The LWBSA (Leakers and Whistle Blowers Society of America) succeeded last week in smuggling me in to the final dress rehearsal of “Donald” at the Metropolitan Opera House, and despite having promised not to I will tempt the wrath of management (not to speak risking revocation of my cultural critiquing credentials) and here describe for you the closing scene. (Spoiler alert.).

The revolving stage spins to bring before us a marvelously realistic set of the rooftop of the White House. A pillar of black smoke rises slowly in the background, occasionally illuminated by orange flashes accompanied by rumbling thunder. Center stage is a small shoulder-high circular citadel of moneybags, tilted so we can see inside where a solitary figure in a black suit and a four-foot-long blood red necktie stands with its arms raised, screaming more than singing over ominous chords including much sawing at bass fiddles. He is hurling imprecations at God, for lack of loyalty, and at Mexicans and transgender soldiers and at Muslims for just existing. (Several ranks of Muslims are in fact visible stage left, in what’s left of a bombed-out building, under a crumbling dome, bowed down with their foreheads touching the ground. Flickering flashes outside the dome suggest that the bombing is not over). Stage right is fenced off by a fourteen-foot wall of steel spikes.

In the windows of the White House below are framed, outlined against a background of flickering flames, other members of the cast whom we have met in earlier acts : (1) Ivanka, coolly painting her nails and carefully holding the bottle with its label displayed, (2) Melania, arranging herself with one leg carefully in front of the other to minimize any incipient signs of cellulite, in a tight-fitting blouse (size ten), (3) Jared, First Son-in-Law, showing his profile (the good side) and what is probably intended to come across as a winning smile but which looks more like a smug assertion of invulnerability, (4) Sons Donald Junior and Eric, arms linked, holding several large ledgers closed with hasps and padlocks, and (5) little Barron in short pants, looking a bit confused, as though he thought he had outgrown them some time ago.

At the front of the stage there is an open garden, surrounded by rose trellises, in which various other cast members are gathered for what may be either a celebration or a wake. Participants wear Capitol-access ID name badges. Most also wear facial expressions usually only seen on severely constipated patients in the privacy of hospital bathrooms. However they have a band of uniformed musicians to cheer them up. The band is playing “Hail to the Chief”, under the direction of a particularly dyspeptic-looking gentleman with jowls and rimless glasses. A vista of empty bleachers stretches away into a perspective vanishing point in the distance.

Downstage front to the right can be seen the gas-swollen carcass of an enormous elephant, surrounded by little men with flag pins in their lapels and chisels in their fists, intent on hacking the remaining bits of ivory from what’s left of the elephant’s formerly formidable dental equipment. Above, a vortex of vultures slowly circles, waiting patiently for everyone else to leave.

In the foreground are head-and-shoulders silhouettes of the chorus, like a row of human footlights, dressed in lumberjack shirts and overalls, doing a slow two-step and chanting “Lock Her Up!”, “Build That Wall!”, and “Take Our Country Back!” in a low monotone like the subdued and dismal drone of distant bagpipes.

Suddenly, in a burst of flames, a section of the roof caves in, and the Donald is seen sliding helplessly into a hole shaped like a map of the State of Florida (to the accompaniment of a ritornello to Act One, where, we remember, it all began). As the curtain slowly falls, five stooped black-robed figures carrying water pails march across the stage from left to right, making their exit as the curtain finally falls and there is projected on it an Imax version of Francis Scott Key’s view of Baltimore’s Fort McHenry. The flag above the ramparts seems to be descending.

A caption on your seat-back screen reads : Management requests that there be no applause at the conclusion of the performance.