Authors: Alex Ross
Listen to This (27 page)
In his last years, Verdi began to be dismissed as a dated figure. Younger Italian intellectuals flocked to Wagner, who preached the synthesis of the arts and set about obliterating the conventions that underpinned Verdi’s art to the end. For some years the Verdi operas were widely dismissed as creaky vehicles for star singers, although the most famous works—
Rigoletto, Trovatore
,
Traviata
,
Aida
—never ceased to please the general public. Only with the rise of neoclassical modernism in the 1920s and ’30s did the composer’s intellectual reputation begin to recover. Leonard Bernstein once suggested that Stravinsky had derived the four-note fate motive of his opera-oratorio
Oedipus Rex
from “Pietà ti prenda del mio dolor” in
Aida
—the slave girl’s plea for mercy. Bernstein ironically summarized the fashionable attitude of his youth by calling
Aida
“that cheap, low, sentimental melodrama, the splashiest and flashiest of all the Verdi operas.”
Yet, he acknowledged, Verdi was an august poet of “pity and power,” of the individual’s struggle with fate.
Rigoletto, Trovatore
,
Traviata
,
Aida
—never ceased to please the general public. Only with the rise of neoclassical modernism in the 1920s and ’30s did the composer’s intellectual reputation begin to recover. Leonard Bernstein once suggested that Stravinsky had derived the four-note fate motive of his opera-oratorio
Oedipus Rex
from “Pietà ti prenda del mio dolor” in
Aida
—the slave girl’s plea for mercy. Bernstein ironically summarized the fashionable attitude of his youth by calling
Aida
“that cheap, low, sentimental melodrama, the splashiest and flashiest of all the Verdi operas.”
Yet, he acknowledged, Verdi was an august poet of “pity and power,” of the individual’s struggle with fate.
The downfall of German culture under the aegis of the Wagner-loving Hitler may have hastened the Verdi revival after 1945: here was one national hero who had an instinctive distrust of authority and no history of demonizing large groups of people. (“A fine civilization we have, with all its unhappiness,” he said in 1896, condemning colonialism in Africa and India.) An extraordinary postwar vocal cohort—Zinka Milanov, Maria Callas, Leontyne Price, Giulietta Simionato, Carlo Bergonzi, Richard Tucker, Leonard Warren, and Tito Gobbi, to name a few—demonstrated that Verdi runs as deep as any singer dares to plunge. The early operas returned to circulation;
Don Carlos
was finally heard in something close to its original version. (Andrew Porter, my peerless predecessor at
The New Yorker
, found some discarded portions of the score in the library of the Palais Garnier in 1970.) Now Verdi seems more popular than ever; during the anniversary year of 2001, some four hundred productions of his operas were mounted around the world. Whether we have preserved the Verdi style is another matter.
Don Carlos
was finally heard in something close to its original version. (Andrew Porter, my peerless predecessor at
The New Yorker
, found some discarded portions of the score in the library of the Palais Garnier in 1970.) Now Verdi seems more popular than ever; during the anniversary year of 2001, some four hundred productions of his operas were mounted around the world. Whether we have preserved the Verdi style is another matter.
Verdi’s writing for voice is a camera that zooms in on a person’s soul. Consider the moment in Act II of
La traviata
when Violetta, the wayward woman, leaves her lover, Alfredo. Alfredo believes that she is merely going into the garden, but he will soon receive a letter from her saying that she is gone forever. “I will always be here, near you, among the flowers,” Violetta says to him. “Love me, Alfredo, as much as I love you. Goodbye!”
Amami, Alfredo, quant’io t’amo.
When a great soprano unfurls these phrases—I am listening to Callas live at La Scala, in 1955—you hear so much you can hardly take it all in. You hear what Alfredo hears, the frantic talk of an overwrought lover: “I love you even though I am going into the garden.” You hear what Violetta cannot bring herself to say out loud: “I am leaving you, but will always love you.” And you hear premonitions of her deathbed plea, at the end of the opera: “Remember the one who loved you so.”
