Saturday, December 13, 2003

But, Sir, Doesn't Pavarotti Suck?

Right off the bat I am not going to say that I am a fan of Opera as a species, per se, although the early operas of Monteverdi have moved me, what with their odd sense of acceleration of pace and repetitions of phrase. I have found myself caught in the funk, so to speak, on those occasions, and have been known to move my midsection vigorously, like Courtney Cox in that godawful Springsteen video. No, I really didn't but it sounded interesting, didn't it? No? Whatever.

Not that Luciano Pavarotti would ever include Early Music in his cheesy repertoire. So, as you can guess, I do not see the need for his coming-to-be in Western Civilization, although I am vaguely aware that it does actually exist.

Anyhoo: The big man got all pimped out for his wedding to his 30-year old ex-secretary, Nicoletta Mantovani . How cliche is that, anyway?

And with The Corsair, the only sins are sins of cliche ... and tackiness ... and Pavarotti is the king of tackiness. We like to call him Louche-iano Pavaratti. The died jet-black beard is highly implausible, and that fake ever-present smile creeps us out. And then there's that cheesy Three Tenors video where Arnold Shwarzenegger sits in the front row, fairly busting out his tuxedo: That was the moment that Oswald Spengler rendered tragically in Decline of the West. Yuck!

Reuters reports:

"'Alice joyfully invites you to the wedding of daddy Luciano and mummy Nicoletta,' read the invitation from the couple's 11-month-old daughter."

How cuute. They continue:

"A host of stars, including Irish rocker Bono and Italian singer Zucchero, turned out for the wedding which was eagerly anticipated by Italian gossip magazines and television chat shows."

Well, if Zucchero was there, then it must indeed have been an event.

But the true story -- and The Corsair is nothing if not a bloodhound on the search for scoop -- lies with Adua, jilted wife number one.

Somewhere the well-paid Adua is speaking of things Pavarotti from behind clenched teeth and making broad and fast arm movements as is the Italian manner when emotional issues are involved. And boy would I like a translator to decipher that scoop.

Because we all understand the language of jilt. What? You mean you've never excavated the archaeology of dumped? It's just me? Okay: whatever.

No comments: