Lots of clapping. Some whooping. No binoculars.
Timothée Chalamet spoke for many of us when he said that ‘no one cares’ about opera anymore. Like many other Gen Zs, I dismissed opera as an outdated art form for old, rich, white people with a reputation for elitism, snobbishness, and inaccessibility.
When I saw the Royal Ballet and Opera (RBO) were opening Verdi’s Rigoletto in March, offering tickets for only £13, I decided to go and find out what all the fuss was about. I had no prior understanding of opera, or the story of Rigoletto, and I do not speak Italian. My expectations were low, and my preconceptions were plenty.
This is how it went.
As I walk into the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, I am struck by the volume of people. Clinking glasses, glitzy gowns, and ‘small bites’ float around under the Victorian glass roof ahead of tonight’s performance.
I glance around anxiously, looking for a place to observe from invisibly. Having heard the opera is a sophisticated occasion, I am wearing a red dress and heels that haven’t seen the light of day since my school graduation. What’s more, I’m starting to regret it. I feel out of place, and the heels don’t make for good escape wear.
A drink wouldn’t go amiss. I approach the bar and ask how much the cheapest glass of champagne is. Just then, my friend, wearing baggy light-wash jeans, silver pumps, and a hoodie, jumps on me from behind. Why hadn’t I thought to dress like that?
“£18”.
We go for two glasses of tap water.
I feel a bit like a bull in a China shop, not knowing where to show my ticket or what all the ringing bells mean. However, now with a partner in crime, I try to relax into the atmosphere, and we find our seats with just enough time to gawp at the extravagance of the auditorium.
Gold intricate gilding, red velvet seats, intricate balustrades, heavy embroidered stage curtains and an ornate frieze of Queen Elizabeth above the stage.
At £13 a ticket, our seats were not only in the heavens, but also to the left of some giant spotlights that obscured our view of the top of the set.
“Great”, I think. I try to find a comfy position in preparation for the next three hours of yodelling men. This is going to be a long night.
To my surprise, as the lights drop and the orchestra strikes up, I feel a little wave of unexpected excitement. The audience hushes, and there is drama in the air.
I may not be able to see the whole set, but my bird’s eye view of the orchestra is fantastic, and I am enthralled by the conductor’s energy.
When the lights came up for the interval, I realised I wasn’t the only twenty-something in the cheap seats. Further down my row with a better view, 24-year-old Izzy Scicluna, a civil engineer from Surrey, had also bagged a £13 ticket.
It was her first time too.
“I wanted to treat myself. I saw cheap tickets,” she said. Contrary to my research, which cited elitism as the main reason for young people being deterred by opera, Izzy was drawn by the glamour of it all: “I like the environment,” she says. “It’s a nice fancy night out!”
During the interval, she explains: “My grandma never had a lot of money, and she always talked about having the seat right at the back of the theatre. So, I thought I’d do after my grandma. I’ve really been enjoying myself.” Hearing Izzy say this, I am starting to think I have been unduly cynical in my attitude towards opera.
However, accessibility is still a concern for many. Izzy’s friend Ben skipped the night, worried he wouldn’t understand the Italian plot. But he needn’t have worried — the surtitles floating above the stage translated everything.
Connie Beale, a 26-year-old acting agent who had been dragged along, felt the same relief: “When the subs came, I was thinking thank goodness. I obviously don’t know what’s going on in Italian.”
It took some acclimatising to read the surtitles while simultaneously watching the action on stage, but as I settled into the performance, I got used to them.
Diversity had been another concern of mine. But again, I was pleasantly surprised. The cast was refreshingly diverse, including performers from a range of genders, ages, and skin colours. “I don’t feel it’s intimidating,” says Connie. “Everyone’s on their own vibe, enjoying themselves. It’s just quite nice.”
The costumes and choreography were highlights. A stage of performers dressed in elaborate period costume, dancing in pairs and the Duke of Mantua wearing a giant ox-skull was a mesmerising opening scene.
Later, more than 20 men sat around The Count smoking cigarettes in sync, responding to his movements, creating a dramatic effect that was at once gripping and stirring.
As the spectacle unfolded, I found myself appreciating the art form. It is impressive; performers have extraordinary stamina and talent. The costume and stage direction were exceptional, and the experience of seeing a 176-year-old story brought to life was wonderful.
There was plenty of clapping, some whooping, and no binoculars. It just didn’t feel as pretentious as I had anticipated.
It occurred to me during the performance that my own prejudice had prevented me from enjoying the experience to begin with, and that any preconceptions had been disproportionately informed by others, many of whom had never been to the opera themselves.
Chalamet might think no one cares about opera anymore, but looking around at the packed seats, he’s clearly wrong. You don’t need an £18 glass of champagne or a vintage gown to belong at the Royal Opera House.
At £13, it’s cheaper than a night out in Soho — you just have to be willing to trade a bit of legroom, spare around three hours of your week and check your preconceptions at the cloakroom.
Featured image by Hebe Ide.