'La Traviata', or 'The Fortissimo Consumptive'
There’s a story that when Verdi, that most Italian of composers, traveled by horse and coach to Russia, he went clutching a suitcase of spaghetti. To offset the fur and the ice, his wife purportedly said. I sat on the 18 bus from an unmentionable part of zone four with a greasy wodge of pizza and a beer on my way to the ROH’s big screen presentation of La Traviata at Trafalgar square. There was no fur and ice. It was the hottest day of the year, but the sentiment, I like to think, was similar: deracination.