When I was a child, we would drive up to Scotland every summer for the holidays. For a boy of eight, the eleven-hour trip to the highlands was hell for both my parents and me, and so to cut the arduous journey in half, we’d often spend a night or two with family friends. One July, my brother, father and I stopped to stay the night at the singularly spooky, Grantham House. It was the home of my dad’s old friend, a decorated WWII soldier with the whimsically Wodehousian name, Major-General Sir Francis Brian Wyldbore-Smith, and it is supposedly one of the most haunted houses in Britain. Needless to say, it was a sleepless night.
Verdi’s Falstaff at the Met delivers the lulz
Is Falstaff a casual, end of career “farewell tour” simply to prove the critics who claimed Verdi could not write comedy wrong? Far from it.