I have just discovered that I am not an opera buff. Earlier tonight provided definitive proof. Before this night, I was unready to make a final judgment, as my only previous experience of opera was a piece set in the Scottish highlands, but with all characters singing in Italian. This juxtaposition was enjoyably odd, but the opera as a whole was not really my thing. However, as I suspected that it was also not a piece that could be considered part of the opera canon, I decided to suspend judgment until I had experienced some of the classic shit. So tonight, I took up an invitation to go and see Madama Butterfly, an opera that is widely regarded as some of the toppest and most classic shit the artform can offer. And yet...bleh? Despite its unexpected presentation of the indifferent cruelty of pleasure-seeking American Imperialism, the opera did not strike me in the gut with any of the passion and tragedy for which it is renowned. It seemed rather melodramatic, overwrought, and, though the characters clearly made a show of feeling the tragic import of their actions, I myself did not. Their hand-wrigning at the inevitability of dashed hopes and a crowning tragedy seemed a sham. It seemed to be a piece that made an attempt at pathos, but it was not pathetic. Rather, it was bathetic. At least, I think it was, but I'll just take a moment to look up the meaning of that word... Ah yes. Bathos is defined as "insincere pathos; sentimentality". I think that is precisely the sensiblility of Madama Butterfly. And thus, considering that this opera is one of the darlings of the artform, I would have to say that even opera that is held in high regard is not my bag, baby. Oh, and tonight also prompted the rude discovery that the only joy I ever took from opera, ie. the ludicrousness of Japanese or Scottish characters singing in Italian, isn't even a choice (which I thought it was) made by writers in an effort to be playful. It is simply the modus operandi of the artform. Shucks to that. The set was lovely though, as was the way Butterfly's garments moved. And one scene which revealed her naive hopefulness in the face of cold desertion was endearing. But then the opera swung into overwrought mode again. So, alas.