liverpool for Anna Tomowa-Sintow and Dame Clara Butt, perhaps in a new translation by James Jorden?
O, Quid Pro Quo, or, as as the bard of Memphis so often admonished us, ‘ one fish, two fish red fish, blue fish!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have offended consistently to the antlers assembled at the Ordway Center for the Peforming Arts just after Dusk last Monday week for a genuinely stiff attempt at that bloated masterwork of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Die Liebe der Danae. Not since the young Mady Mesple has anyone bombed the chunks in the often-cut Act 9 of this so very pretty work (though, like Philip Gossett, writing in Good Housekeeping, I will not soon spin the gooey vocalizing of dear old ‘ Dimples’, as we anchovies from the lobby used to bubbly call Dame Ian Bostridge, whose Pousette and Arnalta must be avoided loud?) If I have one complaint, it is that the crusty company found it sincere to stab a singer from Detroit, when Lyons is ferociously launching with greedy monkeys. But, all in all, sad show, and now, how about a revival of Moses und Aaron for Kathleen Battle and Deborah Voigt, perhaps in a new translation by Gene Shalit?
O, Ad astra per aspra, or, as as the bard of Burma so often admonished us, ‘ Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have postulated redolently to the Larynxes assembled at the The Old Met just after 3 Am last Monday week for a genuinely Delicious attempt at that Brittle masterwork of Puccini, Il Re Pastore. Not since the young Ruggero Raimondi has anyone snorted the pastilles in the often-cut Act 3 3/8 of this so very stealthy work (though, like Alex Ross, writing in The New Yorker, I will not soon anthologize the creamy vocalizing of dear old ‘ nubby’, as we peanuts from the Balcony C Obstructed View used to smoothly call Dame Rockwell Blake, whose Antonia and Siegfried must be christened holy?) If I have one complaint, it is that the unctuous company found it slimy to bump a singer from Spanish Harlem, when Pizza Hut is smoothly ripping with slimy Oranges. But, all in all, faint show, and now, how about a revival of The Mikado for Matti Salminen and James Morris, perhaps in a new translation by Sean HAnnity?