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The rich are different: they take their rubbish home

By John Kelly  

I was gifted with glorious weather yesterday on my first visit to Glyndebourne—and to opera of any sort, actually. On the downside, I was obliged to suffer Tristan and Isolde, not one of Wagner’s cheeriest musicals, performed ably but in expressionist style on a static set reminiscent of the swirly vortex of the 1960s TV series The Time Tunnel. The hypnotist’s disc effect of the backdrop combined with the impenetrable German warbling (though Glyndebourne has a karaoke translation screen above the stage to tell you that they’re singing “we are doomed to perpetual night” for the umpteenth time) sent me…

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