1 9 9 5
BAKERS DICTIONARY
1995
DISCOVERING OPERA
1995
ENCKLOPEDIA
“DRUGIEJ PTCI”
1995
THE TRANSCRIPT
1995.10.06
LA STAMPA
1995.10.08
1 9 9 6
LA REPUBBLICA
1996.01.31
Il simbolo della cultura dimenticata
Milano - Un coro unanime di sdegno, collera, indignazione. Cantanti, registi, direttori d' orchestra da tutta Italia sono sgomenti di fronte alla distruzione di un teatro che per ognuno di loro è stato un pezzo di storia italiana e di vita personale. Claudio Abbado esprime, con la Berliner Philharmoniker, la solidarietà al sindaco Cacciari e ai lavoratori della Fenice, offrendo la disponibilità "a una concreta collaborazione", ma soprattutto confermando il concerto previsto per maggio. Più polemico è il veterano della musica lirica italiana. Gianandrea Gavazzeni, lamenta "questo secolo tutto votato alla tecnologia che pretende di dare sicurezza alle sue costruzioni e intanto le distrugge". Affranta anche sua moglie, il soprano Denia Mazzola, ricordando di quando, giovane debuttante, venne scelta nell' 82 per L' italiana in Algeri alla Fenice. "Aveva una magia unica al mondo", dice con le lacrime agli occhi il soprano Leyla Gencer - Spero solo che La Fenice rinasca come era, fatto di legno, non come quegli orrendi teatri moderni". Giorgio Strehler ha parole amare: "E' il simbolo dell' Italia che crolla. Viviamo in un Paese che non è in grado di preservare la cultura e i suoi simboli". Va più in là il regista e compositore Roberto De Simone: "Una disgrazia? Nel ' 700 c' erano le disgrazie quando nei teatri c' erano le candele. Oggi si può parlare solo di disattenzione. Ho il cuore a pezzi e pieno di rabbia". Appelli di solidarietà sono arrivati da Jack Lang ex ministro francese alla Cultura ("Se si costituirà un comitato internazionale per raccogliere fondi, sono pronto a dare il mio contributo"), dal sovrintendente alla Scala, Carlo Fontana, ("Sono personalmente disponibile, con tutti gli artisti e le maestranze della Scala, per qualsiasi iniziativa") dal Comunale di Bologna, dal Comune di Milano. Ma anche accuse: il regista Maurizio Scaparro che avrebbe dovuto allestire due opere tra marzo e aprile alla Fenice ("La disattenzione per la cultura produce in Italia effetti devastanti"); Roman Vlad, ("Non c' erano altri elicotteri antincendio? A cosa serve la base di Aviano? Soltanto a scatenare bombardamenti aerei contro la Bosnia?"); Giuseppe Patroni Griffi ("Io non credo che i teatri brucino da soli, li bruciano. E non riesco a capire i reconditi motivi, i perversi disegni, forse mafiosi, che stanno dietro al rogo. Sulla ricostruzione sono pessimista. Sarà un falso. E poi? Quanto tempo ci vorrà? Aspetteremo anni come è avvenuto per il Massimo di Palermo o come sta accadendo per il Petruzzelli?").
LA REPUBBLICA
1996.02.06
ANNA BANDETTINI
Pavorotti: Finita un’epoca
Milano - Si chiude un' epoca, dice chi lo conosceva, chi gli era stato vicino in teatro. Ma per gli amici, per gli artisti che gli si erano affezionati indelebilmente, Gianandrea Gavazzeni era un grande uomo e un artista ricco di cultura e umanità. Così il mondo della lirica lo ricorda unanimemente. Con il dolore che si prova di fronte alle grandi perdite dice Riccardo Muti: "Gavazzeni è stato per tutti noi musicisti una figura autorevole e un uomo generoso nel consigliarci". E Luciano Pavarotti: "Era il simbolo di una generazione di meravigliosi musicisti. Con lui si chiude l' epoca del belcanto che ora non ha più protagonisti. Era così bello ascoltarlo durante le prove. Non so più nemmeno io quanti Verdi ho fatto con lui, quanti Rigoletto. Con Verdi, io dicevo sempre che lui ci faceva fare le ' frasi alla Gavazzeni' , perché aveva portato le frasi larghe, cogliendo l' esuberanza, la potenza verdiana". Affranti due grandi amici, Leyla Gencer e Carlo Bergonzi che con Gavazzeni hanno condiviso 40 anni di carriera e di vita. Il soprano: "Prima La Fenice, ora il maestro. Per me erano intimamente legati. Con Gavazzeni ho fatto le cose più importanti. Di lui era sorprendente la capacità di essere profondo e brillante. Una delle ultime volte che ci vedemmo, mi regalò ' Le affinità elettive' di Goethe, con una dedica, come faceva sempre". E Bergonzi: "Dopo Karajan, Serafin, Votto, c' era lui. Se ne va un' epoca. Io l' adoravo e lui aveva un' adorazione per me, diceva che solo io potevo cantare ' Si schiude in ciel' dall' ultimo atto dell' Aida". Con Gavazzeni se ne va "un mondo culturale e musicale che, prima ancora che sull' arte ha basato le sue fondamenta su straordinari valori umani" ha ricordato Carlo Fontana, sovrintendente scaligero "per la Scala dove ha diretto per più di 50 anni, ha rappresentato la memoria storica". Commosse Renata Tebaldi che oggi ricorda "la simpatia, la giovialità e la grande cultura" e Mirella Freni che conobbe Gavazzeni nel 1963, alla Scala per L' amico Fritz di Mascagni e che avrebbe cantato nella Fedora scaligera del prossimo marzo: "Abbiamo lavorato insieme soprattutto in questo ultimo periodo. Nel repertorio verista mi ha insegnato tutto". Il soprano Rajna Kabaiwanska, aveva esordito nel mondo della lirica proprio con Gavazzeni: "Mi ha cresciuta lui. Era rimasto l' ultimo direttore a intendere la musica come una schiavitù nobile, come appartenenza totale del direttore al suo pubblico. La musica significava per lui soprattutto un modo per trasmettere emozioni ed io sono cresciuta con questo credo". Carla Fracci confessa che "con Gavazzeni se ne va una grande parte della mia giovinezza. Era il lume di cui si ha bisogno per non sbagliare nel cammino". (anna bandettini) o cresciuta con questo credo". Carla Fracci confessa che "con Gavazzeni se ne va una grande parte della mia giovinezza. Era il lume di cui si ha bisogno per non sbagliare nel cammino".
LA REPUBBLICA
1996.02.17
ANGELO FOLETTO
La mia priora per Gavazzeni'
Verona - "Sono andata avanti per forza d' inerzia.
