Madam Butterfly – Puccini – Welsh National Opera – Milton Keynes Theatre

A wonderful reimagining of Puccini’s Madam Butterfly that will engage both traditionalists and the adventurous.

A 15 year old girl is fooled into a sham marriage to an older man, Pinkerton. The marriage is arranged by men ‘over a glass of whiskey’. The girl, Butterfly, is ostracised by her family and community then left by Pinkerton, the man she fell in love with and believed loved her.

Butterfly becomes a single mother who cannot accept that Pinkerton will not return to her, she refuses several offers of marriage from the rich Yamadori which would release her from her current dilemma (for how long isn’t clear).

Three years later, when Pinkerton learns Butterfly has given him a son, he returns with his new American wife.  Butterfly, (who is by then, remember, only 18) is talked into releasing her son to Pinkerton and his wife. Such is her misery and shame, like her father before her, she chooses to die with honour because she cannot live with honour.

A simple story of a young girl betrayed is told beautifully and powerfully by Welsh National Opera. Isabella Bywater’s set is striking, stark yet beautiful, the opening moment is the story as it emerges from its cocoon. The only room we see in the first act is the bedroom and the bed strewn with petals. The supposed purity of the first act diminishes as Butterfly’s life deteriorates, this is demonstrated brilliantly by the revelation of domestic reality in the kitchen and utility room. The lighting complements the set and helps tell the story subtly. The costumes work wonderfully, they enable the opera to be set in a ‘somewhere’ that isn’t anywhere but could be everywhere. Butterfly’s family and friends are in a blend of Jetson’s flavoured 60’s gear, mostly white but for a few colours which for me represented the many flowers in the garden that Butterfly and Suzuki pick when she thinks Pinkerton is coming back to her. Those who betray and control Butterfly are dressed in clothes that would not look out of place in any current, particularly Western, world.

The original Director, current Director, Designer, Lighting Designer, Movement Director, Head of Costume, Head of Wigs & Make-up are all women, it is good to see a largely female company behind the production, especially when telling a story of a girl so manipulated and betrayed by older men.

Unfortunately, due to illness, Alexia Voulgaridou was unable to play Butterfly last night, but Meeta Raval played the part seamlessly. The music and the voices in this production fill the theatre and the hearts of the audience, it is exquisite.

If you’ve seen Madam Butterfly before, even if you are a traditionalist, you will not be disappointed. If you’ve never seen Madam Butterfly or never been to an opera, then this would be a perfect introduction. Opera is for everyone!

Listening to opera on a recording is fine but hearing it live is something else and not to be missed. For those who fear they won’t understand there are subtle subtitles, but you don’t need them, the story is told so well by the company that you know what is going on without having to understand the language. A special mention for Kezia Bienek who plays Suzuki. She is on stage with Butterfly almost all the time but sings for a fraction of that. When she does sing it is stunning, but she is in the moment, every moment she is on stage. Suzuki carries Butterfly, tries to do the right thing for her, is frustrated by her and for me is the audience’s eyes on the suffering of this broken girl.  

As Lindy Hume states in the programme, ‘the cruel and systemic disempowerment and wreckage of a fragile 15 year-old girl by forces she cannot comprehend feels like watching a trapped animal’, Madam Butterfly was premiered in 1904, over 100 years later the themes are still happening across the globe.

 

Very highly recommended. Welsh National Opera are at Milton Keynes Theatre until Saturday 26th March, Mozart’s Don Giovanni, Janáček’s Jenůfa and Puccini’s Madam Butterfly including pre-performance talks. Book now. 

https://www.atgtickets.com/venues/milton-keynes-theatre/ 

Caz Tricks

23.3.22

The Mad Paddy - Intro

Who is The Mad Paddy? 

She is my mother. I have posted real conversations between Mother and I over the last few years on Facebook, they are amusing, occasionally frustrating (for me) and endearing. Friends often say that I should write a book or a one woman show telling these tales. I reckon a blog is a better option - Small Portions of Paddy. 

