COMMUNITY
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Paramount >> Cont. from pg. 13 surprise on the faces of the players, momentarily gobsmacked by the near-naked man poised to steal their spotlight. The moment broke when the backside took a hard right at the orchestra pit, sprinted past the front row into the wings and up the short flight of stairs and disappeared through the side curtain. The opera continued without a hitch. The audience was left agape. The streaker got away. How do you return your attention to a performance you barely understood to begin with after that? I joined the rest of the audience in taking a deep, refocusing breath. The soprano ascended a staircase on stage and prepared to sing her tune from a balcony. Her wig was tall and fantastic. As she began her part, a streak of black appeared, and stayed. Was this part of the show? The question was answered yet
THE BACKEND MAKING ITS WAY UP THE CENTER AISLE WAS EVOCATIVE OF A CLASSIC GREEK STATUE. EVEN 25 YEARS LATER, I CAN SEE THOSE WHITE CHEEKS BOUNCING THROUGH THE FOREST OF RED VELVET AND BEADED VON MAUR DRESSES.
again by gauging the reactions onstage: As soon as the singer spotted the unidentified flying object, her eyes became so big we could see the whites from our seats. It was a bat. The bat had emerged from somewhere backstage, and appeared to want to nest in that magnificent wig. The soprano started ducking, her giant wig swaying back and forth. She sang on, and the bat circled on. Her voice was strong, but there was a warble of fear behind it. The audience held their collective breath, releasing little gasps that coincided with the bat’s swooping. Just as the players did not stop for a butt, they persevered through the flight of a bat. It was impressive. The show must go on. The aria ended, the soprano descended the staircase and the bat flew out of sight. The whole spectacle lasted more than two and a half hours. When the final notes ceased ringing and the house lights glowed bright, the audience rose to a standing ovation that warmed the entire 1,690-seat theater. It was an outpouring of appreciation not only for the players, but for the shared sense that we had all witnessed—and survived—something truly singular. It was a bonafide opera buffa. Erin E. McCuskey lives in Iowa City with her family. While she has many more stories from the Paramount, she begs you to find your own stories by seeing shows at your local venues every year.
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