Non avrei voluto: l' ho fatto soltanto per rispettare la sua volontà".
Denia Mazzola Gavazzeni, all' indomani del debutto al Teatro Filarmonico nei
Dialoghi delle Carmelitane di Poulenc, opera che avrebbe dovuto segnare anche
l' ennesimo esordio artistico per Gianandrea Gavazzeni: "Aveva sempre
detto, gli impegni si onorano fino in fondo e i fatti personali non devono
interferire. L' ho fatto anche in segno di affetto e di riconoscenza verso il
teatro, i collaboratori e i colleghi". Il teatro non si ferma, ricordava
l' appassionata prestazione della Mazzola nei panni di Madame Lidoine - parte
che fu di Leyla Gencer nella prima assoluta alla Scala (26 gennaio 1957) -
"la più spirituale dell' opera. La nuova Priora è la vera guida per tutte:
l' ultimo arioso avrei tanto voluto cantarlo per lui. A lui l' ho dedicato. Ma
sentivo che erano in molti a far musica come se fosse presente, l' altra
sera". Gavazzeni non aveva mai diretto Les Dialogues pur amandola molto.
Di certo l' avrebbe fatto offrendosi con la consueta profondità di sentire la
drammaticità delle parole e l' inquietudine dell' esser religioso arso dai
dubbi e indirizzato alla professione individualistica. "Il maestro era
affascinato, oltre che dalla musica dal centro espressivo dell' opera",
ricorda ancora la moglie: "quel continuo discutere sulle ragioni della
vita e della morte fin dalle prime scene, che poi cresce progressivamente pur
senza diventare freddo teologismo, mantenendo anzi una dolorosissima carica
umana. E aveva un' autentica venerazione per il grandioso e terribile ' Salve
Regina' che conclude l' opera (lo intonano le sedici carmelitane mentre salgono
verso la ghigliottina; a ogni testa che cade, una voce si spegne, ndr), una
pagina bellissima e densa: ' questo Salve Regina è la scala per il Paradiso' ,
diceva spesso. Anche per me ha un significato particolare: è l' ultima musica
che gli ho cantato, pochi giorni prima della morte". Gavazzeni che ai
Dialoghi aveva dedicato alcune pagine diaristiche leggibili nella raccolta Il
sipario rosso conosceva anche molto bene l' autore, con il quale "aveva
avuto molte occasioni di incontro. Di Poulenc parlava come un uomo mite, un
pianista brillante e una personalità coltissima. In occasione della nascita dei
Dialoghi ne ricordava la dolcezza e l' incapacità di entrare in conflitto con
le logiche non sempre civili d' una rappresentazione teatrale così complessa e
accompagnata da varie tensioni: prima assoluta, produzione difficile - la
migliore regia della Wallmann, diceva sempre - compagnia di primedonne. Ci
furono molte occasioni di scontro: l' autore non si ribellò né perse mai la
pazienza". Al Filarmonico veronese c' era molta commozione, un clima
intenso a una settimana dalla morte del maestro. Pertinente al carattere
plumbeamente potenziale e celebrativo del martirio cattolico che dà spessore
drammatico all' opera. D' alto livello la qualità esecutiva (molto efficace la
distribuzione vocale con Danielle Streiff ottima protagonista e Anna Schiatti,
Diane Curry, Darina Takova, Antonella Trevisan, Diego D' Auria, Jorge Perdigon
e Alessandro Corbelli) e la classe dell' allestimento Grossi-Fassini importato
dall' Opera di Roma. Per un non meno significativo passaggio di testimone la
guida musicale fervida era di Roberto Tolomelli, scelto a suo tempo da
Gavazzeni come assistente e promosso al primo podio.
THE TIMES
1996.03.02
CORRIERE DELLA SERA
1996.03.08
LA REPUBBLICA
1996.03.09
ALBUQUERQUE JOURNAL
1996.04.07
OPERA NEWS
1996.04.16
The Road to Istanbul
AT THE YAPI KREDI
INTERNATIONAL LEYLA GENCER VOICE COMPETITION
BY BRIAN KELLOW
"Presso Lucrezia Borgia!" That's what Donizetti's anti-heroine chillingly proclaims just before she informs Orsini and his pals that the wine they've just enjoyed was laced with poison.
Joan Sutherland, on London's
recording, is so vocally brilliant that we can forgive her when, at this
crucial moment, she sounds a little like she's calling in the hired hands to
come and get it while it's hot. Leyla Gencer's performance, on the pirate label
Melodram (MLO 270109), is another story: this is a woman of extremes, cold-
blooded enough to dispatch her enemies simply for sullying the good name of Borgia
but collapsing into hysteria when she realizes that she has murdered her own
son in the bargain. The Melodram recording is taken from a 1973 Dallas performance,
and the sound isn't the best. But that was often the fate of Gencer, known
among savvy salesclerks in classical- record shops as "The Pirate
Queen." Partly because her rise to fame coincided so closely with that of
Maria Callas, and partly because the two had so much repertory in common,
Gencer was never snapped up by a major label (she seems to have made no
commercial recordings whatsoever). As a result, her fans have been robbed of
hi-tech preservation of her greatest interpretations, and the younger
generation of opera-lovers may have trouble placing her. It's a pity, since
many of her portrayals, particularly Donizetti's Anna Bolena, are models of bel
canto style. Some accused Gencer of being a Callas imitator, but her own timbre
was quite distinctive, most of all in its haunting pianissimo (her vivid
"Addio del passato" from La Traviata, Turin, 1955, is available on
several discs; she sounds as if the breath of life is being sucked out of her,
phrase by phrase). Gencer also excelled in Mozart (her fiery "Martern
aller Arten" from Die Entführung aus dem Serail can be heard on Myto's
"Leyla Gencer, Vol. 1"), as well as in Verdi, including the composer's
earlier works (one of her biggest successes came with her 1958-59 performances
of the rarely seen La Battaglia di Legnano in Florence). All told, her
repertory included more than seventy works, from Donizetti's Caterina Cornaro
and Prokofiev's The Fiery Angel to Britten's Albert Herring.
It's a bit hard to pin Gencer
down on specifics. As Giorgio Corapi once noted, "Her biography is full of
unresolved contra- dictions and many blanks purposely left unfilled, which in
its vagueness seems already destined to become a myth." She made her debut
in Ankara in 1950, as Santuzza, but it was in Italy that her career really took
off. She had many triumphs in Naples, at a time when the Teatro di San Carlo
offered serious competition to La Scala. Throughout the decade she made
successful debuts in opera centers such as Trieste, Palermo, Munich, Vienna,
Moscow, Paris, Covent Garden, Glyndebourne and Vienna. In 1957 she bowed at La
Scala, as Mme. Lidoine in the world premiere of Poulenc's Dialogues des Carmélites.
