Fit for a Queen (or How Jennie Kicked Hamlet's Butt)

I rarely attend opera these days, but when the opportunity arose to be in NYC while Jennie was engaged to perform in Ambroise Thomas' Hamlet, I scrambled to make reservations, order tickets and turn in my coins in order to get my sorry ass to my old stomping grounds. Since arriving in Los Angeles 7 years ago, I’ve found my opera experiences to be simply ok; nothing great, an occasional good performance here or there. As the night approached, I had a feeling this was going to be a good experience. Natalie Dessay came to her senses and thankfully cancelled the entire run as Ophelia, so good luck was on my side. I didn’t care who sang Ophelia because I was there to see our mezzo as Gertrude. For me, this would be the first time I’d seen her in a staged role in almost 8 years. I was overdue.

view from our seats

Since I suffer from pre-movie and opera jitters, we arrived at the Met extra early to use the facilities and wander around our old home-away-from-home. The buzz was good. We got to our seats, saw the same old, wrinkly faces I saw 7 years ago and was comforted by the Met’s garish gold leaf ceilings, chandeliers and tightly fit seats.

The overture begins and Gertrude is the first character we see walk across the foot of the stage. Jennie not just walks, but manages to capture everything her character will endure, all in a few regal steps and one quick, heartbreaking stare. This alone should win her an opera Oscar. Her receding hairline wig that was plastered over the papers a week before was gone and she was beauty personified, along with some major cleavage.

Gertrude and cleavage

I have no problem saying Jennifer kicked-ass, old school, as Gertrude. She was completely in character and on some other plane every moment she was onstage. Every stare, every movement had meaning. Her singing came from a deep place, easily audible from our modest seats and she seemed to be the only singer whose French diction and French style was near perfect. She sank her teeth into every word and we hung on every one. The confrontation scene was reminiscent of The Miracle Worker dinner fight where Anne Bancroft and Patty Duke fling themselves across the room. It was riveting and I was frozen on the edge of my seat.

Jennifer Larmore as Gertrude encompassed all that has been missing in opera these days. This was grand opera and her performance was a tour-de-force; completely over-the-top, exaggerated and deeply moving. My partner turned to me during the curtain-call and asked, “Do you know how good she was?” Um, yes…I was happy to see others in the audience and in the press agreed. I hope the Met understands what they had in her Gertrude. The few naysayers who still refuse to see what the fuss is all about can simply go fuck themselves. I’ll be watching the broadcast and hopefully buy the DVD and in years to come will be thankful this artist will have endured the test of time. I am one happy camper.

curtain call