A month or two ago, I read a story about a new opera being written using David Cronenberg's revision of "The Fly" as its libretto. As source material goes, this has all the elements of great opera: love, death, sex, violence, murder, genetic mutation. Since Cronenberg wrote and will be directing the stage version of his story of metamorphosis, the emphasis will most likely be on the last three. It makes me wish that he had picked "Videodrome" or "Scanners" instead, but since I wasn't exactly begging, I guess I can't even begin to be choosy.
But all of this comes as good news for those of us who are starved for a gory good production that oozes and squishes satisfactorily. And you can sing along. Which reminds me of the entertainment sensation of the summer, "Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along-Blog," which in turn reinforces the idea that the ability to tell a story or joke is impressive, but doing it while you are singing is awe-inspiring.
Unless, of course, your songs really stink. I grew up in a house where there was a lot of opera being played, especially on Saturdays when my mother listened to the matinees from the Met. It serves me right that, after years of grumbling and complaining and eventually gaining a begrudging appreciation for the art form, my wife would choose to direct her career path into the musical theater. And while I think that our lives of quiet desperation out here on the left coast can be quite tuneful, I will remain relieved that I do not have to sit through a staging of the opera-ized "Inconvenient Truth."