It was the beginning of a long association with that company, where she went
from one success to another as Aida, Leonora (La Forza del Destino), Elisabetta
(Don Carlo), Norma and of course the Donizetti heroines.
In 1956 Gencer made her U.S.
debut in San Francisco in Francesca da Rimini. She also sang in Chicago,
Philadelphia, Dallas, New Orleans and San Diego, but never made it to the Met.
The closest thing she came was a performance of Verdi's Attila at New Jersey
State Opera. It was now 1972, and more than one operagoer may have been
surprised that it was billed as her "New York area debut." She
said farewell to the opera
stage in 1983, at La Fenice, but concertized until 1992. She also served on
juries and gave master classes (which she still does) and traveled with her
husband, the late Ibrahim Gencer, a onetime executive at the Yapi Kredi Bank.
Today, in her home- land, Gencer has become a cultural icon; it's hard for us
to imagine an American singer whose international achievements would make her
such a potent source of national pride.
Perhaps kismet is the only
explanation for what happened to me one morning in New York last September. I
was listening to Gencer's pirate version of Verdi's I Vespri Siciliani (Rome,
1964, MEL 27037) when I received a call from the Turkish Consul General's
office, across town: would I be interested in flying to Istanbul to cover the
first Yapi Kredi International Leyla Gencer Voice Competition? Gencer herself
was the jury chairman, and the Consul General assured me that it would be a
major cultural event for Turkey.
The Consul General turned out
to be right: the Gencer Competition was a model of organization. At Gencer's
insistence, all the guides assigned to foreign visitors were music students.
Most were fluent in French and English, avid readers of both OPERA NEWS and
Opera Now, keen to hear the latest gossip from New York about Bryn Terfel,
Carol Vaness, Cheryl Studer. My guide, Kerem Eksen, was a young aspiring singer
who provided a wonderful glimpse of Istanbul's magnificent mosques, Topkapi
Palace and famed Egyptian Bazaar. There was work to be done, too, and on
September 7, I attended the competition semifinals at the 1,000-seat Cemal
Resit Rey Concert Hall, named for the Turkish composer. Eighty-six applicants,
aged eighteen to thirty-two, had been whittled down to Twenty-five semi-finalists,
each required to sing one aria and one art song. The semifinals began at 6 P.M.
and didn't finish until around 11-a grueling experience not only for the
singers (no applause was al- lowed at any point) but for the jury, which
included, in addition to Gencer, Nicolas Joël, stage director and artistic
director of Opéra de Toulouse; Dorothea Glatt, representing Wolfgang Wagner of
Bayreuth, and artistic director of Dublin Grand Opera Society; Helga Schmidt,
artistic consultant to Covent Garden; Roman Vlad, artistic di- rector at La
Scala and president of the competition; Vincenzo de Vivo of Rome Opera; and
competition coordinator Aydin Gün, a Turkish stage director and singer and
onetime intendant of both Opera Ankara and Opera Istanbul. Gün had attempted to
launch the competition for ten years before securing the funding of the Yapi
Kredi Bank.
Although the competition was
open to singers of all nationalities, there were no British or American
applicants. There was understandably some hope in the audience that a Turkish
singer might place. It's not easy for singers to develop careers in Turkey.
There are few first-class coaches available, and the nation's four state opera
companies are not particularly welcoming. "When you sign a contract with
them," says Ayse Sezerman Ünel, the competition's general secretary,
"it's almost a life-time contract. The rosters are very congested, and
it's impossible for younger singers to break in. Most singers get early
training here and then go elsewhere for their masters' degree." (Ünel went
to Indiana University at Bloomington, where she studied with Virginia Zeani.)
In the semifinals, hopes for a
home-grown winner seemed to rest on mezzo Sebnem Kartal, a tall, slim beauty
currently studying at Juilliard, who sang a fine Car- men Seguidilla. Kartal's
looks are worth mentioning simply because the jury was composed largely of
intendants, and it became clear as the competition went on that the jurors were
looking less for a finished voice than for someone with lots of stage
potential. This might explain the elimination, during the semifinals, of tenor
Bülent Bezdüz, who offered a lovely rendition of Lensky's aria from Eugene
Onegin. The problem: Bezdüz looks to be around five- foot-four. "What
could you do with him?," someone in the row behind me whispered. Helga
Schmidt and Dorothea Glatt decided this wasn't a problem; both cornered Bezdüz
to discuss signing him to a comprimario's contract.
After the finals on September
9, where each competitor performed two more arias and one concert piece or art
song, the winners were announced. Turkish bass Tun- cay Kurtoglu placed fourth
(an honorable mention award). Turkish soprano Birgül Su took third prize,
presumably because of her impressive "Sombre forêt" from Rossini's
Guillaume Tell. Although he pushed too much and seemed truly comfortable only
in a limited range, Argentine Marcelo Raoul Alvarez took second prize, proving
once more that these days things come easier if you're a tenor. But there were
no quibbles about Albanian mezzo Enkelejda Shkosa, whose richly colored timbre
and solid coloratura technique (among her winning performances was "Non
temer" from Rossini's Maometto II) helped her carry off first prize. The
next competition will be held in 1997.
Turkish Diva
Leyla Gencer discusses her career with Brian Kellow
OPERA NEWS: Did you have good experience singing in
competitions when you were young?
LEYLA GENCER: I never won. Never.
I was in the conservatory in Istanbul, and I worked on my technique very
hard. But I had my problems. Then I met Giannina Arangi-Lombardi, who came to
Istanbul from Ankara to stay in a villa. For vacation. She agreed to hear me
audition, and when she asked me what I wanted to sing, I said Aida. I didn't
know Arangi-Lombardi was the most famous Aida in Europe. She decided
to work with me, but she complained that she got bored sitting around her
villa, so she came to my villa on Bosporus for two weeks. Every day from ten
till one, we studied Trovatore, Aida, and Ballo. And in the
afternoon, after siesta, three more hours of study. And then she said, you come
with me and audition in the state opera house in Ankara, where she trained
young opera singers. I was engaged and continued to study with her. And after
one year, malheureusement, she died.
I continued my studies with Apollo Granforte, who employed the same
technique as Mme. Arangi-Lombardi had. It fits with my natural way of singing:
with diaphragm, in maschera.
ON: You made your Italian debut in Naples, in 1953-54.
