oftS-ay oreC-ay Opera-ay ornP-ay

With my head still on the pillow this morning, I awoke to thoughts of...

"What should I do with this day? Should I go the Met again? They're simulcasting The First Emperor today. Is it worth the time? Fifi does want to study the Eastern hemisphere next year, and Husband thinks that would be a good idea considering that they will surely own us one day; this could be a piece that will pique her interest even more."

*think, think*

"Hmmm. No. I'm going to skip it. It's expensive and it's not necessary."

But when I got to the kitchen, I really wasn't sure and asked Husband to help me decide. (This was my way of making sure that his 4-hour commitment to herding the energy suckers whirly birds - all by himself -- wouldn't be made under duress.) We brought up the link on the laptop and realized that not only would Placido Domingo be singing the lead, but that the excellent Chinese film maker, Zhang Yimou, was the Producer.

"Oh. You have to go. The set design is sure to spectacular," was Husband's advice. And I agreed.

And so we went. Fifi and me. We dressed up, made our ticket purchase on-line and looked forward to an afternoon of ethnic costume, dramatic make-up, and the intriguing angular cadence of Mandarin voice.

Ha!

Imagine my surprise when Domingo and the others sang in...English! English?! *sigh* What a disappointment.

But we listened. And it was terrible. Silly. Tiring. Contrived. Even my low expectations of Chinese opera were too high for this score. The musical line had no direction whatsoever.

And the sets? Sometimes grand, but too often kind of "ropey" -- which is to say that some of the sets were suspended by 7 miles of heavy rope, and we watched the characters through the hundreds of vertical cords that blocked a clear view.

I'm sure the set designer meant to do that, but I just didn't get it.

And just when I was about to decide that life is too short and that we should cut our losses and leave at the intermission, the production took a turn that made my decision very clear for me. In the middle of this opera that was billed as an historical fiction rife with political intrigue and power, there was a deflowering!

Yes! That's what I said!

On the screen was played out an artistic, fully clothed, but presumably graphic (I say "presumably" because the choreography began to go to a place that forced me to avert my eyes along with Fifi, whose eyes were already turned away) depiction of the Emperor's daughter's most intimate moment.

I don't know, have I just sheltered myself now for too long? Should I have expected to see a se% scene in the middle of a formal New York Opera? Whatever is this world coming to?

Thankfully, the theater was able and willing to quickly refund my money when I calmly explained that the content of the picture was completely inappropriate for my 11 year old daughter, and that there should have been a rating or a warning.

And then I spent a good portion of the ride home apologizing to Fifi for subjecting her to such abhorent material. And I bribed bought her a late lunch at her favorite Italian restaurant with the refund.

Oh yes, and dessert. I never buy dessert.