Into the mystic

Robert Thicknesse

ATTENTIVE READERS WILL HAVE noticed that this column has spookily become the nerve-centre of the British opera world: like Richard Burton in The Medusa Touch, I merely have to dream up some new batshit hell and it instantly comes to pass. Of course it was all meant as a laugh, not a blueprint — still, hey ho, I’d say a fee is in order. All that rumpus about Nixon in China, Madama Butterfly, women, homosexuals, cancellation — here, it was all joshingly here … then it went and happened. The only teeny flaw in the crystal ball to date was the vision of Gavin Williamson, rather than Nadine Dorries, overseeing the looming hecatomb, but even crystal balls know you can try to be too funny. Opera’s latest deathwish-fulfilment arises from…

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The Critic (Digital) - 1 Issue, December 2021

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