La traviata
when Violetta, the wayward woman, leaves her lover, Alfredo. Alfredo believes that she is merely going into the garden, but he will soon receive a letter from her saying that she is gone forever. “I will always be here, near you, among the flowers,” Violetta says to him. “Love me, Alfredo, as much as I love you. Goodbye!”
Amami, Alfredo, quant’io t’amo.
When a great soprano unfurls these phrases—I am listening to Callas live at La Scala, in 1955—you hear so much you can hardly take it all in. You hear what Alfredo hears, the frantic talk of an overwrought lover: “I love you even though I am going into the garden.” You hear what Violetta cannot bring herself to say out loud: “I am leaving you, but will always love you.” And you hear premonitions of her deathbed plea, at the end of the opera: “Remember the one who loved you so.”
This matrix of meaning is contained in a simple tune that you already know even if you have never seen an opera: a twice-heard phrase that curves steeply down the notes of the F-major scale, followed by a reach up to a high B-flat and a more gradual, winding descent to the lower F. Beneath
the voice, strings play throbbing tremolo chords. Verdi’s operas often pivot on such curt, charged phrases, which singers are expected to make into epiphanies. The composer hounded his librettists to find the right words for these passages; he wanted banner headlines of emotion. When Francesco Piave, his favorite collaborator before Boito, was working on
Macbeth,
Verdi issued this command: “USE FEW WORDS … FEW WORDS … FEW BUT SIGNIFICANT.” So significant was “Amami, Alfredo” in Verdi’s mind that he made the melody the main theme of the opera’s prelude, even though its only appearance in the opera proper is in these eighteen bars of Act II. There is no more impressive demonstration of Verdi’s lightning art: the audience hardly knows what hit it.
the voice, strings play throbbing tremolo chords. Verdi’s operas often pivot on such curt, charged phrases, which singers are expected to make into epiphanies. The composer hounded his librettists to find the right words for these passages; he wanted banner headlines of emotion. When Francesco Piave, his favorite collaborator before Boito, was working on
Macbeth,
Verdi issued this command: “USE FEW WORDS … FEW WORDS … FEW BUT SIGNIFICANT.” So significant was “Amami, Alfredo” in Verdi’s mind that he made the melody the main theme of the opera’s prelude, even though its only appearance in the opera proper is in these eighteen bars of Act II. There is no more impressive demonstration of Verdi’s lightning art: the audience hardly knows what hit it.
Callas’s execution of “Amami, Alfredo” on the 1955 set is among the most stunning pieces of Verdi singing on record. In the tense passage leading up to the outburst, the soprano adopts a breathless, fretful tone, communicating Violetta’s initially panicked response to the situation—vocal babbling, the Verdi scholar Julian Budden calls it. Then, with the trembling of the strings, she seems to flip a switch, her voice burning hugely from within. When she reaches up to the A and the B-flat, she claws at the notes, practically tears them off the page, although her tone retains a desperate beauty. Her delivery is so unnervingly vehement—here is what Björk, in her discussion of Callas, called the “mr”—that it risks anticlimax. Where can the opera possibly go from here? When you listen again, you understand: Violetta’s spirit is broken, and from now on she will sing as if she were already dead.
Such fearless pushing to the limit is exactly what Verdi demanded from his singers. John Rosselli quotes a letter that Verdi wrote to the librettist Salvadore Cammarano on the subject of casting the role of Lady Macbeth:
Tadolini is a fine figure of a woman, and I should like Lady Macbeth to look ugly and evil. Tadolini sings to perfection; and I would rather that Lady didn’t sing at all. Tadolini has a wonderful voice, clear, limpid, and strong; and I would rather that Lady’s voice were rough, hollow, stifled. Tadolini’s voice has something angelic in it. Lady’s should have something devilish.
Even if Verdi was overstating for effect, he was declaring his preference for dramatically committed singers over technically finished ones—or,
ideally, for well-trained singers who are willing to sacrifice beauty in the name of drama. Callas, experienced in Wagner as well as Donizetti, had no trouble blindsiding her audience with an abrupt surge of tone.
ideally, for well-trained singers who are willing to sacrifice beauty in the name of drama. Callas, experienced in Wagner as well as Donizetti, had no trouble blindsiding her audience with an abrupt surge of tone.
