Black Ties, No Kilts

Manhattan's Metropolitan Opera House last week opened its first World War II season--not quite as usual. A few Manhattan dowagers, of almost Egyptian preservation, clung valiantly to their tiaras and diamond necklaces. Two fur coats were stolen. Two bewildered attendants rushed up & down the lobby holding aloft a lady's shoe. But the customary gaudy chaos of Met openings was lacking. Uniforms outnumbered top hats. The "Penguin Club," a stag organization of staid oldsters who have dressed to the nines in their second-tier box at every opening since 1899, descended to the informality of black ties. So did the orchestra. So did General Manager Edward Johnson. When pert Diva Lily Pons, singing Donizetti's tinkling Daughter of the Regiment, unfurled the flag of General Charles de Gaulle, the audience untraditionally rose to its feet and shouted.

In addition to its wartime changes of complexion, the haughty Met had taken another step toward economic democracy. Admissions (by subscription) had been reduced to a $5 top (TIME, July 13), with gallery seats at $1. Wild, spontaneous applause, breaking out at awkward moments, proved that many were hearing opera the first time.

For the Duration. The Met was digging in, content to hold its defensive lines intact. Thanks to General Manager Johnson's foresight, it was well equipped to withstand wartime siege. Assiduous packing of its roster with able U.S. singers had made the Met as independent as possible of foreign importations (75% of this season's talent are U.S. citizens, 48% U.S.-born). So far the Met's schedule contained no novelties, no spectacular revivals. Most important debut of the season was expected to be that of Georgia-born Tenor James Melton, already famed for his radio (The Telephone Hour) appearances.

The Met had decided to give Wagner as usual (during World War I, German opera was banned by the directors). Avowed reason: the U.S. is fighting Hitler, not Wagner. The U.S. is also fighting Italy, and a consistent curtailment of both the German and the Italian repertory would leave only a few standard (French and Russian) items to produce.

The first week's biggest moments were provided not by singers but famed conductors. Sir Thomas Beecham and Bruno Walter made the Met's orchestra and ensembles ring with unusual dash and authority.

Another early-season hit was a completely restudied production of Donizetti's corny masterpiece Lucia, in the "mad scene" of which Soprano Lily Pons was traditionally and engagingly sane. One hoary feature of Lucia was missing: the kilts in which the pale-kneed Metropolitan chorus has strutted ever since the opera was first performed in 1835. Investigation, with the help of Manhattan's St. Andrew's Society, had disclosed that Sir Walter Scott's The Bride of Lammermoor (on which the opera is based) was laid in the Scottish lowlands where nary a kilt ever swayed in the wind.

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