演出界的“瞬息全宇宙”

幾周前，我在倫敦欣賞了黃若的歌劇《蝴蝶君》（M. Butterfly）的英國首演（及現場錄音）。這部歌劇改編自黃哲倫于1988年獲得托尼獎的百老匯同名話劇，而倫敦的演出確實令人振奮，是藝術家們難得的一次聚首：指揮與作曲家再度合作，大部分在圣達菲歌劇院參與過該劇世界首演的歌唱家也聯袂登臺。這場“只此一次”的盛會吸引了來自美國、英國各地以及中國的觀眾，但有一位引人注目的缺席者——黃哲倫。

這次缺席事出有因?！逗吩趥惗匕捅瓤现行难莩龅漠斖?，奧斯瓦爾多·格利約夫創作的歌劇《艾娜達馬》（Ainadamar）（編劇正是黃哲倫）在大都會歌劇院舞臺上亮相。另外，黃哲倫創作的半自傳式喜劇《黃面孔》（Yellow Face）也在同一時間獻演于百老匯。新冠疫情過后，眾多因為疫情而被推遲上演的項目突然間同時進行，黃若就有過類似的經歷。現在輪到黃哲倫了。

而且他并不孤單。今年秋季演出季剛開始的時候，吉尼恩·特索利（Jeanine Tesori）的音樂劇《軟實力》（Soft Power）——劇本與唱詞都由黃哲倫一手包辦——還在華盛頓上演時，她最新的歌劇作品《停飛》（Grounded）在大都會歌劇院也開始了排練。（《停飛》的世界首演于年前在華盛頓國家歌劇院舉行。）我還可以無窮盡地繼續羅列……

很久以前我就明白，人不能無處不在，但最近幾個月里，我發現這個簡單的事實好像變成了脫韁之馬。多年前，文化新聞曾經大肆報道，紐約有三家歌劇院竟然在同一個晚上搬演了三個截然不同的《蝴蝶夫人》制作。但總的來說，這不是什么大問題。大都會歌劇院的觀眾很少會對阿馬托歌劇院那些超小型、極簡約概念的制作感興趣。事實上，在紐約，不同藝術范疇每天都有數之不盡的選擇，就算你只喜歡其中的一個門類都會目不暇接：喜歡當代新音樂的聽眾大多不會與古樂團音樂會的粉絲重疊，而上述這兩類觀眾通常也不會留意到歌劇領域。不知何故，沒人會覺得只選一項會有任何的遺憾。

現在的情況卻截然不同。從前我只有在各大藝術節上才會有這種感覺——尤其是電影節——因為主辦方的日程安排，通常會在同一時間不同場地安排不同制作的演出，迫使觀眾做出艱難的選擇?；旧?，你必須要認真地取舍，押中那些一旦錯過可能畢生都與之失之交臂的作品。

我們今天面對的選擇困境，就像一個貫穿不同藝術范疇的電影節一樣。既然談及電影，就套用一部由楊紫瓊領銜主演的影片名稱——《瞬息全宇宙》（Everything， Everywhere， All at Once）吧。讓我們暫時忘記“全宇宙”這個概念。今年秋天的一個周日下午，因為我在紐約只停留短短幾天，在同一時段里，我必須選擇兩場不同歌劇的世界首演，以及另一部歌劇的預演場次。現在，我人在香港寫著我的專欄，在剛剛過去的一個周末里，因為自己的職責所在，我必須看上三套演出，但它們在城市的不同地區同時舉行。

為什么我被迫在以下三個項目中做出選擇？（1）中國香港土生土長的最有成就的指揮家陳以琳（Elim Chan），自疫情后首次回港執棒香港管弦樂團；（2）難得一見的布里頓歌劇《阿爾貝·埃林》（Albert Herring，港譯名《阿炳飄色記》）；（3）來自敘利亞的橫跨多重音樂風格的黑管演奏家兼作曲家基南·亞梅（Kinen Azmeh）首次訪港演出，我初次結識他是作為馬友友絲綢之路樂團（Silkroad Ensemble）的成員。下周，我還將碰上兩個不同的沉浸式歌劇演出，它們在同一個晚上同時舉行。記憶中我遇到的最過分的撞期事件發生在今年的3月23日——香港藝術節安排了兩個世界首演作品同時進行，分別是香港中樂團演奏的《幻境》（Illusion Reality）與香港小交響樂團演奏的《繁星》（An Array of Stars），但這兩部作品都是由伍卓賢（Ng Cheuk-yin）創作的。因為兩座音樂廳分隔維港兩岸，連作曲家都必須做出取舍！

我們是怎么走到這一步的？為什么當一周的其他日子都排得滿滿當當時，今晚我卻又閑著（正因如此，我才有機會把這篇專欄寫完）？我不確定是否有一個答案適用于所有城市和文化，但我觀察到全球性的某些大趨勢，盡管它們的表達方式不一樣。

