Music: Young Man at the Opera

The young man was breathing hard as he tried for the fourth time to tie his stiff white tie so that both ends would come out even. Then he slipped on his rented tails, feeling a little ridiculous, and off he went to pick up his date. Opening night at the Metropolitan Opera (they said) was just about the most exciting occasion of the New York season and should therefore prove (he hoped) the most effective way to impress a girl. The investment of $60 for a pair of tickets was considerable (particularly since the show was on theater TV in Brooklyn, and dozens of other places, at $3 a seat). But this was a very special kind of girl, who knew her music. In the jogging taxi, the young man was delighted when she cooed: “I’ve never been so thrilled in my life.”

The young man had never seen grand opera except in the movies, but it must be pretty grand, all right. Look at that line of people who had been standing in the cold for three days in order to stand for four hours more inside. In the crowded lobby, his date fully expected to see a contingent of Astors and Vanderbilts (nobody had told her that opening night at the Met is, more and more, a circus, less and less a real social event). But the young man saw quite a few celebrities: an ex-Miss America, Margaret Truman, Eddie Fisher and his Debbie, and that blonde sagging under her jewelry—that was Hope Hampton.

Two on the Hook. The program listed the prologue to Pagliacci. The big curtains parted on a husky, stiff-backed man named Leonard Warren, dressed in a peculiar costume—tails and a blue shirt (probably for TV). His words were in incomprehensible Italian, but he certainly could sing. Next came the first act from La Bohème. The scene was a huge, musty attic with four gay blades romping around. The music was very pretty, and it seemed clear that the stocky fellow in an artist’s beret named Richard Tucker was making time with Victoria de los Angeles. This kind of thing, thought the young man, should at least put his date in the right mood.

In the intermission, the young man and his girl got caught in the crush on the way upstairs to the bar—he had never seen so many jewels and furs in his life—and only just managed to get Scotch-and-soda (at $1.00 each) before the bell summoned them back for the second act of Barber of Seville. The setting was a knockout, bright and modern-looking, and the heroine—this time it was pretty Roberta Peters—sang a tricky song he had often heard on the radio, called Una Voce Poco Fa. After that there was a lot of fine singing and clowning. Fat Fernando Corena sat in a fat chair and glared suspiciously at everybody; tall, skinny Jerome Hines wore a crazy hat, sat in a tall, skinny chair, giving him arguments. The heroine seemed to have two other men on the hook, a nobleman named Cesare Valletti and the barber, sung by Robert Merrill. It was pretty confusing, especially when the soldiers came on, tramped back and forth and nobody seemed to be in charge, but everybody certainly could sing.

Four Chunks. A lot of seats were empty by the time the third number came on. This was three whole scenes from Aïda. First a Marlon Brando kind of man named Mario del Monaco came out and sang very loud and very high. He was luckier than the other operatic heroes and seemed to have two women after him, one being the daughter of the king of Egypt. Her name was Blanche Thebom, and she was a looker. The other was not so young, but she certainly could sing. Her name was Zinka Milanov. The young man liked it best in the third scene, where the Egyptians staged a big show with dancing girls. From where he sat, they looked mighty cute and not overdressed, but there were no bumps or grinds. He never did find out whether the boy got one of the girls, but things didn’t look too good for him when the final curtain fell at the end of the act.

As they pressed through the crowd into the cool night air, his date explained to him that he would have enjoyed everything much better if he had seen one whole opera instead of four chunks. This the young man found reasonable, but then why had the Met put on this minced-up show? To make things more interesting for the TV audiences, someone said, and to give more stars a chance to appear. But was it really more interesting that way, or just more confusing? The young man was not sure he particularly wanted to see this sort of show again. True, his date was delighted and clung tightly to his arm. But as for him, he was very, very tired.