The Metropolitan Backstage Tour

The Metropolitan Opera Guild — the educational foundation affiliated with The Met — offers backstage tours during the opera season. Participants are offered the opportunity for “an exclusive look at what it takes to make operatic magic at the Met! Tours offer a fascinating backstage look at one of the world’s premiere performing arts organizations, including visits to the scenic and carpentry shops, rehearsal rooms, dressing rooms, and stage area.” Other than a confirmation e-mail stating some rules (come early, no large bags, no photos, no restrooms), I wasn’t too sure what I’d be in for, or if the tour would be worth the $22.

There were about 18 of us, mostly couples, and about half seemed to be out-of-towners. More than a few didn’t seem to have much experience with opera at all — how it works, why it’s special, and the phenomenal obsession of many fans. We were split up into two groups, my half guided by Mr. Arthur White, an easygoing and knowledgeable host and Wagner devotee.

The tour took us through the control booth (at the back of orchestra); the latecomers’ purgatory room; various choral, ballet, and orchestra rehearsal rooms; backstage right and the animal loading dock; men’s and women’s sewing shops; the wig shop; scene and prop design; machining and carpentry workspaces; principals’ dressing rooms; and a few more miscellaneous spaces and many many sets crammed into every conceivable hallway and corner. On the day of my tour we were not able to walk the stage, as technicians were testing sound levels for The Merry Widow two weeks thence.

Each area was explained fully in its role at The Met, its importance to the art, and a little bit about the people who make it all happen. There are displays set up by some departments with, say, a model of the Zeffirelli La Bohème set, or a shadow box of set wagon anchor types, or a case showing the stages of wig construction. As we walked around we were given some history and anecdotes about opera traditions, famous singers, and productions. I was glad to have learned a little bit about Pavarotti’s bent nail superstition, the special Wagner curtain, and the pay rate for principal singers ($16,000 per performance), and how The Met handles covers (known in the theatre world as understudies).

Opera is special; The Met is superlative. It’s the largest opera house in the world. It’s a repertory company: 7 performances a week — no singing more than three times per week to avoid voice strain — with total set breakdowns each night and twice for Saturday matinées. Nearly everything is done in-house and in total service to the art form (which is in service to the singers). Costumes are made by about 50 tailors and seamstresses on site, plus sewers in a second space in West Harlem, they are never shared between productions. Wigs: custom for each performer and cover, 40 hours of hand-weaving: $1,500 and up. Set pieces are built and tested for acoustic properties to maintain the up-and-out sound movement in the auditorium.

I was overwhelmed at times by the very human, very quotidian backstage workings: a scrap of paper next to a sewing machine: notes to add a buttonhole, some embellishments, and a re-sizing; the stagehands’ Superbowl pool; choristers’ rehearsal notes from the chorus master: watch that entrance, fix your articulation here. For someone who hears and sees opera as a quasi-sacred ritual carried out by priest- and preistesslike performers who have studied enormously to cultivate such exceptionally difficult talent, it was even more humbling to see the enormous coordination of human effort to get it all on stage and sounding so damned good.

So was it worth my $22?

I felt the same unease familiar to all New Yorkers who try to stay culturally, socially, intellectually, and culinarily engaged while not hemorrhaging money to every institution that extends its palm. After all, I’m here because I love opera, so shouldn’t you be offering me free ways to become more engaged with your institution? But in New York, ain’t nobody does nothin’ for nothin’, and for the price of a movie and a soda pop, you get 2 hours with a knowledgeable guide to take you through a special space, answering every question completely, thoughtfully, and — to my perception — accurately. Cynics, stay home; the value is to those willing to pony up a bit of cash to peer behind the gold curtain of a sublime place wholly dedicated to the sublime art, and to see the very terrestrial workings that make it all happen.