After exhausting "Don Giovanni " for three hours last night, fifteen of which have not yet gotten past that, they mature sensations. I love to be back to visit the Teatro Colón, which otherwise is playing at being tourists in the city itself. But I did not enjoy the work, and while they were taking turns foot cramps, by the narrowness of the enclosure, and multiple contractures in his neck and back, I went down myself to look around some people close, well worthy of being on stage.
behind our seats, a row of men standing. On the next floor, he repeated the line, but women. Preconciliar code governing this order to avoid unnecessary touching, the usher told me later. During the intermission I escaped downstairs to stretch your legs. Tucumán street was deserted and quite cold under the moonlight. Looking to the palace lit courts, the feeling was of being in the first world, which was quickly tempered by the crowd fleeing in a group of French, cursing in different languages. Going up for the second act I lingered in cafes floors successive, as opposed to the descent into the hell of Dante, as were disappearing up the "tuxedos" and appeared interesting people-whether it is the adjective. Rung by rung, the keen observer would have collected a good synthesis of Argentina society, from an oligarchy to an intelligentsia deadpan kitsch, yet something's gaze.
I return with my memory to the stage. Attitudes will be expected of players, that gesture clearly conveyed the seventeenth century? Will the reiteration of musical phrases, such dialogues-it-Pimpernel? Or was the discomfort of the seat? All this was capped by the aria "Dalla sua pace" (end of first act) and the incredible note of Hugo Becaccece about Lorenzo da Ponte, the writer of Don Giovanni, which concludes with regard to this descent into the underworld opertísticos. Dear reader, leave this blog and conclude your turn your adventure, going directly to the reading this note.
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