If a crisis in Verdi singing now exists, the reason may be that vocal training is far more professionalized, routinized, and specialized than it was fifty or a hundred years ago. To study archival recordings is to realize how idiosyncratic and free-spirited the art used to be. On the EMI label there is a classic compilation titled
Les Introuvables du chant Verdien
, which is almost guaranteed to transform even the huskiest young fan into a tiresome old opera queen who complains that no one can sing Verdi anymore. At the same time, these recordings demonstrate that there never was a single Verdi style. Frida Leider delivers penetrating Verdi in German; Francesco Tamagno, the original Otello, sings in what sounds like a slight French accent (presumably an Italian dialect); Nellie Melba croons mercilessly. What the golden-age singers had in common was a way of seeming to reach the limit and then pushing over it. Caruso would swell his voice tremendously at moments where it ought to have given out; Rosa Ponselle would sustain a line over supernatural spans of time, so that the music acquired the steady glow of moonlight. Their feats seem physically unrepeatable: no one has lungs like that now.
Les Introuvables du chant Verdien
, which is almost guaranteed to transform even the huskiest young fan into a tiresome old opera queen who complains that no one can sing Verdi anymore. At the same time, these recordings demonstrate that there never was a single Verdi style. Frida Leider delivers penetrating Verdi in German; Francesco Tamagno, the original Otello, sings in what sounds like a slight French accent (presumably an Italian dialect); Nellie Melba croons mercilessly. What the golden-age singers had in common was a way of seeming to reach the limit and then pushing over it. Caruso would swell his voice tremendously at moments where it ought to have given out; Rosa Ponselle would sustain a line over supernatural spans of time, so that the music acquired the steady glow of moonlight. Their feats seem physically unrepeatable: no one has lungs like that now.
Yet the crisis is not simply the result of some obscure genetic decline. The sense of freedom that you find on the old recordings is related to the fact that the stars of a century ago generally did not have to contend with star conductors. Even as these recordings were being made, Mahler and Toscanini were imposing new forms of discipline, and, although the rise of the international maestro undoubtedly led to sizable improvements in the opera house, it may also have contributed to the decline of Italian style. Conductors of the past few decades have tended to resist the constant adjustments of tempo—
ritenuto, rallentando, stretto,
and other ways of varying the pace—that Italian singing requires. Ironically, as Verdi’s intellectual stock rose, conductors sought to highlight the symphonic unity of his scores, to the detriment of vocal individuality.
ritenuto, rallentando, stretto,
and other ways of varying the pace—that Italian singing requires. Ironically, as Verdi’s intellectual stock rose, conductors sought to highlight the symphonic unity of his scores, to the detriment of vocal individuality.
In 2001, I stopped in at La Scala to see how Verdi was faring in the opera capital. I found the Neapolitan maestro Riccardo Muti—who had led the company since 1986—conducting
Un ballo
with a fiery diligence that seemed more appropriate to, say, Stravinsky’s
Oedipus.
In the middle of the formation was the young tenor Salvatore Licitra, who sang with a
certain authentic swagger. When Licitra tried to linger over a possible epiphany, you could feel Muti tugging him onward, like a parent marching a child past a candy store. The performance was engrossing, but it felt like a succession of vocal highlights inserted into an orchestral narrative.
Un ballo
with a fiery diligence that seemed more appropriate to, say, Stravinsky’s
Oedipus.
In the middle of the formation was the young tenor Salvatore Licitra, who sang with a
certain authentic swagger. When Licitra tried to linger over a possible epiphany, you could feel Muti tugging him onward, like a parent marching a child past a candy store. The performance was engrossing, but it felt like a succession of vocal highlights inserted into an orchestral narrative.
