Los Angeles Opera Review: ‘Madame Butterfly’ from a Hollywood Perspective

Cio Cio San, aka Madame Butterfly, first captured hearts in 1898 in a short story written by an American lawyer, then in a Broadway play two years later, before becoming immortalized in Puccini’s Italian opera in 1904. Cinema wasn’t far behind. By 1932, we had three films: a dreadful 1915 silent film starring America’s sweetheart Mary Pickford; Fritz Lang’s frighteningly effective 1919 silent film, “Harakiri”; and in 1932, the first slightly ridiculous talkie starring a captivating Sylvia Sidney and the debonair young up-and-coming Cary Grant.

None of these films feature an Asian. Indeed, in the 1930s, Hollywood’s Hays Code included miscegenation among its prohibitions. In adapting “Madame Butterfly” to the 1930s Hollywood set where Puccini’s opera was filmed, the Los Angeles Opera made the Hays prohibition an urgent one. Five of the six main Japanese characters are Asian, and an essay in the program booklet calls for eliminating the “white gaze,” making the film an old-time Hollywood fantasy.

The production is an import from Madrid, where it was created 24 years ago by the Uruguayan-born Spanish director Mario Gas for the Teatro Real. It is distinguished by stunningly colorful kimonos designed by Franca Squarciapino, seductive lighting adapted for Los Angeles by Pablo Santiago and elegant, lyrical direction by music director James Conlon. Yet none of it is particularly intended to be noticed.

I don’t know how many times I’ve seen Madame Butterfly on stage, and I think I’ve seen all the films in the series. I’ve been fascinated by the opera (especially Robert Wilson’s production at the Los Angeles Opera in 2004). It’s also bored me, infuriated me, left me cold, or deeply moved. But in all cases, I knew how to watch it. You watch the stage. Or do you watch the screen?

In Gas’s production, you watch both, which can take some getting used to. The late Ezio Frigerio’s impressive set is packed with cameramen and all the other tasks of filming. But the film’s set is inexplicable: a structure of steel columns that, for no particular reason, rotates with an ocean painted in the background.

Above the colorful stage is a small screen that appears to be projecting the black-and-white film being shot, with subtitles underneath. It mostly reveals close-ups of the singers, often in the form of cinematic cameos like those seen in old silent films. Watching the actual set, the supposed filming, is not interesting. It is on this screen that I finally understand, after one act, what one is supposed to be watching. One then has an enriched theatrical experience by seeing the film and knowing what went into making it.

What happens is anachronism upon anachronism. On the set, with the actors following the process, we witness reality. On the screen, we have a melodrama, it is the artificiality that becomes evident. But then, we have more reality with a live “soundtrack”. And more artificiality. The pit is deep, which gives a thin sound to the orchestra. The stage has few reflective surfaces, which gives a thin sound to the singers. The synchronization of the voices is faulty in the film, which is another obstacle.

Veteran Korean soprano Karah Son, Cio Cio San, compensated by forcing. Her vibrato is ample. She is a seasoned Butterfly, having sung it hundreds of times. Her vocal style is Italianate, as, in this production, is her emotional acting. Her voice quieted in the second act, and she brought to “Un bel di” an old-fashioned feeling, its anticipation of a beautiful day as hopelessly unreal as everything else on stage. At that point, she could have been an opera singer with all the comfortable, powerful, overdone mannerisms of the 1930s.

Tenor Jonathan Tetelman’s Pinkerton is a bit stiffer, but perhaps intentionally so. There’s no real connection between the lovers, but that may have been intentional, given that the callous American sailor considers marrying a geisha while on leave in Nagasaki a farce. Sex is another point that shouldn’t be overlooked in The Hays Code.

Much is disturbing. Now an “American” bride, Butterfly trades her kimono for a Western dress and can behave like a giddy 1930s starlet. The deepest characters in this production are her maid, Suzuki, and Sharpless, the American consul. In these roles, Hyona Kim brings a captivating intensity that anchors Butterfly, while Michael Sumuel proves a brilliant counterbalance to Pinkerton’s superficiality.

Rodell Aure Rosel, as the slimy marriage broker Goro, and Wei Wu, as the angry monk Bonze, were both full of character in a silent-movie way.

What does all this mean? The Teatro Real has finished this production, replacing it with a dark and gripping one, broadcast live in July. It reflects the repugnance of sex tourism in today’s Nagasaki, the last form of the white gaze.

By comparison, Gas’s nearly quarter-century-old output seems truly antiquated. But “Butterfly” has endured by reflecting the blindness of its time, by reminding us of our own. It has been examined from every angle, in a quest for transcendence. This production may be an invention. The acting is close to spectacle. The singing is not always illuminating. Yet it is more than a film.

The Los Angeles Opera has drawn an unusually enthusiastic audience, and Saturday night was no exception. The applause was deafening. People love screens and close-ups, which make binoculars obsolete. The screen makes it impossible to look away, forcing you to look, to think, to adjust your gaze in ways you might not otherwise. The unreal somehow becomes real.

Whether it deserves it is debatable, but the LA Opera is thought-provoking and seems to have another ticket up its sleeve.