在香港，我很想把這種“撞檔”歸功于中國傳統黃歷，因為人人都想要選擇吉日行事。然而，更有可能的是，它源于這樣一個事實，多年來香港特區的演出場地都由政府包辦，所以營造出“僧多粥少”的幻覺。在過去的幾年里，許多新場館開張啟用，于是局勢翻轉了：現在場地的供應遠遠超過了需求。

你可能會認為，在我剛才提到的那些空閑的日子里，一切應會順其自然，逐漸拉平。但很明顯（請允許我引用喬治·奧威爾的金句），“有些日子比其他日子更平等”。另外一個顯著的狀況是：各個主辦機構好像生存在真空中一樣，跟同行沒有預先交流過彼此的演出策劃與藝術方針。順便說一句，這種現象不單在香港發生，在全球許多其他城市也存在。但最起碼在紐約，幾家大型演藝機構會跟規模比較小的藝團稍做溝通。例如，卡內基音樂廳每年的音樂節都會邀請城中十多個小型演出場所一起合作，呈獻與主題相關的藝術項目。

然而，紐約與香港現在有一個共通點：觀眾們最近的選擇實在太多了。香港現在有的是大批專業的藝術家，他們在歐美受訓后回來，卻發現藝術市場幾近飽和，于是紛紛選擇創業，為自己締造機會；在紐約，比如說紐約市立歌劇院瓦解后，起碼有30多個小型歌劇團應運而生，并繼承了市立歌劇院過去的藝術宗旨（如年青藝術家、新作品、富有戲劇性的演出等）。

但是，美國面臨的問題不僅如此。大概一個世紀前，女高音格拉汀·法拉（Geraldine Farrar）被好萊塢發掘并成為明星，但這種個案算是少數中的少數。一直以來，藝術圈與大眾媒體“井水不犯河水”：如同電影明星不屑在電視里亮相（當然電視明星也很少躍上大銀幕），歌劇觀眾同樣對百老匯的商演發展不聞不問。

但是在過去的幾十年里，這一切發生了巨大的變化。電視變成最重要的大眾媒體，劇集的形式讓編劇與導演脫離局限于兩小時電影銀幕或舞臺上一個晚上的敘事時限，有充分的機會擴展他們想表達的訊息。在歌劇院里，電影與舞臺導演被聯合起來，受邀刻意打破老套的歌劇制作及敘事程式。

歌劇舞臺建立起新標準，同時也吸引了新觀眾，讓一切都耳目一新。但是，歌劇院很快就開始付出代價?？戳T巴特勒特·舍爾（Bartlett Sher）執導的《塞維利亞理發師》（The Barber of Seville）和《霍夫曼的故事》（Tales of Hoffman），大都會歌劇院的觀眾們開始關注他那幾部贏得托尼獎的百老匯音樂劇。而某些刻意邀請電影導演的歌劇院——我立刻想到的是洛杉磯歌劇院——除了讓演出季生色不少，也間接推廣了那些導演的新電影。一年365天里只上演有限的時間，任何單一藝術種類都無法再享有特權或優勢了。

如今，普通觀眾幾乎不可能跟得上舞臺與銀幕上眾多的新潮流。我可以肯定，到了最后，一切都會恢復平衡，但我無法預測到那時我們會變成什么樣的觀眾。助力楊紫瓊拿下奧斯卡最佳女主角獎的那位洗衣店老板娘所啟發我們的，就是大家選擇的每一步都會影響整個棋局，但我們無法預料最后的結果會怎樣。

A few weeks ago， I was in London for the UK premiere （and live recording） of Huang Ruo’s opera M. Butterfly， based on David Henry Hwang’s Tony Awardwinning play. It was the first performance since its premiere and became quite the reunion， not just for the composer and conductor but also for much of the original cast from Santa Fe. The one-night-only event， in fact， drew audiences from the US and all over England as well as China， with one notable and glaring absence： David Henry Hwang.

You can’t blame the guy. I mean， the same night M. Butterfly was at the Barbican， Osvaldo Golijov’s Ainadamar （for which David also penned the text） was playing at the Metropolitan Opera. And David’s show Yellow Face was still playing on Broadway. Huang Ruo had a couple of those moments when several projects finally came to light after Covid. Now it’s David’s turn.

And he’s not alone. Earlier in the season， Jeanine Tesori’s musical Soft Power—with book and lyrics also by David Hwang—was still playing in Washington， DC when her opera Grounded （which premiered at the Washington National Opera） started rehearsals at the Met. I could go on….

