Carmen
Dear Reader,
There are certain operas that survive for centuries not because they are morally profound or psychologically subtle, but because they are irresistibly alive. Carmen is of the latter persuasion. Its story revolves around desire, ego, danger…spectacle, vanity, seduction…and violence. Human beings are drawn to beautiful disasters and always will be.
I recently went to see Carmen at the opera after missing the performance I had originally purchased tickets for because I wasn’t feeling well. To my great relief (Carmen was the season finale!), as a season subscriber, I was able to exchange my ticket for another evening.
Normally when I attend the opera, I enjoy dressing in full accordance with the occasion. Opera is one of the few outings left in today’s world that rewards glamour, after all (especially here in REI-clad Seattle). This time, however, I decided against the long dress and wore something more relaxed and weather-appropriate instead: a sweater and tailored trousers. I looked unusually androgynous, like a sort of weekday academic / weekend equestrienne (you can never go wrong with a nice herringbone tweed when it’s still chilly out). To balance out that dynamic, I wore a statement pearl necklace… There really was something enjoyable about arriving understated, yet still polished.
The house was completely sold out that evening, and the atmosphere felt especially energized because of it. Before the performance and during intermission, the landing outside the auditorium buzzed with conversation, perfume, and the usual social choreography that accompanies evenings at the opera. Within my seating section, somewhere behind me, a young woman babbled during every break with a little more flourish and volume than necessary (why do so many people constantly shout indoors? Seems so performative…). Though, within the context of an opera crowd, this hardly registered as unusual.
Once the curtain rose, however, the audience settled blissfully into silence. No humming along, no whispering plot explanations, no attempts at inserting themselves into the performance. I had been primed to expect such behavior from other performances I’ve attended, but it didn’t happen this time and I deeply appreciated that.
I had brought my gold-toned Eschenbach opera glasses (a treasured gift), and they turned out to be indispensable. Through them, the production revealed its finer details: the textures of the costumes, intricate embroidery, shimmering satin, braided trim, the structure of the bullfighters’ jackets, and perhaps most importantly, the performers’ facial expressions. Opera acting tends to be underestimated by people who haven’t…seen it. The emotional communication happening in the singers’ faces adds an entirely different dimension to the performance. Carmen especially benefited from this closeness. Every amused glance and every flicker of contempt became unmistakably clear. I can attest that she fully embodied the character, even at close range.
The premise of Carmen is almost hilariously efficient. A cigarette factory staffed almost exclusively by beautiful young women sits directly across from an army barracks full of bored soldiers. Naturally, the men spend much of their free time attempting to pick up the women whenever possible. Carmen, of course, is the most magnetic woman there: audacious, playful, provocative, and fully aware of the effect she has on people.
Don José, meanwhile, is the lone soldier attempting to resist her. He is dutiful, emotionally sincere, rather naïve, and engaged to the sweet and virtuous Micaëla. In other words, exactly the kind of man Carmen immediately becomes interested in, since nothing attracts certain personalities more quickly than a challenge.
Predictably, she succeeds in seducing him almost immediately.
The real problem, however, is that Don José and Carmen fundamentally want different things from life. José wants loyalty, reassurance, emotional certainty. Carmen wants intensity, freedom, danger, movement. At one point, when the two are about to consummate their ill-advised infatuation, Don José hears the military horn call and says he needs to return to the barracks before curfew. Carmen very visibly gets the ick. One can practically see her attraction evaporating in real time. In her eyes, he suddenly seems obedient, weak, overly controlled by external authority. She wants passion, courage, and recklessness; instead, she is confronted with a man anxiously worrying about his bedtime.
Human beings are drawn to beautiful disasters and always will be.
Enter Escamillo, a charismatic bullfighter (and smuggler!) with endless swagger, and one of the most iconic arias in all of opera.
The Toreador Song was easily my favorite musical moment of the evening. Escamillo is essentially the opposite of Don José in every way imaginable: confident where José is insecure, instinctive where José is hesitant, forceful where José is restrained. He moves through the opera with the kind of unapologetic masculine confidence that immediately explains Carmen’s attraction to him. In short, the man actually has cojones.