Little gems from The Mad Paddy (or Biddy as my dad affectionately called her) is my way forward. There have been times when people have asked if I am making it up - when the source material is as good as this, I don't need to!

As an introduction here are some childhood memories:

Dad never panicked. EVER. The house could be burning down around him and he'd sit there, roll a cigarette and say, 'Biddy, put the kettle on and I'll sort it out in a minute.'

Mother always panics. ALWAYS. If there is nothing to panic about she will be stressed that some impending doom is heading our way. I never phone her before 8.30am or after 9pm as she will assume someone has died.

Sunday Lunch - standard
Mid 70's. Sitting at the table one Sunday lunch time, parents at either end with my two brothers and I spaced far enough not to be able to kick each other as a wind up. Mother would emerge from the kitchen, red faced, harassed and exhausted (she never liked cooking but those are other stories).

She would always tuck the tablecloth into the top of her skirt (classy I know).

Brother W was, as always, bolting his food like it was the last meal he'd ever eat.

He began to choke. 

Mother panicked 'Sacred heart of Jesus he's going to die!', the shock of this exclamation made W breathe inwards (which is clearly not helpful when greedy child has a chunk of roast chicken lodged in its esophagus).

Mother stood up and rushed towards W with the table cloth still firmly tucked into her waistband. Tablecloth with plates of Sunday roast went flying.

Dad, not looking up, lifted his plate with his left hand, walloped W on the back with his right hand thus dislodging said chunk of chicken and said, 'Biddy, you might want to put some more spuds on.' Put his plate back down and carried on eating. 

It was moments like this I decided which parent it would be best to take after and it wasn't the one who tucked the tablecloth into her skirt.

Medical Miracles
Dad was a lorry driver and worked away most of the week, most of the time. 
I was about 12, hadn't felt well for a couple of days, terrible stomach ache. Stomach swelled up overnight, I was in agony. Mother decided I was constipated and made me sit on the WC most of the night forcing myself to 'unblock my bowel'.
It didn't work.
Next morning the GP was called out, this was an emergency, my appendix were about to burst, there was no time to call an ambulance as they wouldn't get from the hospital to our house and back in time (we lived in the arse end of nowhere in Lincolnshire). 
Our neighbour George carried me into his Maxi and laid me gently on the back seat. 
Mother slammed the car door on my head (in a panic of course) almost knocking me out. My lovely waist length hair was shut in the door and trailed all the way from Holbeach to the general in Lynn.
I got to the hospital in time but felt more pain from the bang on the head than the about to burst appendix.

Driving us Mad
Dad decided it would be a good idea to teach mother to drive.
Us kids didn't.
We went out one Sunday in the van, dad has just sprayed it black and was rather proud of his handy-work.
We got to the woods where he thought it might be safe for her to get behind the wheel.
She sat in the driver's seat, dad took her through the basics.
The brothers and I sat on the bench seat dad had put in for us, strangely silent and somewhat apprehensive.
She began to drive. It didn't go well, we began to scream ('she is going to kill us') as she drove towards some trees, 'Brake Biddy, brake' commanded dad. Biddy chose to accelerate.

Suffice to say, paintwork ruined, bumper bumped, tree trunk dented, kids traumatised, parents convinced that Biddy should never, ever, attempt to drive again.

However, this has never stopped her telling many a driver that 'a car is coming!' or stamping on the 'brake' when she is coming to a junction - as a passenger.

So, this has been your introduction to my adorable mother, The Mad Paddy. Why Paddy? Why Biddy? She is Irish, Biddy was dad's pet name for her, Mad Paddy is a name she and I came up with, she likes it and it suits her just fine. Although she is forever telling me not to put stories about her on eBay...

There will be more from me about The Mad Paddy from time to time, either our phone calls, her phone messages or 'live' conversations, I hope you enjoy.