Hoffmann & Papa

Jacques Offenbach, they said in Paris, certainly can cancan. But could he write serious music? He died trying to finish his one attempt, an opera with a libretto based on stories by Germany's weird. Poe-etic story spinner, E.T.A. Hoffmann (1776-1822). The Tales of Hoffmann, first produced in 1881, four months after Offenbach's death, was a smash. The French, who wisely distrust overly sweet wines, have always had a weakness for sweet opera, and much of Hoffmann fits into the sucre fashion of Gounod's Faust, Saint-Saens' Samson et Dalila, etc. When it tries to get serious, it often just turns watery. But the score, if well played, always bubbles with its own kind of wit and Gallic lyricism.

Last week, at the opening of Manhattan's Metropolitan Opera, the Hoffmann score was eminently well played under Conductor Pierre Monteux, who at 80 is the most irrepressible prodigy in the music world.

Stage Magic. The Met's General Manager Rudolf Bing spent most of his money and effort on sets and costumes (by Rolf Gerard), and for once the decor onstage was brighter than the intermission melee in Sherry's bar. Highlights: P: Living murals in the opening tavern scene, with a pair of bacchantes astride barrels, pouring wine and beer into golden goblets and steins waved by bare, disembodied arms.

P: An alchemist's laboratory full of bubbling test tubes and retorts to intrigue the audience, and the apparition of a beauteous brunette to tease the hero.

P: The Grand Canal of Venice, with realistic (if a bit jerky) gondolas passing by, and waiters bearing trays of steaming, rainbow-colored drinks.

The Met's Hoffmann had some serviceable singing by the large cast, with Tenor Richard Tucker in particularly mellow voice and French Baritone Martial Singher singing with enormous power and control. Roberta Peters was the pert doll. The standout was Soprano Lucine Amara. who brought to the stage the kind of dazzling vocal splendor that made the Met famous. The sound of her voice was eggshell-fragile, sunset-colored, and so surprisingly powerful that the audience burst into cheers at the end of her big aria.

But the real star was Pierre Monteux. -who stood like a tree, moving only the tip of his baton, and made Hoffmann sound better than many listeners thought possible. How he did it: he went light on such over-familiar numbers as the Barcarolle, took them perhaps a soupqon faster than usual, and when the drama got heavy, he made it even more dramatic by whipping the percussion section into thunder.

Champagne Diet. Monteux gets his results partly by impeccable musicianship, partly by his remarkable vitality, partly by personal appeal. Says Tenor Tucker: "I love him. I want to hug him the minute I see him."

In 1952 Monteux left the San Francisco Symphony after 17 years, but it was no retirement. He has appeared as guest conductor in a dozen countries, and regrets that "they don't have symphony orchestras all over the world so I could see Burma and Samarkand." After last week's Met opening, for which he had rehearsed orchestra and cast 60 hours, Monteux attended a champagne party until 2 a.m., was up again at 8 for a five-hour rehearsal at Carnegie Hall. During the next five days, he conducted two rehearsals and four concerts, and this week he is doing it all again. "Papa" Monteux is pleased that doctors put his physiological age at a mere 65, takes pride in his still black hair (his luxuriant mustache is white). Says his third wife, 61-year-old, Maine-born

Doris Hodgkins Monteux: "When he wakes up in the morning, he's all rosy--like a big baby with a mustache. There is something very young about him."

His wife is dieting, which has led Monteux to remark, "She ees on a tea diet--I am on champagne." Monteux's champagne tastes were formed early. At 14, he was playing second violin at Paris' Folies-Bergeres. He loves Offenbach's music, which was still the rage of Paris in those fiddling days, and he likes to think of life as a kind of Offenbachanalia. In 1949 in Amsterdam, when he was to conduct at the Concertgebouw, a group of friends were waiting for Monteux and his wife in the hotel lobby, intending to take them to the concert hall. M. and Mme. Monteux were late. When they finally appeared at the top of the staircase, Doris Monteux turned to the assembly and said with a sweet smile: "You must forgive us for being late, my dears, but we were being naughty."

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