AS EVERYONE KNOWS, opera’s purpose is to convey — at irksome length — unwanted data about things like sex-worker healthcare in nineteenth-century Paris, the untaxing dilemmas of pre-Revolutionary grandees (boring afternoon: hmm, shoot stuff, or shag/whip the servants), pre-modern wars between shithole countries, and a bunch of Italians bickering probably about whether their dough-based food has been undercooked in the manner indicated.
We should be grateful that directors have troubled themselves to introduce elements of relevancy. Taking pity on the benighted masses who approach on their, guru, ”, they bestow their wisdom, gleaned from a lifetime’s studying the mystic scriptures of the and the .
