Acting Up on
Opening Night

Opening night at the opera! Is there a more magical occasion for any opera fan? It’s like opening day of the baseball season, with everything fresh and filled with possibility. That was certainly the case for me on the opening night of San Francisco Opera’s 1989 season. It was an especially sweet occasion, as I had just recently assumed full-time duties as general director, following an unbelievably busy eighteen-month period when I simultaneously led the Canadian Opera Company. San Francisco was now my one and only home, and this particular opening night would serve as a kind of official start to my tenure at its splendid opera company. I anticipated nothing but glamour, celebration, and an electric performance.

Even though I was the head honcho, I was still learning some of the ropes. The assignment on this night wasn’t too tough: put on a tux, enjoy a gala dinner and dance with the company’s most high-profile patrons, and watch the show. In short: eat, drink, and be merry. I was reasonably sure that I could handle it.

About fifteen minutes before curtain, three thousand of San Francisco’s most glittering glitterati began to file into the auditorium — there was literally a sea of fancy gowns and tuxedoes as far as the eye could see. As for me, I slipped away to undertake a truly pleasurable duty: going backstage to wish our performers well. The opera was Falstaff, Giuseppe Verdi’s romp about Shakespeare’s fat knight. Thomas Stewart starred as the title character, and the “merry wives of Windsor” included Pilar Lorengar and Marilyn Horne. Each one was an old friend, so it was all very huggy-huggy kissy-kissy. I had intended to watch the opening scene from the wings and then make my way to the general director’s box for the rest of the performance.

The house lights dimmed, and conductor Kazimierz Kord entered the orchestra pit to brisk applause. Opening night in San Francisco traditionally begins with everyone singing the National Anthem, and Kazimierz lifted his baton to cue the orchestra. But instead of the expected drum roll I heard an explosive roar. It was literally a wall of sound on the other side of the curtain.

You grow accustomed to a lot of strange sounds in opera, but this was a new one. We all froze — performers, stage crew, all of us. Then one of the production staff screamed, “Oh my God, it’s ACT UP!”

“What the hell is an ‘act up’?” I asked. “And what’s it doing in our opera house?”

On the spot she gave me a very quick education about the AIDS Coalition To Unleash Power, an advocacy group dedicated to supporting people with AIDS.

ACT UP uses “direct action” to spread its message. Someone must have noticed that our opening night always got a lot of media coverage. The math probably seemed obvious: our coverage equals their coverage. Opening night tickets are expensive by design, to help raise money for the rest of the season. But there’s always standing room, which costs less than a movie ticket. It seems that ACT UP bought every available standing room ticket. They stood at the back of the auditorium, two or three feet deep. As the house lights dimmed, they stealthily worked their way down the main aisles. The instant Maestro Kord lifted his baton they let loose, screaming and yelling at the top of their lungs, blowing whistles, and unfurling the banners they had somehow secreted in their clothes.

My first thought was, Idiots! This is the wrong crowd! We were not ACT UP’s enemy. In fact, our patrons were quite familiar with AIDS and its terrible impact on the community, and many already contributed a lot of money for medical research, support services, and the like. A split second later I thought, Lotfi, do something! You’re the boss. I stuck my head through the curtain, an absolute no-no in the theatre world. It turns out that the situation was being handled quite well without me.

Maestro Kord and the orchestra had quickly launched into the National Anthem. Instinctively, the audience stood and began to sing lustily. Meanwhile, several of the men had the presence of mind to move from their seats to the aisles, joining together to form phalanxes. Slowly but surely they backed up the demonstrators to the doors where security guards had arrived to escort them all the way outside.

Within just a few minutes the auditorium was clear. As the guards mopped up I took the opportunity to check in backstage. What had happened wasn’t our fault, but I was still mortified. I feared that some of our artists would be upset — perhaps too upset to go on. I should have known better. All had worked extensively in places like Italy and France, where performances are routinely interrupted by strikes, demonstrations, and rowdy fans. Stewart, present onstage the entire time, had barely flinched. Lorengar and Horne thought the whole incident was delightfully theatrical and funny. I was more upset than any of them!

As for the ACT UP members, apparently they left the Opera House without putting up a fight. I don’t think there was a single arrest. And, as it turned out, they didn’t get what they came for. It had all happened so quickly and with so little real fuss that it barely got mentioned by the press. Interestingly, to this day some ACT UP members refer to the night they “stormed the opera house.” I suppose for them it has taken on the proportions of some mythical battle. But it sure looked like farce to me.

It took about fifteen minutes to settle the audience and reset the stage. I needed the time too — to calm down. When the stage manager told me we were ready to go, I asked for the house microphone and stepped in front of the curtain. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, with tongue firmly planted in cheek, “San Francisco Opera always promises you an exciting opening night, and this is no exception! I am pleased that we have continued the tradition.” With that, all of the tension in the house broke, everyone laughed and applauded, and we launched into a lovely performance.

Oh God, I thought, as I worked my way to my seat, I’ve barely started here. Is it always going to be like this? In retrospect, it was, in fact, a kind of preview of coming attractions. Just a month later, the Loma Prieta earthquake would rip through the San Francisco Bay Area, crippling the Opera House. The next year our orchestra would go on strike, leading to the cancellation of part of our season.

But on this night we all shared a good laugh at the cast party. And I drank a lot of scotch.