opera

HD Opera at Lincoln Center Plaza

Staving off summer’s end

Late August in New York City was not as muggy or unrelenting as most, but the streets still bustled at night with those seeking relief. At 11 p.m. the playgrounds of the Chelsea Housing Project were filled not with furtive transactions and hoodied scouts, but with the soft creak of swings and the higher pitches of children, murmuring in deference to the night.

In a social experiment fitting the season and demographics, the Metropolitan Opera made a series of outdoor screenings available free to the public. After the surprising success of their “HD Opera” series at movie theaters across the country, they brought it home with favorite operas of the last two years on ten glorious nights in the plaza of Lincoln Center.

Dominating the western side of the Plaza, a screen hung down the front of the Metropolitan Opera with massive speakers mounted to the sides. By the fountain, scaffolding was erected several stories high to hold the projector.

The long swath of plaza concrete held 2,800 folding metal chairs, carefully set out in tight rows with four foot wide aisles for egress, a logistical nightmare and triumph. Booths at the back and sides sold over-priced drinks and gear with Opera logos.

I didn’t discover the program until the fifth night, September 2, with Il Barbiere di Siviglia and Joyce DiDonato as Rosina—SF Performances will bring DiDonato to Herbst Theater Nov 16. I arrived late and every seat was taken, so I stood with a thousand others behind the chairs.

The following night we were treated to Peter Grimes, Benjamin Britten’s twisted tale of a fisherman’s ambition and a borough’s relentless gossip. Patricia Racette played Ellen, a teacher whose hope of love turns to resignation. Anthony Dean Griffey sang the title role, a big man with an improbably high tenor and a barely suppressed rage. The liquid beauty of his voice made his fragile psychology more chilling.

The audience was unexpected. There were dogs and cell phones, dabblers and devotees. This wasn’t your usual opera crowd. Or was it? The amplified arias, audible a block away, overrode whispers of the restless. Camera cuts and close-ups enlarged every over-acted simper and grimace. Held captive not by pricey tickets but by elaborate tragedies, most were rapt. And some wandered in and out.

During Il Trittico an elderly lady swooped in to perch next to me. After one romantic song the older couple in front of her leaned together for a long kiss, blocking her view.

“This isn’t your bedroom,” she hissed at them. “It’s the Opera!” They sprang apart as she flapped her hands between their heads, then turned and sniffed at me.

“Would you like to switch seats?” I asked.

“No, no, no.” And she settled back. An hour later she stood to leave in Gianni Schicchi.

“Aren’t you staying for O mio babbino caro?” I asked, referring to the famous aria about to be sung. She grinned and clawed my shoulder in a gesture meant for solidarity. Apparently I had arrived in an upper tier at La Scala, ready to jeer a bobbled note.

Night after night I returned. One evening I scanned for an empty seat, then navigated into the middle of a tight row and asked if a seat was taken. A woman slowly removed a program from the chair.

“I was holding it for my husband…but you can be him.”

“I will try manfully,” I responded and sat, and she leaned companionably against me. The night grew chilly, and Mimi coughed and coughed and died. My seatmate left for her real mate and I missed the pretense and warmth.

Orpheus looked back at Euridice, Cio Cio San blindfolded her little son and picked up the knife, and we sat as stone. For Madame Butterfly the plaza overflowed with throngs and feelings, some inappropriate. Two men grappled as we left. “You can’t call her that. That’s my wife!” Others dried their tears and pushed past them.

—Adam Broner

This article originally appeared in the Piedmont Post.