Claire and I saw Janáček's Jenůfa at The Met on Saturday evening. It was a welcome return to what has been, with the exception of last year, an annual tradition of ours. The staging was appropriately bleak, but the story and incorporation of Czech folk music into otherwise traditional operatic forms was really intriguing and made up for the absence of visual stimulation (giant rocks used as metaphor for the burden of a character's guilty conscience isn't terribly original). A doff of the cap to the xylophone player in the pit on Saturday night. He was in excellent form. Moravian villages at the end of the 19th century could definitely use a bit of new blood injected into the bachelor pool. Any woman that considers herself lucky for ending up with the man that mutilated her face in a moment of lustful spite could definitely use a mani/pedi and an e-Harmony account for her birthday.
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