Any adjectives that you might (with reasonable objectivity) apply to grand opera, apply just as much to Schroeter's hysterical celebration of the form. Eika Katappa is interminably long, highly repetitive, commitedly clichéd, and very camp indeed. It is also, at times, extremely funny. It begins with a preview of coming attractions (a skinny Siegfried, a battleaxe Brunhilde) and ends with a survey of past highlights; in between lies a vast melting pot of scenes, situations and characters from your best and least loved operas, shifting restlessly in and out of narratives like an addict on overdrive. Just when it appears to be drawing its threads together, it launches into a tragic gay love story likely to cause a massive increase in Kleenex sales. Those hardy souls who stay the course are lavishly rewarded.