LG: Yes. I was in Naples and sang an audition at the open-air theater,
the Arena Flegrea. I sang "È strano" and "Pace, mio Dio,"
and the management said to me, "Now we have in the opera
theater Cavalleria Rusticana. You want to sing it?" I said, "I
know the opera, but not in Italian. I know only the aria 'Voi lo sapete.” and
they said to me, "After five days, we give another Cavalleria. If you
want to sing, you sing." So, I studied and sang Santuzza, before an
audience of 10,000. Then they understood that I was able not only to sing, but
I could act, too, and they liked this very much.
Then in early 1954 I was engaged for Madama
Butterfly and Eugene Onegin (in Italian) both at the San Carlo.
Tullio Serafin asked me. And this Onegin was the first one they'd
done in fifty years. This was the beginning of my career -- without competition!
ON: You worked with so many of the best maestros -- Serafin, De Sabata,
Gavazzeni, Vittorio Gui.... Which one taught you the most?
LG: Serafin. He was the first to put me on the path toward bel canto. I
studied with him Norma, Aida, I Due Foscari -- many roles
over many years.
ON: When you were alternating between bel canto and the heavier Verdi
roles, was it difficult at first to make that adjustment?
LG: No. I am un caso particolare -- a special case. It was no problem for me to sing Verdi, even early Verdi -- which is very
difficult -- along with Donizetti and Bellini. Technically, early Verdi is very
difficult, because the style of Rossini had made an impression on Verdi that
was still with him when he wrote his early operas. But I just passed from one
to the other.
I remember in San Francisco Lucia di Lammermoor. I learned the opera
in five days. All the parts. Kurt Herbert Adler was intendant in San Francisco,
and when he proposed me for Lucia, I was already there singing Traviata. I
was still at the beginning of my career, and they had asked me for my repertory
list. So, before going to San Francisco, I had written down all these roles
that I didn't really know. I gave them a long list, and I knew it was a lie.
Then, when Callas didn't show up for Lucia rehearsals in San
Francisco, Adler looked at my list and saw Lucia, and suddenly, I had
a grande problema. He came to me and said, "You sing for
me Lucia." And I said, "But Mr. Adler, I don't know this
opera." And he said, "You don't know it? È scritto!"
I never liked the standard exercises, vocalises. They annoyed me. For
exercise, I would do the cadenza from the last act of Lucia, and "È
strano..." It was the only part of the opera that I knew. I had only one
week. When you are young, you are fearless. This was my first Donizetti role.
And ever after, whenever different theaters would ask me to sing Donizetti,
they would say that I was one of the first singers to create real interest in
the Donizetti Renaissance. I was considered a very successful Anna Bolena. My
version is very different from Callas'. I never copied anyone. It
was my interpretation. The example was Callas, but this was not good
for me.
ON: How were relations with Callas when you were both at La Scala?
LG: I was the young soprano who came into the company, and she was
already there. But we never had any difficulties.
ON: I love your recording of "Martern aller arten" from
Mozart's Entführung. It's an amazing flesh-and-blood performance.
LG: Yes? You love? The big Mozartean critical establishment in Austria
and Germany ... they didn't like my style. I thought, at this time, that Mozart
must be interpreted in the Italian style, because Mozart loved the Italian
style, and he composed for Italian singers. And the Austrian, German and
English singers, teachers and critics thought that this was not exact, was not
Mozart's style. I was, after all, a soprano drammatica d'agilità. It was
rare at this time to find a singer like me to sing this repertory. In Mozart,
the recitative is so important, and the Anglop;Saxon interpretation of
recitative was very fast. But I have my personal idea of Mozart, and like a
good Turkish girl, if I have one idea, I don't change. At first, it was
difficult to persuade these people to accept me. Now they say I was right.
ON: Were there offers from the Met over the years?
LG: Yes, but we never got together with the right role at the right
time. The first offer was for Tosca, in 1956, but the discussions never went
very far.
ON: Dialogues des Carmélites was so different from anything Poulenc
had written before. Were you nervous about the way the La Scala premiere would
be received?
LG: No. When La Scala first proposed to me for it, I didn't want to sing
it. I was appearing in San Francisco when the telegram came offering me the
role of Mme. Lidoine. I showed it to Kurt Herbert Adler, and he gave me good
advice. He told me I must, because Mme. Lidoine was an important role, and it
would be important work. So, I began to study, and I grew to like the role very
much. Wonderful role. I had my first applause with Lidoine's entrance
["Mes chères filles"]. When I finished, with a pianissimo, I got my
first applause at La Scala. And they never applaud
during Carmélites. [Historical aside: Opera magazine reported in
1957 that the opera was "a considerable disappointment" and thought
it "doubtful whether it will outlive its initial attraction."]
ON: You also sang in the premiere of Pizzetti's Assassinio nella
Cattedrale in 1958.
LG: Yes. I did not have a very good part. The First Woman of Canterbury.
The best character was the bass. Pizzetti liked me very much and he asked for
me. At least a very grand production was given by La Scala.
ON: When you look in a reference book and see an entry about yourself,
how do you feel about the way your career is represented?
LG: I immediately see all the mistakes. For instance, I never studied
with Elvira de Hidalgo [Callas' teacher]. And they always get my age wrong. I
was not born in 1924, and not 1922. It's 1928.
ON: What do you hope the Yapi Kredi Competition will accomplish?
LG: It's very good for the republic of Turkey that we have realized this
very important musical event. It's important to give an idea of our potential,
musically, to the rest of the world, to open up the possibility of
collaboration, and to serve the new generation.
THE MORNING STAR
1996.11.18
1 9 9 7
LA REPUBBLICA
1997.01.16
FAUSTO GIANI
Solo peccato veniale da splendido sessantenne
Roma - Se il proverbio "a sessant' anni non si balla e non si canta" ha un certo seguito, c' e chi è più possibilista. Come Rodolfo Celletti, indiscussa autorità nel campo della voce: "Pavarotti ha già passato la sessantina. Arrivare a quest' età sul palcoscenico è già fenomenale, anche se a quell' età non sei più quello di prima.
Luciano ha ancora il timbro fresco e giovanile, ma i sovracuti - lui che andava perfino oltre il do di petto - non se li può più permettere. Forse, però, il vero problema di Pavarotti è l' emotività: oggi ha un' amante molto più giovane di lui. Benissimo, ma il canto è atletica pesante e tutto l' organismo deve partecipare".