Despite the parlous state of Verdi performance, gifted singers are still able to create memorable portrayals under the right conditions. In 2006, the Romanian diva Angela Gheorghiu sang
La traviata
at the Met, and when she arrived at “Amami, Alfredo” she chose not to indulge in a vocal explosion à la Callas—perhaps because such an explosion didn’t really lie within her abilities. Instead, as the strings launched into their tremolo, she assumed a cool façade, proceeding toward her lover in statuesque fashion, painting the vocal line in sustained, majestic strokes. Instead of baring all, this Violetta raised her defenses against the world, to protect her shattered heart. Gheorghiu was not a perfect Violetta for the Met—she often sounded underpowered against the full orchestra—but she succeeded in placing her imprint on the role. Peter G. Davis, writing in New York magazine, characterized Gheorghiu aptly as “a dark-haired, impeccably gowned lady of the camellias with a sad cameo face, dangerous fragility, and an air that commands attention without hogging the scene.”
La traviata
at the Met, and when she arrived at “Amami, Alfredo” she chose not to indulge in a vocal explosion à la Callas—perhaps because such an explosion didn’t really lie within her abilities. Instead, as the strings launched into their tremolo, she assumed a cool façade, proceeding toward her lover in statuesque fashion, painting the vocal line in sustained, majestic strokes. Instead of baring all, this Violetta raised her defenses against the world, to protect her shattered heart. Gheorghiu was not a perfect Violetta for the Met—she often sounded underpowered against the full orchestra—but she succeeded in placing her imprint on the role. Peter G. Davis, writing in New York magazine, characterized Gheorghiu aptly as “a dark-haired, impeccably gowned lady of the camellias with a sad cameo face, dangerous fragility, and an air that commands attention without hogging the scene.”
Three years later, the American singer Sondra Radvanovsky came to the Met to undertake the taxing role of Leonora, in
Trovatore.
She brought to bear a richly colored, lightly tremulous soprano, reminiscent of Old World voices of yore. The high notes didn’t always fall squarely on pitch, but they sailed through the house, and, more important, they were joined together in a strongly flowing musical line. She sounded weaker in the lower register, where some of Leonora’s most wrenching music lies. “Tacea la notte placida,” the aria in which Leonora unveils her doomed passion for the troubadour Manrico, flickered out rather than smoldered in the bottom range. Yet, in all, Radvanovsky had more oomph than several others who had lately tried the part. She sang “D’amor sull’ali rosee,” her second big aria, at a daringly slow tempo, embodying a woman lost in a dreamworld of unattainable love. The conductor, Gianandrea Noseda, encouraged rather than curtailed her exploration of the part.
Trovatore.
She brought to bear a richly colored, lightly tremulous soprano, reminiscent of Old World voices of yore. The high notes didn’t always fall squarely on pitch, but they sailed through the house, and, more important, they were joined together in a strongly flowing musical line. She sounded weaker in the lower register, where some of Leonora’s most wrenching music lies. “Tacea la notte placida,” the aria in which Leonora unveils her doomed passion for the troubadour Manrico, flickered out rather than smoldered in the bottom range. Yet, in all, Radvanovsky had more oomph than several others who had lately tried the part. She sang “D’amor sull’ali rosee,” her second big aria, at a daringly slow tempo, embodying a woman lost in a dreamworld of unattainable love. The conductor, Gianandrea Noseda, encouraged rather than curtailed her exploration of the part.
The age of legends always seems distant, and yet it has a way of catching up to you as time goes by. Although I’m a relatively young operagoer, in the early 1990s I was able to hear one portrayal that has already passed into operatic history: the Otello of Placido Domingo, who whipped up storms of
rage and anguish in his superbly flexible, colorful voice, and ended on a devastating whisper of
“bacio.”
To imagine what Verdi might have thought of Domingo’s achievement is to enter into the realm of the counterfactual, but everything we know of the composer’s opinions on singing and acting suggests that Domingo would have satisfied him thoroughly.
rage and anguish in his superbly flexible, colorful voice, and ended on a devastating whisper of
“bacio.”
