Well, it’s Friday and things around the world are certainly in an interesting state.
- Israel has lifted its blockade of Lebanon.
- Bomb blasts have killed 32 people in India.
- A Senate panel has found no evidence of a Saddam Hussein-al-Qaeda link prior to 9/11.
Naturally, what my eye has focused on is the premiere of the Muammar Ghaddafi opera in London. The enigmatic-yet-charismatic leader of Libya is the subject of an experimental opera that hit the stage on Thursday night to mixed reviews. Ghaddafi: A Living Myth seems to have alienated traditional opera-goers because, as the Daily Telegraph laments: “Singing was conspicuous by its absence.” This is hardly a surprise. Muammar isn’t a singer himself, and would probably have insisted on playing himself in his own musical. Muammar is an author of several short stories, a couple of novels (all of them are big sellers in Libya – surprise!), a philosophical treatise called The Green Book which may have been translated into more languages than the Bible, and an entire system of government that he calls Jamahiriyya – ‘government of the masses.’ We can discuss whether Libya is truly governed by the masses later.
On a more positive note, today’s Times suggests that Ghaddafi: A Living Myth might well be the next Evita. That’s not such a stretch, given that its subject is probably just as inappropriate for mass-market consumption. After all, prior to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical, who had ever heard of the Argentine first lady – other than the Argentines themselves? Perhaps what this means is that in a few decades a middle aged Jake Gyllenhal or Heath Ledger will take to the silver screen in a lavish film adaptation of Ghaddafi: A Living Myth with some remote corner of Saudi Arabia standing in for Tripoli, the way that Budapest filled in for Buenos Aires in Alan Parker’s film adaptation of Evita. Madonna will have to sit this one out, though, as Mrs. Ghaddafi has never had the cult of personality of either her husband or Eva Perón.
What I’m wondering, though, is who will be next to hit the light rock-opera stage. Ceaucescu? The Shah of Iran? Hirohito? The Crocodile Hunter? Somehow, a singing-dancing Gandhi (Mahatma, not Indira) seems like a bad idea, but it’s probably already been done. I’ll bet there’s a musical in Imelda Marcos’ shoe closet. Hell, we could probably stage the musical in Imelda Marcos’ shoe closet.
I guess art truly is in the eye of the beholder after all …