Not only musically, but also in terms of looks, this was my favorite part of the opera. The parade leading up to Escamillo’s bullfight was visually the high point of Carmen for me. Suddenly, the entire production expanded outward into pure extravagance: dancers, confetti exploding into the air, vivid colors, embroidered costumes, bi-level set pieces, and movement everywhere. The bullfighters’ costumes were especially stunning: full of texture, structure, metallic detailing, and rich saturated color.
And then there was Carmen herself. I did something uncharacteristic of myself and generated the above image with AI. The reason was that I wanted an image representing Carmen, but most images that I could find online depicted a pale white woman with dark hair. Without beating anyone over the head about it, Carmen was a Romani woman, so she would have likely had darker skin. I actually love this render, though it somewhat pains me to concede a job well done to AI.
Throughout the opera, she appeared entirely in red: red dresses, red high heels, red espadrilles. Every entrance reinforced the same visual identity: heat, danger, sensuality. At one point she wore a breathtaking red satin flamenco dress that completely transformed the energy around her. The singer playing Carmen had exactly the right presence (and body) for it, too: poised, seductive, self-possessed. She wore the dress with such confidence that the entire scene seemed to bend around her.
The lighting design amplified all of this beautifully. Most of the opera was lit fairly naturally, which made the isolated spotlights on Carmen feel especially romantic and old-fashioned in the best possible way. Suddenly, she would emerge from the stage, almost like a male fantasy come to life, rather than an ordinary woman.
Carmen was portrayed as entirely aware of her own magnetism, without appearing needy for approval. She flirted simply because she enjoyed power, danger, and amusement, not because she required validation. That distinction is what makes the character compelling instead of merely decorative.
The opera itself unfolds through escalating emotional chaos: jealousy, obsession, frustration, wounded pride. Carmen grows bored with José. José becomes psychologically consumed by Carmen’s refusal to belong to him. Escamillo continues moving through life with enviable self-assurance. Eventually, José murders Carmen in a fit of jealous despair.
This ending famously scandalized audiences when the opera premiered. To modern audiences, however, it lands somewhat differently. Perhaps contemporary storytelling has simply exhausted this particular emotional formula through repetition. Or, perhaps, it’s that modern audiences are less inclined to interpret male possessiveness as romantic tragedy, but instead as societal tragedy. Personally, I found the ending more culturally interesting than emotionally devastating.
Oddly, I enjoyed Carmen far more as spectacle than as narrative.
But what spectacle it was.
Opera, at its best, creates a temporary world organized entirely around beauty and excess: lush fabrics, oversized emotions, orchestral swells, champagne, dramatic lighting, beautiful strangers observing one another across velvet interiors. During intermission, I did what I always do: wandered the lobby with a glass of champagne, people-watching with barely-concealed curiosity. Someone who looked to be of the Sapphic persuasion complimented my necklace… I noticed a woman in a long black evening dress who looked as though she belonged permanently inside a luxury fragrance campaign (more like her, please!). Because Carmen has two intermissions, I also became exactly twice as tipsy as I usually do at the opera, which felt faintly decadent for a weekday evening.
There is something deeply pleasurable about temporarily abandoning ordinary life in favor of grand melodrama, beautiful music, and people making catastrophic emotional decisions in immaculate clothing.
More people should allow themselves that pleasure.
She flirted simply because she enjoyed power, danger, and amusement, not because she required validation.
What stayed with me afterward was not really the plot itself, but the atmosphere surrounding it: the saturated colors, the gleam of Carmen’s red satin dress beneath the spotlight. The absurd grandeur of the bullfighter procession, the orchestra swelling beneath moments of flirtation and violence alike. The audience collectively surrendering to heightened emotion for 3.5 hours.
Opera permits emotions to become larger, sharper, and more glamorous than they are allowed to be in ordinary life.
I don’t know about you, but I need that sometimes.
Amorously yours,
Annie