Like a Feather in the Wind

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The music was only the beginning of the wonders of Rigoletto.

Stepping onto the sidewalk bordering the Metropolitan Opera House, I gazed in wonder as the scores of people strode excitedly through the pavilion, lit crisply despite the unrelenting rain. The suits and dresses exuded class in every which way–I could just imagine the wonder of the interior.

As I walked into the building, a wall of color and glittering lights hit me. I looked around at the bustle of eager feet over the lush red carpet, following the rush towards the intricately ornamented doors. A few shuffles to the right, the left, and suddenly there I was in one of the most elegant theatres I have ever witnessed. The show hadn’t even started yet, and already the atmosphere of the Met was having a powerful effect on me.

This first thing that caught my eye in the theatre was the stage curtain. It was simply stunning; the gold thread gleamed in the soft house lights that guided me gently to my seat. The next thing that amazed me was the theatre’s accommodations for those not fluent in Italian: each seat was specially fitted with a screen with the English (or Spanish, or even German if you prefer) translations to the stage’s eminent happenings.

I was barely able to become accustomed to the theatre’s grand ambiance when the lights began to dim. Filled with anticipation, I watched as the conductor gracefully gestured to the crowd, and began to lead the orchestra in the gorgeous tones of Rigoletto’s overture, a melding of various emotional avenues through carefully delivered music. I closed my eyes in sheer enjoyment of the perfectly tuned, thoughtfully composed orchestra, taking in the consonant sounds gratefully. All too soon, though, a flash of light collided with my eyelids—and as I opened my eyes, I was met with a vibrant scene of frenzied laughter and extravagance.

The number of people on stage was difficult to ascertain—the opening scene’s fervent circulation made it hard to even attempt a head count. The true abundance of the actors was made clear though, when the piece demanded of them their voices.  A wall of sound rushed towards me, washing over my ears with its emotional grandeur and into my heart. More than once I found myself closing my eyes, appreciating the clarity and live purity of the piece’s classically trained voices. Before I had left my dorm that evening, I was certain that I would be closing my eyes out of boredom and exhaustion—but Rigoletto’s actors’ careful articulation and successfully portrayed (if not excessively portrayed) passion made it impossible to miss the show’s journey through various emotional events.

Never before had I seen such an aptly relayed expression of emotion—and what’s more, it was successful despite my inability to see the facial expressions of the performers.

The opera moved through joy, pain, love, fear, anger, and loss without so much as a hiccup. However, unlike a “feather in the wind,” I know that this night’s experience of the Metropolitan Opera House’s Rigoletto will remain with me for many years to come.