How odd. After Baroque Masterpieces and Aida I stayed up well past bedtime to blog about them, just for the instant gratification of a write up of some of the thoughts buzzing about my brain. So you'd think Manon Lescaut would have me keener than ever to shout a thousand and one things from the rooftops. Instead, I'm happy to let it sit for a bit.
Why? I think the answer is pure contentment. I'll write my reviews soon enough, but for tonight I'm happy to let my critical faculties take a break. I don't want to pull it apart tonight. I'm not trying to suggest that it was mindshatteringly perfect. Just that it worked. Very well indeed. I loved it.
A part of my contentment is the joy of plain old good storytelling, the sort which leaves me mulling over the drama itself far more than the merits and machinery of its staging. A part of it is Puccini. And part of it is the afterglow which follows an evening spent in the company of my luminous favourite soprano: Cheryl Barker, whose singular intelligence, boundless energy and ohthatvoice make her Manon a force to be reckoned with.
For now, c'est tout.
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