Opera: Crusade Against Boredom

With Leonard Bernstein and Franco Zeffirelli making their Metropolitan Opera debut together in a new production of Verdi's Falstaff, the Met was sure of a sensation. What kind of sensation was a different matter. Bernstein, never one to conceal any possible hidden talents, had not conducted in a major opera house in nine years. Zeffirelli, whose last crack at New York was a disastrous Broadway flop (The Lady of the Camellias), had signed on as director, set designer and costumer in a house where all three jobs are notoriously difficult. But when the curtains parted last week, it was clear that the Met's rare moment of daring had been amply rewarded: Falstaff was a triumph.

From the opening horseplay in the Fat Knight's lodge to the final tableau in praise of folly, the operatic version of Shakespeare's Merry Wives of Windsor was precisely what the Met needed to dignify an otherwise dolorous season. Zeffirelli's sets were like Dutch paintings come to life: an ancient inn cured in ale and laughter, a courtyard full of gossip and sunshine, a forest too deep for the eye to penetrate. His cast moved briskly and well, as if every gesture had been choreographed, and his stage direction was so good that the singers (Gabriella Tucci, Judith Raskin, Regina Resnik, Anselmo Colzani) all seemed to be excellent actors as well.

Gold Dust Twins. Bernstein had the very touch Zeffirelli needed to complete a chef-d'oeuvre: under his baton, Verdi's wit and whimsy seemed ironic and sharp. He brought modern accents and strong colors to the aerial delicacy of Verdi's score, and drove the Met's orchestra at a pace that left the superb cast flushed and breathless.

Bernstein and Zeffirelli got along like Gold Dust twins. "We are of the same generation," the 38-year-old Zeffirelli would say, "and we see things in the same light." That meant seeing Falstaff, quite uniquely, as a tragedy—an expression of absurdity, an old man's revenge. "This is Verdi's monument to the ungenerosity of people," said Zeffirelli of Verdi's last opera and his only comedy.* "It really isn't funny."

Coming from Zeffirelli, such talk is not to be taken lightly. He turned Romeo and Juliet into reckless, bopping teen-agers for the Old Vic three years ago, and Rome is still absorbed in his beat vision of Hamlet: "To be or not to be—what the hell?" says Zeffirelli's sulky prince (TIME, Dec. 27). And Falstaff turned out to be the perfect candidate for the young director's fine Italian hand. Falstaff's metamorphosis from boozy squire to oily seducer to triumphant rube is a fine argument in favor of the Fat Knight's philosophy: if the world can't see me as I am, then to hell with the world.

Fear of Flops. Zeffirelli had planned to match Verdi's canny humor by having all the scenery jerked away in the opera's final moment while the cast tore off their wigs and pointed mocking fingers at the audience. "This is a very disturbing opera, and you should be reminded at the end that it is disturbing," he argued. "Everything is a big joke! You've all been cheated!" But Met Manager Rudolf Bing didn't get it—he figured it would look like a grotesque error by the boys backstage. So he spared his audience what might have been a stunning experience.