I learned long ago that you can’t be everywhere， but lately it seems this simple truth has spiraled out of control. It used to be newsworthy when， purely by coincidence， three opera companies in New York presented three significantly different productions of Madama Butterfly on a single night. But generally， it wasn’t a problem. Met audiences rarely turned up to the Amato Opera’s miniaturist offerings. In fact， New York had so many events in so many fields， that you could barely keep up with one， new-music listeners rarely overlapped with the early-music crowd， and neither would think of turning up to the opera. And somehow， no one felt they were missing out.

What we’re seeing now is something completely different. I used to get this feeling only at festivals—particularly film festivals—where overlapping schedules are built into the system. Different films play simultaneously in different venues around town， leaving viewers to make some hard choices. Basically， you have to guess which events you’ll never see again.

Our lives are now essentially a constant film festival across all art forms. And since we’re on the topic of film， let’s call it Everything Everywhere All at Once. Let’s even forget about “everywhere” for a moment. During my limited stay in New York last fall， I had a choice one Sunday afternoon of two world premiere opera performances and a preview event for a third. As I write this column now in Hong Kong， I’m facing a weekend with three performances that for profes- sional reasons I should probably see， all happening at the same time in different parts of the city.

Why should I have to choose among seeing （1） Elim Chan， easily the most accomplished conductor Hong Kong has ever produced， returning home for the first time since the pandemic to lead the Hong Kong Philharmonic， （2） Benjamin Britten’s Albert Herring， an opera rarely performed anywhere， with the setting shifted to Hong Kong， and （3） an appearance by the profoundly genre-bending Syrian clarinetist and composer Kinan Azmeh， whom I first encountered as a side man in Yo-Yo Ma’s Silk Road Ensemble？ In another week I have two entirely different immersive operas， with only one performance each， happening at the same time. Probably the most egregious programming overlap I’ve ever encountered happened earlier this year—on March 23， to be exact—when the Hong Kong Arts Festival presented the world premieres of Illusion Reality with the Hong Kong Chinese Orchestra and An Array of Stars by the Hong Kong Sinfonietta—both works composed by Ng Cheuk-yin—at the same time on opposite sides of the harbor. Not even the composer could attend both.

How did we get here？ Why is tonight empty （which is how I can actually finish writing this piece） when other days of the week are packed solid？ I’m not sure there’s one answer that fits all cities and cultures， but a few broad trends find different expression around the world.

In Hong Kong， I’m tempted to blame it on the Chinese Almanac， since there are only so many auspicious days to go around. More likely， though， it stems from the fact that performance venues were all traditionally government property， creating an artificial layer of scarcity. The opening of many new venues in the past few years has more than tipped the balance： supply now far outstrips demand.

You’d think that， with those empty days I just men-tioned， things would just equal out， but clearly （to paraphrase Orwell） some days are more equal than others—and just as clearly， presenters seem to exist in a vacuum， not talking much to each other about what they’re presenting. This phenomenon exists in many other cities， by the way， but at least in New York some big presenters talk to their smaller colleagues. Carnegie Hall’s annual festival， for example， invites dozens of smaller， more specialized venues around town to collaborate in related festival events.

What New York and Hong Kong do share， however， is a recent overabundance of choice. In Hong Kong， this has largely to do with an wealth of highly trained arts professionals returning from Europe and America to find a crowded marketplace and needing to create their own opportunities； in New York， the implosion of New York City Opera—to cite one example—has led to the rise of at least 30 smaller companies upholding similar values （young artists， new works， theatrically motivated presentations， etc.）.

But in America， the problem goes beyond that. After a brief period a century or so ago， when opera singers like Geraldine Farrar could find themselves cast in Hollywood features， the arts and media soon became clearly segregated. Movie stars would never deign to appear on television （just as TV stars never got cast in feature films）. Opera audiences likewise became blissfully unaware of developments in commercial theatre.

But in the past couple of decades， all this changed rather dramatically. Television became the Golden Medium， where episodic storytelling formats offered expansive opportunities for writers and directors tired of being limited to two hours on a movie screen or theatre stage. At the opera， directors from film and theatre were coopted to shake up moribund production values and narrative conventions.

The new standards of operatic staging， as well as new audiences， was immediately palpable， but opera companies soon began to pay the price. Met audiences who formerly had no idea who Bartlett Sher was before his productions of The Barber of Seville and Tales of Hoffman started seeking out his Tony Award-winning musicals. Opera companies who courted film directors—the Los Angeles Opera comes to mind—not only revitalized their own seasons but also sent audiences in search of their directors’ next films. With only a limited number of days in the year， any one art form claiming an advantage is bound to take a hit.

It’s now pretty much impossible for casual audiences to keep up with the various trends on stage and screen. If Michelle Yeoh’s Oscar-winning laundress taught us anything， it’s that each move we make along the way can change the entire game. At this point we can barely keep score， let alone predict a winner. I’m sure this constant barrage of possibilities will eventually find a balance； I’m just not sure who we’ll become as an audience by then.