As many have heard by now, last night's gala opening of the Metropolitan Opera was interrupted by a number of protesters inside the house. They were angered by the Met's staging of Tchiakovsky's Eugene Onegin with soprano Anna Netrebko and conductor Valery Gergiev, both high-profile allies of Russian president Vladimir Putin, who has recently passed a number of antigay laws in Russia. According to eyewitnesses, one protester was heard to shout: "Anna, your silence is killing Russian gays! Valery, your silence is killing Russian gays!"
I'll leave it to readers to form their own opinions about Russia's strangely archaic law and the motivations behind it. For me, the most startling aspect of this incident is the protest itself. Errant cell phones aside, there is an unofficial code of silence anytime the lights go down in a theater or concert hall. The expectation is that you will remain absolutely quiet out of respect to the musicians—who perform without the benefit of amplification—and your fellow audience members. Even coughing is verboten.
But when you think about it, what's to stop anyone, at any given point during the performance, from suddenly screaming at the top of their lungs, or shouting something offensive and profane? What's there to hold you back, really? Sure, you'll be kicked out of your dearly priced seat, just as the protesters were last night. But is that really a deterrent to committed would-be sound terrorists, or anyone who's just had a really bad day? Ushers can inspect patrons' bags all they want: there's no way to prevent a verbal explosion.
Indeed, in our increasingly demystified, voluble age, the only thing that surprises me is that it doesn't happen more. Carnegie and Avery Fisher each hold over 2,000 people; the Met holds over 4,000—that's a lot of mouths you're trusting will stay shut on their own.
The romantic in me wants to believe that the richness and beauty generated in these spaces is so entrancing, so overwhelming, it flips some kind of mental switch that disables the will to raise your voice against it. But there's plenty of music heard in these same auditoriums that comes off hot to the touch, causing scores of audience members to file out in silent protest. What if they decided to shout their disapproval instead, the way they did for Stravinsky or Varèse? Wouldn't that be a good thing, at least for posterity? Or would it just ruin it for the rest of us?
As Alex Ross wrote in "Listen to This," classical concerts often amount to an exercise in "mass anal retention," where every expression of joy is unnaturally suppressed through cold stares and shushing. Is that the price we pay for warding against a situation where anyone, at any time, can shout down a performance on a whim? Or, does it even make a difference as old modes of behavior morph over time, as they always do?
What are your thoughts? Feel free to share in the comments section below.