High Drama

Recently, I went to see Jenufa at the Met. Basic plot: Jenufa loves and is impregnated by a well-dressed wastrel who may or may not be her half-cousin and who only appreciates her for her friendliness and her rosy apple cheeks. Another man with rage issues who also may or may not be her half-cousin loves her, but his love goes unrequited. He festers, they tussle, he slices her face open with a paring knife. Her cheeks are no longer rosy nor apple-like. Jenufa goes into hiding, has a son, prays a lot, wears black. The father stops by but can't even stand to look at her scarred face, let alone marry her. The second man stops by, feels guilty, still loves her, would marry her but for the baby. Stepmother freaks out, drugs Jenufa, rushes out into a snowstorm and tosses the infant into the river. Mother is disconsolate, but decides to move on and marry the cheek-slicer, though spends some time feeling guilty because she comes with so much baggage. Come wedding day, all are gathered for the ceremony when news arrives that a baby has been found under the ice, still wearing his red cap. Everyone gets ready to stone Jenufa but the stepmother confesses, and true love between mother and maimer is found at last.

All this in Czech. I love opera.

Some drama was also had off-stage. A friend and I decided to move down from the nose-bleed section into the orchestra for the third act. We shoved our way down the 14 flights of stairs, staggered into the orchestra, and managed to cram all our luggage (2 bulky coats, 3 stuffed tote bags, 1 pair sequined butterfly wings, 1 large box containing 18 glass vases) under seats that we were assured hadn't been taken through the first two acts. I collapsed into my seat, exhausted, only to have a ticket shoved under my nose and a nasally voice intone, "Excuse me; you must be in the wrong seat. I have a press ticket" Blast. I looked up, encountered a black mock turtleneck and helmet hair that looked like it had been subdued by two paddle brushes and a full bottle of Hair Tonic for Men. "Oh dear," I said, all innocence, "we only came down when we saw how many free seats there are in this section." Bat bat, went the eyelashes. I received a basilisk stare in return. "I could find another seat," he said, though made no effort to cast his eyes away from mine. "Oh no, let ME," I growled, and conveyed myself from his seat directly into the empty seat one row ahead. He settled himself in, and my friend decided this would be just the moment to move up into the empty seat next to me. She started tossing luggage around, and I took the moment to look back and have a little chat with our new friend. "So, you're writing a review?" "Yes, I'm with the New Yorker." Oh, really. "Surely you can't write reviews when you've only seen the 3rd act?" I asked, at my most snidely polite. "Well, I would have been here earlier, but the Philharmonic only just let out," he sneered back. We eyed each other coldly. The curtain went up. When it went down again, he was gone.

Great opera. I'm looking forward to reading the review.