Finally watched Passion from beginning to end today. Very intense and, at times, almost embarrassing. It felt strange to be so uncomfortable watching what, after all, would essentially be classed as a musical. The genre is surely meant to provide entertainment regardless of how meaty the issues it deals with are, and that means the audience isn’t meant to feel badgered.
But Passion isn’t really a musical. It’s a chamber opera, and once that’s understood the nature of its intensity falls into place. This is upsetting in the same way that Britten gets under your skin.
In his commentary on the show Sondheim makes the point that, far from being unable to identify with the central characters, as several critics claimed, we recognise ourselves in Fosca and Giorgio. I think that’s true. It’s difficult to face our awful neediness, and that’s what this piece is all about, I reckon. Hence the embarrassment.
By the way, the music is lovely and the staging of this production – the original Broadway version – is visually ravishing. Blue and red, and their various shades, have never looked quite so gorgeous.
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