Quest' ultima ipotesi non è condivisa da Giannino Tenconi, presidente dell' Associazione amici del loggione della Scala: "Ma andiamo! La laringe non è mica vicino ai genitali. Scherzi a parte, sulle stroncature Usa sono scettico: certe americanate vanno prese con un po' di prudenza. Certo, si dimentica le parole, ma il suo forte è la voce, non la memoria. Divo al tramonto? Non è più un ragazzino, d' accordo, ma resta uno dei migliori al mondo. L' emotività, la stanchezza? Può essere: per lui come per tutti". Condivide lo scetticismo sulle critiche l' indimenticato soprano Leyla Gencer, ritiratasi dalle scene nel momento del suo massimo splendore: "Gli americani esagerano nella stroncatura di Pavarotti, così come ieri esageravano negli elogi. Se Pavarotti ha dei difetti, li aveva anche prima. E quelli se ne accorgono solo oggi?". Di parere opposto Piero Gelli, autore della più aggiornata 'Guida all' opera lirica' : "Ce ne mettono gli americani ad accorgersene, ma poi alla fine ci arrivano anche loro. Ora che ha passato i sessanta, Pavarotti ha ancora la voce potente, ma dilata i tempi (e canta un' ottava sotto). E poi fa le canzonette. Ma almeno le faccia bene! E poi: non lo si sopporta più per via dell' immagine che si è cucita addosso. E' un' azienda, è tuttologo, presenzialista, è il 'tenore buono' che sventola il fazzoletto, i megaconcerti con gli 'amici del cuore' ... Ma non si ascolta? Non si vede? Non ha il senso del ridicolo? Ma chi lo consiglia?". L' 'azienda Pavarotti' irrita anche Enrico Stinchelli, che insieme a Michele Suozzo conduce a Radiotre 'La barcaccia' , la trasmissione lirica più seguita e apprezzata: "Quando uno è diventato, per così dire, nazional-popolare come Pavarotti, deve sapere che quando cade saranno spietati. E' il prezzo da pagare per il suo divismo". Più possibilista il suo collega Michele Suozzo: "A sessant' anni ha ben diritto di declinare. Ma via, le defaillances, quelle le ha sempre avute. Perciò si tratta di peccati veniali.
Eppoi, con tutto il daffare che ha con le case discografiche, l' attività promozionale...". E l' ipotesi di ritirarsi? Celletti: "E' difficile, per quelli come lui che sono diventati tanto famosi è come un suicidio". Gelli: "No, assolutamente, ma gli consiglio più riposo.
E ruoli più adeguati". Suozzo: "Appartiene alla schiera dei sessantenni che vorremmo fossero eterni". Stinchelli: "Ritirarsi no, ma cantare tutti i giorni fa male alla voce e ai nervi". Leyla Gencer: "Io ho lasciato per non deludere il pubblico e me stessa. Ma Pavarotti ha avuto in dono quella voce meravigliosa... Perché ritirarsi?".
CORRIERE DELLA SERA
1997.02.01
LA STAMPA
1997.04.08
DIAPASON
1997 July
LA REPUBBLICA
1997.07.03
ANGELO FOLETTO
Pizzi: 'Il mio Macbeth scende nell’Arena
Verona - "Se Macbeth è l' opera dello smarrimento,
della fatale solitudine e della notte invocata come complice, nessuno spazio è
più adatto a evocarla della gigantesca volta del cielo spalancata dal catino
dell' Arena". Parola di Pier Luigi Pizzi, autore dell' attesa messa in
scena del Macbeth di Verdi che inaugura venerdì sera il 75esimo Festival
areniano. Forte di una lunga confidenza con il capolavoro, affrontato per la
prima volta come scenografo nel 1969 (per la regia di Giorgio De Lullo all'
Opera di Roma: protagonista era Leyla Gencer) e di una militanza
anticonformista degli spalti areniani già ridisegnati per 'Turandot' (1969) e
'Carmen' (1970), Pier Luigi Pizzi non crede al luogo comune delle opere
'areniane' . Anzi: "Dal mio punto di vista non potrei mai fare qui 'Aida'
, che ritengo partitura intima come nessun' altra", confessa il regista
che sta già montando l' 'Attila' che debutterà al Teatro Alighieri di Ravenna
il 21 prossimo, "mentre mi appassiona l' idea di tradurre la claustrofobia
di Macbeth in una sorta di fredda agorafobia, con i destini dei due
protagonisti 'mossi' sempre dalle streghe (il coro e alcuni mimi insieme) ma
schiacciati dall' immenso firmamento". La scena creata da Pizzi sviluppa
lungo l' asse orizzontale "uno spettacolo tutto proiettato verso il
pubblico", mentre le gradinate dietro il palcoscenico rimarranno deserte.
Unico colpo di scena, l' apparizione del castello di Macbeth: "Salirà dal
nulla, come per un sinistro incantesimo, e avrà l' aspetto di una gigantesca trappola,
un' insidiosa esca per Duncano, vittima designata". E' solo la terza
volta, dopo il 1971 e il 1982, che il capolavoro giovanile verdiano (titolo
scelto, nella versione originale del 1847 anche per aprire il Festival di
Martina Franca, tra venti giorni) approda in Arena. Lo fa con la veste delle
grandi occasioni: spettacolo annunciato avvincente, coppia protagonistica di
richiamo e collaudata (Maria Guleghina e Paolo Gavanelli) con Carlo Colombara e
Giorgio Merighi a completare la prima distribuzione, Carla Fracci ("una
sorta di doppio di Lady Macbeth") interprete della danze e John Neschling
sul podio delle otto recite, fino al 26 agosto. Secondo titolo, Madama
Butterfly, altro nuovo allestimento in prima da sabato (mentre domenica rinasce
per l' ennesimo anno Aida nella versione storica 1913, diretta da Nello Santi).
Debutto in casa per il veronese Beni Montresor, anche lui autore di regia,
scene e costumi. Lo spettacolo, dedicato a Raina Kabaivanska che sarà Cio-Cio
San per l' ultima volta, ha nove repliche (fino al 29 agosto) e sarà diretto da
Angelo Campori: Francesca Franci è Suzuki, Keith Olsen Pinkerton, Giorgio
Zancanaro Sharpless. Anche in questo caso, l' allestimento non cerca
monumentalità estranee alla musica e lascia respirare i marmi areniani. Scenografia
di base, oltre al bianco accecante rituale colore giapponese di morte, saranno
le luci che Montresor ha voluto moltiplicare attraverso un gioco di specchi che
investe i controllati gesti del personaggio della popolare tragedia giapponese.
LIBERARTION
1997.09.13
ERIC DAHAN
…………… Car tous de sa professeure de chant à sa rivale légendaire Leyla Gencer s'accordent sur ce point : sa compréhension musicale supérieure était aussi servie par une puissance de travail impressionnante.
