Following the fanfare that opens the act proper, we meet the accented waltz theme that will re-assert itself periodically, setting the tone and pace of the long opening number and returning at the act’s end after Capulet has restored order. It’s no light, lilting waltz—a bit of a thumper, really, marked allegro maestoso, its heavy downbeats underpinned by tympani strokes. It’s quite possible to weary of this theme. Gounod’s biographer James Harding, for instance, calls it “the pompous Second Empire mazurka that booms unrepentantly throughout the ball.” And I would suppose it a wish to avoid booming pomposity that led both Gianandrea Noseda, conductor of the new production, and Bertrand de Billy, conductor of the older one, to treat the allegro maestoso more as an unvaried presto leggiero, were this not the default setting of so many conductors (and of the Met orchestra itself, when not prodded in another direction) in approaching French music. But the booming pomposity is the point, and must be rendered with weight and conviction. It stands for the occasion’s social ostentation, and its high significance to the Capulets. The choral lines, which urge us to gather rosebuds while we may and are lilting, play against it; then it returns. But the treatment of both these conductors (the first instance of the eerie similarities in my notes) moved like a whiskbroom through the sequence, as if to flick it off like dandruff. We were at no grand ball, but a cheery little gathering for which the orchestra played what sounded very much like salon background music.

With the first section of recitative that launches the plot, we begin to get the now-familiar disheartening realization, at the vocal entrance of each new supporting character—Paris, Tybalt, Gertrude (for Mercutio, see below)—that the voices will not be equal to even the modest but important tasks allotted to them. It’s not crucial that Tybalt, for instance, possess a ravishingly beautiful romantic tenor. But when he pops up to the A at “Le trésor unique et sans prix,” we do need to sense an assertive presence that will later have some antagonist plausibility. In Gertrude’s few lines, we don’t have to spot the next great Dalila, but we must hear a settled low range that can calm, admonish, and call. Without such contributions from the singers of small roles, basic theatrical continuity falls away.

Now Capulet escorts Juliette onto the scene and offers some lines of welcome. All present comment on the debutante’s beauty and charm and she, hoist by arpeggiated harp chords from somewhere, responds with “Écoutez! C’est le son des instruments joyeux,”  an entrée that, with its feverish sentiments and roulades up and over the high D goes a little beyond the usual coming-out recitation. I’ll come back to Juliette when we arrive at the waltz song; first, a look at Capulet’s “Allons, jeune gens,” which now follows. It’s an excellent song, in more or less standard A-B-A form, except that B turns out to contain three episodes, each with a transformation of tone and, if one has any stylistic sensibility at all, some easements of pace. In A, a vigorous movement with enough flourishment to remind us that French basses were expected to command such with elegance, Capulet urges the young to celebrate their youth and ignore censorious grumblers. The first episode of B (“Qui reste à sa place,” etc.)  is a pattery eight-bar section about the disgrace of those who sit out the dance. The second (“O regret extrême,” etc.) tries to keep going cheerily, but voices sorrow that the singer himself can no longer lead the revels, and recalls some youthful dalliances; this gives way to the third (O folles années,” etc.), which winds down quite sadly with reflections on flown youth that will never return. Then Capulet snaps to and reinstates A, concluding with a sustained top F as he calls for “place aux danseurs!“