New Hat at the Met

The Metropolitan Opera last week broke out in moderate three-quarter time. It staged the U.S. premiere of a 23-year-old opera by the late great Richard Strauss, called Arabella. Completed 23 years after Der Rosenkavalier, in 1932, it proved to be a pale reflection of that bouquet, but it had some of its typical ingredients: 1) a text by Strauss's friend, Poet Hugo von Hofmannstahl, with its share of Viennese titillation and Gemuetlichkeit; 2) lovely melodies for the high voices, including some, so melting that the music seemed to run across the stage and drown the prompter; 3) a plush orchestra filled with lavender sighs and so much busy prattle that it recalled the old lady who did not know what her opinions were until she heard what she had to say.

Boy or Girl? The plot's pretty problem: Zdenka, younger sister in a penniless noble family, has been raised as a boy for economy's sake (a boy's upbringing is so much cheaper). But Zdenka has lost her unboyish heart to Sister Arabella's best beau, Matteo. Fortunately, Arabella falls for a handsome stranger and Zdenka lures Matteo to her room, leading him to believe he is getting Arabella. Since the handsome stranger overhears (and misunderstands) this plot, things look pretty bad for a while. Zdenka finally clears everything up by appearing as the woman she really is, and the ending is suitably happy.

The Met, which can lay its hands on an astonishing number of top-drawer singers when it has a mind to, filled the cast with stars: Hilde Gueden and Eleanor Steber as the pretty sisters, Blanche Thebom as their mother, Brian Sullivan and George London as the suitors. Ralph Herbert (in a creditable Met debut) was the father, and Coloratura Roberta Peters was an impudent little flirt. Newcomer Rudolf Kempe fanned the Met orchestra to a fine performance, but the playing was so loud that it recalled the time when Strauss himself shouted from the back of a rehearsal hall: "Louder! Louder! I can still hear the singers!"

Richard or Johann? For three-quarters of the evening, it was impossible to tell that the words were in English (in a translation by John Gutman), but it hardly mattered, because most of the conversation that came through was a bore. Rolf Gerard's scenery, on the other hand, was both attractive and understandable: the vast gold and white ballroom in the second act had beautifully costumed couples waltzing in the background, and the third act's red-plush hotel lobby was an atmospheric masterpiece.

Arabella is basically an old-fashioned Viennese operetta--the sort that Johann Strauss really did much better than Richard/---without the courage of its corn. In Arabella, the waltz and schmaltz have been refined and intellectualized. Composer Strauss wrote this score in the tragically arid last third of his life, and he filled it with hints and quotations reflecting other works. His hand had lost none of its craft, and all the score lacks is inspiration. The Met postured prettily in its new hat; actually, Arabella was just an old toque.

/-No kin.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.