LA STAMPA
1997.09.22
CORRIERE DELLA SERA
1997.10.13
1 9 9 8
THE ART OF MAKING OPERA
1998 January
ML HART
Nights of Glory: A History of San Diego Opera
by David Gregson
In the Beginning 1952 to 1965
If frequency of performance is an accurate index of popularity, then La
bohème is the all-time favorite of San Diego Opera audiences. It was the first
opera the company ever presented, and since that time locals have marked the
passage of the years in stagings of Puccini's beloved romantic tragedy. La
bohèmes connect the past and present like so many tear-stained musical
milestones: 1965, 1968, 1974, 1979, 1985, 1990 and 1995. But the La bohème that
helped celebrate the San Diego Opera's 30th Anniversary season was either the
seventh or eighth production of the popular masterpiece, depending on how you
count. In a very real sense, our local opera company has not one, but two
beginnings, the first occurring not in 1965, but in 1952.
In 1952, a newly formed group calling itself the San Diego Opera Guild managed to bring a production of the prestigious San Francisco Opera to town. With much hoopla and press fanfare, the show opened for a one-night stand in one of the very few local venues large enough to accommodate such an extravaganza, San Diego High School's Russ Auditorium.
But while the venue was quaintly provincial, the performance was not. Excitement was high, for right here in our humble little city, better known for its tourist beaches, aircraft factories and military installations than for its culture, was a major-league La bohème, starring soprano Dorothy Kirsten and tenor Jan Peerce, both gigantic American celebrities at the peak of their popularity.
That remarkable evening had been the result of numerous ladies' club luncheon meetings dating back to 1947, when a San Diego Committee of the Opera Guild of Southern California was informally shaped, with prominent socialite Mrs. Edgar A. Luce as chairman. Every fall since 1937, Los Angeles had been hosting an extensive out-of-town "second" San Francisco Opera season at the enormous Shrine Auditorium. In 1949 Mrs. Luce began discussions with San Francisco Opera representatives about the possibility of importing productions to San Diego during those annual Los Angeles visits. With the help of the Los Angeles-based Opera Guild of Southern California, the San Diego Opera Guild was officially established on January 20, 1950, at a tea given by Mrs. William Paxton Cary. Mrs. Luce was made president.
After the Guild's second imported production in 1953, a flawlessly cast The Barber of Seville with Giulietta Simionato, Cesare Valletti, Frank Guarrera, Salvatore Baccaloni and Nicola Rossi-Lemeni, conducted by Tullio Serafin, one of La Scala's greatest maestros, the visiting company abandoned the acoustically atrocious Russ Auditorium for the Fox Theater, today's Copley Symphony Hall. The San Francisco Opera continued its San Diego visits there for 12 consecutive fall seasons.
From 1954 to 1955, one annual presentation was all our local Guild could manage, but from 1956 to 1957 the seasons expanded to two operas each, and from 1958 to 1965 the yearly offerings swelled to three. Performances invariably took place in late October and/or early to mid-November.
During those memorable seasons, the greatest international opera stars came to town. Today their names are the stuff of legend: Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, Victoria de los Angeles, Anna Moffo, Leonie Rysanek, Licia Albanese, Joan Sutherland, Leyla Gencer, Pilar Lorengar, Blanche Thebom, Ettore Bastianini, Jess Thomas, James McCracken, Jon Vickers, Franco Corelli, Mario del Monaco, Tito Gobbi, Geraint Evans and Robert Merrill, just to name a few.
Because her La bohème helped start it all, and because she was a glamorous woman and a compelling artist, particularly in Puccini operas, Dorothy Kirsten was a big favorite with local audiences. They could not get enough of this uniquely American diva, and she sang here five more times.
In 1954 the American soprano came to town to portray Tosca, one of her trademark heroines. Goaded into a jealous fury by tenor Brian Sullivan's Cavaradossi and reduced to sobs by baritone Robert Weede's menacing Scarpia, Kirsten thrilled her audience. The next year she exacted more tears as Puccini's tragic jilted geisha in Madama Butterfly. Tenor Giuseppe Campora was the dastardly Lieutenant Pinkerton, Margaret Roggero the Suzuki, and Louis Quilico, Sharpless.
1959 witnessed one of Kirsten's specialty roles outside the Puccini repertoire, Fiora in Montemezzi's L'amore dei tre re, an opera once hailed as a masterpiece but seldom performed today. Giuseppe Zampieri was Fiora's lover, Avito; Guarrera was Manfredo, Fiora's husband; and Giorgio Tozzi, the vengeful old blind king, Archibaldo.
San Diegans saw Kirsten next in 1960 in her second Tosca here, with Zampieri and Mario Zanasi, Silvio Varviso conducting. The diva's final performance here (outside of a 1965 concert sponsored by the Guild) came in 1963 with The Queen of Spades, co-starring Regina Resnik, Janis Martin, James McCracken, John Shaw and Thomas Stewart, conducted by Leopold Ludwig. Kirsten's stature as San Diego's favorite diva was never rivaled until 1970, when Beverly Sills began her long love affair with San Diego Opera audiences.
Albanese's touchingly vulnerable Marguerite and Siepi's charismatic Méphistophélès were just two highlights of a stunning Faust in 1956. By today's standards, the singers might constitute something close to a "dream cast." Peerce was the eponymous hero, Cornell MacNeil the Valentin, Margaret Roggero the Siebel, with Jean Morel conducting. This was followed by a delightful 1956 Così fan tutte with Schwarzkopf's incomparable Fiordiligi, superbly matched by Nell Rankin as sister Dorabella. Patrice Munsel was the sprightly Despina, Richard Lewis and Guarrera were the two boyfriends, and Lorenzo Alvary the mischievous Don Alfonso.
In 1957 the most famous and controversial opera star on the planet was Maria Callas. Miraculously, she was slated for a performance of Lucia di Lammermoor at the Fox Theater that year, but the diva's problems with San Francisco Opera director Kurt Herbert Adler ultimately resulted in the cancellation of her contract. This was a crushing disappointment to many devout Callas worshippers (who knew her largely from her many recordings on Angel Records). Adler enlisted a relatively unknown Turkish soprano, Leyla Gencer, as "La Divina's" replacement.
On October 31, 1957, San Diego got Gencer, not in Lucia but in La traviata (with Jon Crain and Robert Merrill), but her unique vocal style and histrionics went largely unappreciated, probably due to the disappointment over the absence of Callas. Once more, the season had begun with a slight let-down: soprano Herva Nelli, more distinguished for rumors of having been Toscanini's mistress than for her singing, was the heroine in a lackluster Aida, remarkable only for mezzo-soprano Blanche Thebom's electric performance as Amneris.
Gencer came to town for the following 1958 season in Manon with Lewis, Alvary and Quilico, conducted by Jean Fournet. Few in the audience that year had a hint of what the future held in store for the diva. Today Gencer is a cult figure rivaled only by Callas and Magda Olivero in the wide, weird and wonderful world of "pirate" - making that "private" - recordings. Collectors would kill for recordings of those San Diego performances, if any exist.