To imagine what Verdi might have thought of Domingo’s achievement is to enter into the realm of the counterfactual, but everything we know of the composer’s opinions on singing and acting suggests that Domingo would have satisfied him thoroughly.
If singers and conductors tend to be too studious in their approach to Verdi, today’s directors too often treat the composer with a license bordering on contempt. In 2001, the critic Matthew Gurewitsch asked several leading directors to articulate their visions of Verdi, and he received some eyebrow-raising replies. Francesca Zambello, who once set
Aida
in a nuclear-winter landscape, said, “If I have to think of a work of Verdi that moved me on stage, that’s going to be pretty hard.” Christopher Alden, who created a
Rigoletto
with bouts of transvestism and public sex, said, “You have to throw cold water on an audience. You have to wake them up, poke holes into the operas so that the inner life will flow out.” Mark Lamos, whose
Rigoletto
also featured a graphic orgy, said, “To be blunt, I find Verdi’s operas about as stageworthy as his Requiem.”
Aida
in a nuclear-winter landscape, said, “If I have to think of a work of Verdi that moved me on stage, that’s going to be pretty hard.” Christopher Alden, who created a
Rigoletto
with bouts of transvestism and public sex, said, “You have to throw cold water on an audience. You have to wake them up, poke holes into the operas so that the inner life will flow out.” Mark Lamos, whose
Rigoletto
also featured a graphic orgy, said, “To be blunt, I find Verdi’s operas about as stageworthy as his Requiem.”
With their outlandish coincidences and hyperventilating exits, Verdi’s plots do seem silly at first glance.
Il trovatore
is the most notorious example, possessing a plot so improbable that it inspired two great parodies—Gilbert and Sullivan’s
The Pirates of Penzance
and the Marx Brothers’ A
Night at the Opera
. The short version is this: a Spanish Gypsy tries to avenge her mother’s death at the hands of a count by throwing the count’s infant son, Manrico, into the fire, but, in her excitement, she grabs the wrong baby and incinerates her own son instead. Actually, this all happens before the curtain rises; the opera ends with the count’s other son ordering Manrico’s execution without knowing of the family connection. The tragedy of Leonora is that she does not go back to sleep when she hears this particular troubadour playing outside her window.
Il trovatore
is the most notorious example, possessing a plot so improbable that it inspired two great parodies—Gilbert and Sullivan’s
The Pirates of Penzance
and the Marx Brothers’ A
Night at the Opera
. The short version is this: a Spanish Gypsy tries to avenge her mother’s death at the hands of a count by throwing the count’s infant son, Manrico, into the fire, but, in her excitement, she grabs the wrong baby and incinerates her own son instead. Actually, this all happens before the curtain rises; the opera ends with the count’s other son ordering Manrico’s execution without knowing of the family connection. The tragedy of Leonora is that she does not go back to sleep when she hears this particular troubadour playing outside her window.
Then again, most entertainment appears silly when it is viewed from a distance. Nothing in Verdi is any more implausible than the events of the average Shakespeare play, or, for that matter, of the average Hollywood action picture. The difference is that the conventions of the latter are widely accepted these days, so that if, say, Matt Damon rides a unicycle the wrong way down the Autobahn and kills a squad of Uzbek thugs with
a package of Twizzlers, the audience cheers rather than guffaws. The loopier things get, the better. Opera is no different. Verdi didn’t seize on the lurid matter of
Trovatore
because he found it believable; rather, he relished the extremity of the situation, which required his characters to behave in extreme ways. His beloved maledictions, vendettas, and forces of destiny
add
plausibility rather than take it away; they make the violent accents of operatic singing seem like a natural reaction under the circumstances.
a package of Twizzlers, the audience cheers rather than guffaws. The loopier things get, the better. Opera is no different. Verdi didn’t seize on the lurid matter of
Trovatore
because he found it believable; rather, he relished the extremity of the situation, which required his characters to behave in extreme ways. His beloved maledictions, vendettas, and forces of destiny
add
plausibility rather than take it away; they make the violent accents of operatic singing seem like a natural reaction under the circumstances.
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