A combination of slushy sidewalks and brittle hips meant few matinee-favoring elders were in attendance for the opera at the Met this afternoon, which was a shame, because Faust concerns a bitter coot exchanging his soul to Méphistophélès for youth.
Newly brisk and handsome, in a tenor sort of way, Dr. Faust saunters about town, knocks up a young hottie then abandons her for drink and carousing with his new buddy satan. When she’s imprisoned for murdering her illegitimate child, Faust tries to bail her out. But she refuses and angels whisk her away via a deus ex machina similar to the one she rode in on, billowing white and floating in the heavens over a rainbow. Love lost, Faust grows old again and though hellbound, has at least experienced all his missed pleasures of youth. Now he can retire in comfort to the lecture circuit to promote his new book, Soul-Selling for Fun and Profit.
After the show, Andie, Eric and I trekked up to Big Nick’s for dinner. We scaled small unplowed mountains of snow in our path and leapt over those seemingly solid pools of slush that collect in dips at the curb near crosswalks.
The warming glow of pink and red neon signs surrounding our table made us feel as if we ourselves were in Faust or maybe Taxi Driver, although instead of angels, a framed photo of Homicide’s Detective Munch (Richard Belzer) hovered above us.