1959 saw Carmen starring Vickers as Don José, with Gloria Lane as his gypsy lover; plus, the Kirsten L'amore dei tre re and a thoroughly Italianate Otello with Mario del Monaco, Gabriella Tucci, and Giuseppe Zampieri, conducted by Francesco Molinari-Pradelli. The 1960 season brought Der Rosenkavalier with Schwarzkopf, Kurt Böhme, and Hertha Topper, Varviso conducting; and La sonnambula with Moffo, Sylvia Stahlman, Janis Martin, Nicola Monti and Tozzi, Molinari-Pradelli conducting.
Joan Sutherland exploded onto the international scene in 1961, and San Diegans saw her Lucia at the Fox on November 3, with Renato Cioni as Edgardo, Molinari-Pradelli conducting. "La Stupenda's" performance left audiences and critics gasping for breath. "The voice itself is one of the modern seven wonders," wrote San Diego Union music critic Alan Kriegsman. Twelve years later, Sutherland would appear again in San Diego, not with the San Francisco Opera, however, but with our very own San Diego Opera.
The 1960s began with the San Francisco Opera at the Fox Theater and ended with the San Diego Opera in the present Civic Theatre. November 9 brought more excitement with Gre Brouwenstijn, Fritz Uhl, and sensational newcomer Marilyn Horne as Marcellina in Fidelio. "She bids fair to emerge at the top of the heap in the future," correctly prophesied Kriegsman, who was also ecstatic after a November 16 Rigoletto with MacNeil and Mary Costa.
Operatic life went on at the Fox with an amazing Don Giovanni with Evans, Schwarzkopf, Lewis, set by Franco Zeffirelli, and Ludwig conducting; Il trovatore with Elinor Ross, McCracken and Bastianini; and a Cav-and-Pag bill starring Evans, Sandor Konya, Wilma Lipp, Glade Peterson and Irene Dalis, directed by Tito Capobianco. Kriegsman found Capobianco's direction "obvious, but unpretentious and wholly effective." Thirteen years after Kriegsman's assessment of the man's work, Capobianco would be made artistic director of San Diego Opera.
Remarkable productions continued in 1962: Don Giovanni with memorable leading ladies Victoria de los Angeles, Schwarzkopf, and Jolanda Meneguzzer, plus Tozzi and Evans, Ludwig conducting; and II trovatore with Elinor Ross, Sona Cervena, McCracken, Bastianini, John Macurdy, Molinari-Pradelli conducting. An alternately thrilling and hilarious Falstaff came in 1963 with Evans' incomparable impersonation of the fat knight, plus Mary Costa, Thomas Stewart, Janis Martin, and Janos Ferencsik conducting. The season was fleshed out by the aforementioned Resnik-Kirsten-McCracken Queen of Spades; and The Valkyrie with Vickers' matchless Siegmund, Otto Edelmann's imposing Wotan, Amy Shuard as Brünnhilde, Siv Ericsdotter as Sieglinde, and Ludwig conducting.
1964, the last SFO season at the Fox, saw Tito Gobbi's brilliant Gianni Schicchi on a double bill with Carmina Burana featuring the then very popular Mary Costa. Resnik, Lorengar, and Vickers were heard in Carmen. The year closed with McCracken's celebrated Otello, partnered by Lorengar as his long- suffering bride, Desdemona; Molinari-Pradelli conducted.
One of the profound ironies of our local cultural life is that the Fox Theatre, now glamorous and respectable in its expensively refurbished state, was reviled at the time as being inappropriate for so highbrow an undertaking as grand opera. During the days of the San Francisco Opera's visits, the Fox auditorium's acoustics were only marginally better than those of Russ. You could not make out any words, no matter what the language. Nor was the place ideally equipped for large stage shows - and who wanted to sit in seats stuck with chewing gum and redolent of rancid buttered popcorn?
The embarrassment of having to attend high art/high society functions in a lowly movie theater eventually resulted in a campaign to build a new civic auditorium. When the actual designs for such a building were finally unveiled in 1962, the seating capacity was calculated with the San Francisco Opera's visits in mind. There were, in fact, some objections to plans for such a capacious hall. "How far should three yearly performances of the San Francisco Opera dictate our needs?" queried The San Diego Union's critic, Kriegsman.
But the visionaries who dreamed and fought for our present Civic Theatre were numerous in the San Diego Opera Guild, as well as in the local press. Bruno Ussher, a San Diego Union music critic before Kriegsman, was vociferous on the subject for several years. Guild member Mrs. George Roy Stevenson summed up the issue, saying, "Only with the possession of appropriate and necessary facilities, now sadly lacking, will our citizens know the happy and beneficent experience of developing their cultural life as they deserve."
By the mid-'60s, Los Angelenos had finally built their long-dreamed-of Music Center. Its crowning jewel, the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, turned out to be a theater with only half the seating capacity of Shrine Auditorium. Audiences were eager to frequent their more intimate temple to the arts and quickly lost all interest in going to the cavernous Shrine to take in any event more cultural than a three-ring circus. San Francisco Opera's management, however, much preferred the larger revenues of the huge conventioneers' venue. The Pavilion meant smaller crowds and dwindling profits, and soon the company threatened to stop coming to Los Angeles altogether. Since the SFO's San Diego visits had always been a mere side-junket stemming from the much larger Los Angeles season, our local opera season seemed doomed.
But the San Diego Opera Guild was prepared for this worst-case scenario. What the Guild had really wanted for some time was its own San Diego company in a brand-new theater. ……
In 1952, a newly formed group calling itself the San Diego Opera Guild managed to bring a production of the prestigious San Francisco Opera to town. With much hoopla and press fanfare, the show opened for a one-night stand in one of the very few local venues large enough to accommodate such an extravaganza, San Diego High School's Russ Auditorium.
But while the venue was quaintly provincial, the performance was not. Excitement was high, for right here in our humble little city, better known for its tourist beaches, aircraft factories and military installations than for its culture, was a major-league La bohème, starring soprano Dorothy Kirsten and tenor Jan Peerce, both gigantic American celebrities at the peak of their popularity.
That remarkable evening had been the result of numerous ladies' club luncheon meetings dating back to 1947, when a San Diego Committee of the Opera Guild of Southern California was informally shaped, with prominent socialite Mrs. Edgar A. Luce as chairman. Every fall since 1937, Los Angeles had been hosting an extensive out-of-town "second" San Francisco Opera season at the enormous Shrine Auditorium. In 1949 Mrs. Luce began discussions with San Francisco Opera representatives about the possibility of importing productions to San Diego during those annual Los Angeles visits. With the help of the Los Angeles-based Opera Guild of Southern California, the San Diego Opera Guild was officially established on January 20, 1950, at a tea given by Mrs. William Paxton Cary. Mrs. Luce was made president.
