Opera has been on the sidelines for at least 30 years now. Its golden age was the 1940s–50s, marked by Maria Callas; it endured until the 1980s with Luciano Pavarotti, and finally faded in the 1990s when it became increasingly niche. Today, opera houses around the world spend millions on productions that very few attend, songs are rarely played on the radio, singers are no longer famous, and I can assure you that scarcely anyone, from your neighbours to family members to friends, has ever attended a performance. 

 

Then, why insist on opera? I’ll give you some good reasons, but first, allow me to introduce you to it. 

 

The thing that changes one’s perception of opera is realising that it combines multiple art forms into one—music, literature, and acting. Why is it useful to remember this? Because it adds a whole new layer of excitement to the experience. When you’re seated in the velvet chairs of the theatre, it makes a real difference to think of the singer not just as a dressed-up person uttering words that you can barely understand, but rather as a character shaped by a story, backed by music that silently tries to tell you something, while reaching vocal heights that no ordinary human could, all with the aim of transmitting emotions. Add to that the acting, the movements, and the charisma. 

 

Opera, when understood as many things at once—and appreciated both as a whole and in its parts—becomes a rich thing of overlapping elements that is both intriguing and complex.

 

The music is the least evident, yet it is what makes opera work on a fundamental level. It introduces the motifs (recurring musical ideas tied to characters or emotions), establishes the rhythm, and guides the performance. Then comes the singing, which is the bridge between music and acting. And, to be fair, it is what gives the experience something mystical. One can barely believe the power and control of the voices. Yet, the acting is the key to any opera; you can have tolerable musicians with tolerable singers and excellent acting, and you get a pleasing opera. If you get bad acting, it doesn’t matter how good everything else turns out to be; the opera will become a nightmare. The stage design (the set and costumes) is the least relevant, but it is the most pleasing to the eye, and it helps to build the atmosphere.  

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In terms of music, opera has been the field of exploration for the greatest classical composers. Some had very few operas, while others dedicated themselves entirely to it. For example, Beethoven stands on one side: he composed only one opera (Fidelio) and focused almost entirely on symphonies, sonatas, and chamber music—over 650 non-opera works in total. Mozart sits in the middle, having written over 20 operas (the most famous: Don Giovanni, The Marriage of Figaro, and The Magic Flute) and 600 non-opera works. At the other end is Wagner, who composed almost nothing but opera, 13 works, and fewer than 20 non-opera pieces.   

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Here’s how building an opera from scratch usually works: a composer, say, Giuseppe Verdi (famous for La Traviata, Rigoletto, and Aida) comes across a play he really likes. He gets hold of the script, studies the story, adapts it, and composes music for it. Then, either he writes the libretto himself or works with a librettist to fit in the singing, dividing it into recitatives, arias, and often choruses. On top of those, you get an overture and a finale. 

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The overture is the instrumental introduction played solely by the orchestra. Recitatives are sung dialogues that progress with the plot. The arias are standalone pieces sung by individual characters at emotionally intense moments of the play. These are often the most famous parts of any opera. In the arias, the orchestra takes a step back, giving the singer full focus. You also get duets, which are songs for two voices, trios for three, and so on.

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One peculiar thing about music in opera is the placement of the orchestra. Unlike concerts, the musicians are hidden beneath the stage in what’s called the pit. It was Wagner who popularised this change—moving the orchestra from the same level as the stage to a lowered position—so that the audience’s attention could focus entirely on the singers and action. The music acts like an unseen narrator: essential to understanding and feeling the story, yet deliberately kept out of view.

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The singing is the iconic stamp of opera. Everyone knows those prolonged, high-pitched sounds that could (supposedly) break a glass. But let’s go further than that. Opera singers are divided by voice type: three for women and three for men:

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For women, there’s the soprano, the highest and most acute female voice, usually cast as the heroine, the romantic lead, or the tragic figure. Then the mezzo-soprano, which sits in the middle range between high-pitched and low-pitched, often playing mothers, witches, or complex supporting roles. And finally, the contralto, the rarest and lowest female voice, known for its deep, thick tone, typically associated with older women, mystical characters, or powerful authority figures.

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For men, there’s the tenor, the highest and most acute male voice—often the romantic lead. Then the baritone, which lies in the middle range between high-pitched and low-pitched, usually playing fathers, villains, or conflicted heroes. And finally, the bass, the lowest and deepest male voice, perfect for kings, priests, or sinister characters. 

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Acting in opera tends to be supervised by an acting coach, and it’s arguably the most challenging part of the performance. All singers know how to sing, but few know how to sing while acting. Over time, the demands for convincing stage presence have grown to the level of film or theatre. Today, it’s not uncommon to see a singer suspended in a harness flying across the stage while delivering full vocal power. Or to witness a stage fight, a mother in anguish, friends destroying each other, and much more. 

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As mentioned earlier, a singer’s voice can be spectacular, but without solid acting, they’re not fit for a successful opera production. The reason is simple: you can’t believe two people are in love if they’re standing face to face with no real emotional connection. Opera depends on its audience believing the story, and that belief is built through genuine physical expression.

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There are two major styles of opera: drama and comedy. Drama dominates the repertoire, and many of the famous songs you’ve likely heard in films, commercials, or on TV come from there. Not to spoil anything, but in almost every dramatic opera, there’s love, a hero, a villain, and someone dies. Just for general knowledge, here are five of the most well-known operas: Carmen, La Traviata, Tosca, Aida, and Le Nozze di Figaro. 

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The other genre (comedy) is also known as opera buffa. These works are written to amuse, and if you set aside modern expectations and embrace the refined, slightly naïve spirit of the time, there’s real fun to be had. These operas aren’t as frequently staged today, but the best-known example is The Barber of Seville.

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So, why see opera? Why insist on a slowly dying art form? What makes it worth your time when there are so many options? Why wear elegant clothes to sit through a four-hour performance in a language you don’t understand? Why? The answer is because you have to. Sensibility, culture, intellect—they all demand it. It’s a form of entertainment reserved for those few who are willing to renounce the stupefying distractions typical of our time, and make an effort to enjoy something complex, profound, and rewarding.

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Yes, opera demands more than passively sitting and being bombarded by stimuli meant to carry you away without thought or real attention, but it gives more than it asks. It helps you develop a sensitivity for refined forms of human expression, and the more you learn about them, the more pleasure they bring. It demands active involvement and respect for tradition. But once you’ve understood what you saw, once you go over what you felt, and once you allow yourself to experience the full richness of this art form in an educated way, then you’ll have a time you won’t forget.