A deranged killer clown…
A mad bride covered in blood…
A desperate man sells his soul to the Devil…
Horror movie villains? Of course. But also, surprisingly, protagonists of world-famous operas (Pagliacci, Lucia di Lammermoor, Faust).
Because while it might not seem immediately obvious, opera and horror are genres with many commonalities. Like horror, traditional classical opera thrives on grandiosity, with overwhelming visuals and soaring soundtracks to imply the conflict, intrigue and drama. Like horror, opera focuses on the extremes of human emotion and interaction: obsessive vengeance, unresolved despair, consuming passions. Both genres are stereotyped by outsiders–opera as a tedious or incomprehensible ordeal, horror movies as tawdry and tasteless. And fans of both will cry betrayal at anything that deviates from long-standing, deeply cherished genre tropes–they like what they like and they’ll throw down to defend their opinions. (Forget about your heated Freddy vs. Jason arguments; start a debate on whether a soprano should sing the lead in Carmen and you’ll end up in a brawl).
Of course, few genres have had more dissimilar cultural trajectories. Opera is a centuries-old art-form still considered the highest of high culture and still an (expensive) past-time of the elite. Meanwhile, horror–whether in literature, film or theater–was viewed as culturally lowbrow for most of its history. From the advent of gory pictures in Victorian penny-dreadfuls to the heyday of B-horror movies in the 1950’s, horror has rarely got any respect. For many people, the intersection of horror and opera has usually resulted in visions of a half-masked, tuxedoed man rowing a gondola while warbling an Andrew Lloyd Webber tune.
Which is why you’d expect the announcement of The Shining Opera–yes, based on the novel by Stephen King, should have cued outraged cries from Row 4, Orchestra Center, right? No one disputes that Stephen King is the modern master of horror fiction…but isn’t he also the king of the mass-market, the emperor of middlebrow? Isn't “real” opera based on some obscure 16th century epic saga and conveyed over four hours of high-pitched Italian or German singing?
Apparently, the answer is yes. These days, opera, like much of the classical music world, has been struggling to deal with dwindling ticket sales. While some urban opera houses mount grand visual spectacles in hopes of luring large younger audiences, others, like the Minnesota Opera Company and its “New Initiatives: Program,” are focusing on the production of new, contemporary works. That means operas based on modern novels like (Lolita, The Manchurian Candidate)or even films (Breaking the Waves, Joyeux Noel) are more than just a passing trend. The Shining Opera is actually the second opera based on a Stephen King novel (the first, Dolores Claibourne, debuted in 2013). Seven years after its debut was greeted with rave reviews from both opera and horror fans (not to mention sold out shows) The Shining Opera is still being performed in San Francisco, Atlanta, Kansas City and other large venues.
And anyone expecting a camp catastrophe and ack Torrance pausing in mid-slaughter to belt out a tenor rondo version of “All Work And No Play Make Jack a Dull Boyyyyy” will be disappointed. The opera, created by Pulitzer-prize winning composer Paul Moravic and librettist Mark Campbell, is based entirely on Stephen King’s novel–and not on Kubrick’s film, which is where that line appears. Like the book, The Shining Opera sees Jack Torrance not as an archetypal horror movie monster, but as a troubled man.
And that makes all the difference. It’s horror lore how flagrantly Kubrick deviated from the novel, and how thoroughly King despised the resulting film. And they are two very different stories. In both the novel and the film, Jack’s history of alcoholism and childhood abuse–along with cabin fever and the malevolent spirits haunting the hotel–make him easy prey for the sinister spirits lurking in the empty hallways. But the similarities end there.
The focus of the novel, written by King during his struggles with alcohol, is not the supernatural itself but its ability to exploit our most primitive fears–that we will fail and then fail again, we can’t control ourselves, that we might permanently hurt the ones we love. That we cannot be redeemed. The hotel’s history, which soon obsesses Jack, represents the underbelly of the American myth–the real price of American wealth, family and success. And yet, his paternal instincts battle his murderous urges every step of the way, until his final, fiery sacrifice.
Kubrick’s film, however, is that unusual creature–the unfaithful adaptation of a novel that somehow becomes a cinematic masterpiece. A symbolist at heart, Kubrick was interested in themes or motifs, freely and flagrantly deviated from the narrative at will. The ghost of a man in a dog costume is only explained in the book, but reading it won’t help you understand the movie. The bones of King’s novel hangs like a limp skeleton under the empty pauses, jangling chords and weirdly detached characters.
It doesn’t help that the casting of Jack Nicholson (and his interpretation of the role) screams “family annihilator” from his first, supposedly normal, appearance. His alcoholism is barely mentioned, and by the end of the movie, there’s no pretense that Nicholson’s Jack Torrance was anything less than a rabid dog in human form, foaming maniacally and relentlessly with no pause for guilt, love or self-reflection. His end comes in ice, rather than fire, with a maniacal grin frozen on his face, a movie monster we can’t quite believe is dead.
There’s no question that The Shining Opera reveres the tropes and themes of psychological horror. However, the production’s creators clearly reject Kubrick’s enigmatic cynical vision for the compassion and human conflict of King’s work. Rather than trying to outdo Kubrick’s film in jump scares, the opera finds true horror in Jack’s abusive childhood (with his brutal father making ghostly appearances), his addiction and his futile struggle against his own violent tendencies. The music, with over references to Wagner, Bartok, and even the eerie notes of Hitchcock’s Psycho propels the actions forward propels the action forward, conveying emotions hidden beyond the spoken word.
Visually, the production is both expansive and claustrophobic, using a full range of visual effects and music to portray the Jack’s hallucinogenic descent into madness, The mobile, constantly moving set means The Overlook is depicted as King intended–not just as a physical location, but a nexus between the past and present--and the living and the dead. The set design of ornately wallpapered rooms and shadowy shapes, suddenly splashed with blood-red lighting or elaborate video projections, conveys both Jack’s mental disintegration as well as the spectral creatures that are preying on him. The explosive, cleansing tragedy is foreshadowed often, and it’s both ironic and fitting that Danny, the Torrance’s son whose psychic ability (the “shining”) allows him to see and battle the ghosts of the hotel, is a non-singing role; his young age and his powers mean he cannot communicate in the same way as the other characters.
Yes, opera purists wouldn’t be entirely wrong if they pointed out that the score is more Broadway than symphony hall, accessible rather than esoteric. With its special effects and popular source material, it’s a great starter opera for those suspicious of classical music–and a solid step in viewing the horror genre as more than just junk food.
Neeraja Viswanathan has a Master's in Cinema Studies from NYU and cut her teeth at various film studios including Tribeca and Miramax, before becoming a journalist and writer. She is the author of the Infamous Women of History series and blogs about film adaptations at Mystery on Screen.
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