Before all the so-called "wintry mix" (cute little name for all manner of shitty weather, ain't it?), I had the urge to go check out a movie. Normally, my tastes run more toward art-house features that gross about as much money as Shrek II does in an hour. However, our movie critic Matt Brunson had recommended a movie to me recently called In Good Company. "So who's in it?", I asked. "Topher Grace," he said. "Go on." "Dennis Quaid." "Go on." "Scarlett Johansson." "Ummmm...so where's it playing?"
As Matt so ably mentioned in his review, it's refreshing to see a movie that makes the so-called "common guy" a hero. Dennis Quaid has a good family, loves his wife, and loves his daughter (here played by Johansson. How hard could that be?). He fights against the bloodless, cutthroat corporate climate of today, and if he ultimately doesn't "win," he at least escapes with his dignity. Again, very subtle, but suitably moving. Not sure about you, but it's a little easier for me to identify with a Dennis Quaid type than the freaking Rock. Then again, you're talking about a guy who saw Quaid in The Night The Lights Went Out in Georgia in the theater. Yes, I'm that old. And no, my critical faculties hadn't yet formed at that point.
Sunday afternoon, I headed to the Blumenthal PAC's Belk Theatre to catch the Camille Saint-Saens opera adaptation of Samson and Delilah. I was excited for two reasons: for one, I had never seen an opera sung in French. Secondly, I'd have something to write about!Wow. What a fun time. I won't bore you with the story here, as those readers who are Christian or Jewish probably already know the particulars, and those who aren't might not give a whit. (Oh what the hell: Samson protects the Hebrews, falls for the charms of the wily Delilah, forgets about the Hebrews, gets his hair cut and loses his power, is placed in bondage by another group, prays to God for help, and kills his captors in their shrine with a few well-placed falling columns. Good stuff, right? The Rock oughta look into an adaptation.)
Again, well done: beautiful sets, powerful singing, and wonderful dance interludes from the Moving Poets camp.
Unfortunately, I seem to attract bad theatergoers like nobody since the guy who wrote Cats. The couple to the immediate right of me could not stop laughing when Samson would launch into his burly tenor. I mean, could barely control themselves! Had they never seen an opera before? Were they expecting Trick Daddy? To boot, both would check their cellphone every 10 minutes. Granted, their phones were on silent, but when you're watching Samson single-handedly slay an army and all of a sudden you see an X-Files-like green glow emanating from the seat beside you, you look.
Through no fault of the fine folks at Opera Carolina, I also had the indignity of being seated smack dab in the middle of the fur-coat section. I'm not hardcore about fur-wearers, but when your flowing mink keeps blowing in the breeze right in front of me, you come perilously close to getting a lecture on how we have this great new concept called fibers! Why is it that the richer people get, the more they prefer dressing like Cro-Magnons?
Finally: talking. Even though some people on stage are loudly singing in French, a language you don't understand, it is not OK to talk during an opera. Those sitting around you speak English, and if you don't shut the hell up, they'll soon be showering you with a little verbalized Francais of their own — vous comprenez?