“Nude
supers to the stage, please.”
Out they walked – two dozen unclothed men – onto the stage of the Brooklyn Academy of Music. They were the “Corps of Lovers” in the
New York City Opera’s 2013 production of Thomas Adès’
Powder Her Face. And they, in their bold, silent nakedness, were the topic of giddy conversations during intermission, on
Twitter, and in
all of the
opera’s reviews.
These men are found nowhere in Adès’ score; they were an invention of stage director
Jay Scheib, inserted into the opera’s most famous scene as a ghostly reminder of the main character’s many past anonymous romances.
Scheib’s decision was, without doubt, a coup. First and foremost, it was an artistically bold choice – the parade of bodies avoided burlesque bawdiness, instead combining in a haunting tableaux, silent of voice but damning in presence.
But nowadays, operas can’t thrive on artistry alone, and the “Corps of Lovers” also proved an irresistible topic for media (it even made a
splash in British tabloids) and an undeniable draw for audience members, who
flooded the lobby on opening night, delaying the curtain by 20 minutes.