After the Guild's second imported production in 1953, a flawlessly cast The Barber of Seville with Giulietta Simionato, Cesare Valletti, Frank Guarrera, Salvatore Baccaloni and Nicola Rossi-Lemeni, conducted by Tullio Serafin, one of La Scala's greatest maestros, the visiting company abandoned the acoustically atrocious Russ Auditorium for the Fox Theater, today's Copley Symphony Hall. The San Francisco Opera continued its San Diego visits there for 12 consecutive fall seasons.
From 1954 to 1955, one annual presentation was all our local Guild could manage, but from 1956 to 1957 the seasons expanded to two operas each, and from 1958 to 1965 the yearly offerings swelled to three. Performances invariably took place in late October and/or early to mid-November.
During those memorable seasons, the greatest international opera stars came to town. Today their names are the stuff of legend: Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, Victoria de los Angeles, Anna Moffo, Leonie Rysanek, Licia Albanese, Joan Sutherland, Leyla Gencer, Pilar Lorengar, Blanche Thebom, Ettore Bastianini, Jess Thomas, James McCracken, Jon Vickers, Franco Corelli, Mario del Monaco, Tito Gobbi, Geraint Evans and Robert Merrill, just to name a few.
Because her La bohème helped start it all, and because she was a glamorous woman and a compelling artist, particularly in Puccini operas, Dorothy Kirsten was a big favorite with local audiences. They could not get enough of this uniquely American diva, and she sang here five more times.
In 1954 the American soprano came to town to portray Tosca, one of her trademark heroines. Goaded into a jealous fury by tenor Brian Sullivan's Cavaradossi and reduced to sobs by baritone Robert Weede's menacing Scarpia, Kirsten thrilled her audience. The next year she exacted more tears as Puccini's tragic jilted geisha in Madama Butterfly. Tenor Giuseppe Campora was the dastardly Lieutenant Pinkerton, Margaret Roggero the Suzuki, and Louis Quilico, Sharpless.
1959 witnessed one of Kirsten's specialty roles outside the Puccini repertoire, Fiora in Montemezzi's L'amore dei tre re, an opera once hailed as a masterpiece but seldom performed today. Giuseppe Zampieri was Fiora's lover, Avito; Guarrera was Manfredo, Fiora's husband; and Giorgio Tozzi, the vengeful old blind king, Archibaldo.
San Diegans saw Kirsten next in 1960 in her second Tosca here, with Zampieri and Mario Zanasi, Silvio Varviso conducting. The diva's final performance here (outside of a 1965 concert sponsored by the Guild) came in 1963 with The Queen of Spades, co-starring Regina Resnik, Janis Martin, James McCracken, John Shaw and Thomas Stewart, conducted by Leopold Ludwig. Kirsten's stature as San Diego's favorite diva was never rivaled until 1970, when Beverly Sills began her long love affair with San Diego Opera audiences.
Albanese's touchingly vulnerable Marguerite and Siepi's charismatic Méphistophélès were just two highlights of a stunning Faust in 1956. By today's standards, the singers might constitute something close to a "dream cast." Peerce was the eponymous hero, Cornell MacNeil the Valentin, Margaret Roggero the Siebel, with Jean Morel conducting. This was followed by a delightful 1956 Così fan tutte with Schwarzkopf's incomparable Fiordiligi, superbly matched by Nell Rankin as sister Dorabella. Patrice Munsel was the sprightly Despina, Richard Lewis and Guarrera were the two boyfriends, and Lorenzo Alvary the mischievous Don Alfonso.
In 1957 the most famous and controversial opera star on the planet was Maria Callas. Miraculously, she was slated for a performance of Lucia di Lammermoor at the Fox Theater that year, but the diva's problems with San Francisco Opera director Kurt Herbert Adler ultimately resulted in the cancellation of her contract. This was a crushing disappointment to many devout Callas worshippers (who knew her largely from her many recordings on Angel Records). Adler enlisted a relatively unknown Turkish soprano, Leyla Gencer, as "La Divina's" replacement.
On October 31, 1957, San Diego got Gencer, not in Lucia but in La traviata (with Jon Crain and Robert Merrill), but her unique vocal style and histrionics went largely unappreciated, probably due to the disappointment over the absence of Callas. Once more, the season had begun with a slight let-down: soprano Herva Nelli, more distinguished for rumors of having been Toscanini's mistress than for her singing, was the heroine in a lackluster Aida, remarkable only for mezzo-soprano Blanche Thebom's electric performance as Amneris.
Gencer came to town for the following 1958 season in Manon with Lewis, Alvary and Quilico, conducted by Jean Fournet. Few in the audience that year had a hint of what the future held in store for the diva. Today Gencer is a cult figure rivaled only by Callas and Magda Olivero in the wide, weird and wonderful world of "pirate" - making that "private" - recordings. Collectors would kill for recordings of those San Diego performances, if any exist.
1959 saw Carmen starring Vickers as Don José, with Gloria Lane as his gypsy lover; plus, the Kirsten L'amore dei tre re and a thoroughly Italianate Otello with Mario del Monaco, Gabriella Tucci, and Giuseppe Zampieri, conducted by Francesco Molinari-Pradelli. The 1960 season brought Der Rosenkavalier with Schwarzkopf, Kurt Böhme, and Hertha Topper, Varviso conducting; and La sonnambula with Moffo, Sylvia Stahlman, Janis Martin, Nicola Monti and Tozzi, Molinari-Pradelli conducting.
Joan Sutherland exploded onto the international scene in 1961, and San Diegans saw her Lucia at the Fox on November 3, with Renato Cioni as Edgardo, Molinari-Pradelli conducting. "La Stupenda's" performance left audiences and critics gasping for breath. "The voice itself is one of the modern seven wonders," wrote San Diego Union music critic Alan Kriegsman. Twelve years later, Sutherland would appear again in San Diego, not with the San Francisco Opera, however, but with our very own San Diego Opera.
The 1960s began with the San Francisco Opera at the Fox Theater and ended with the San Diego Opera in the present Civic Theatre. November 9 brought more excitement with Gre Brouwenstijn, Fritz Uhl, and sensational newcomer Marilyn Horne as Marcellina in Fidelio. "She bids fair to emerge at the top of the heap in the future," correctly prophesied Kriegsman, who was also ecstatic after a November 16 Rigoletto with MacNeil and Mary Costa.
Operatic life went on at the Fox with an amazing Don Giovanni with Evans, Schwarzkopf, Lewis, set by Franco Zeffirelli, and Ludwig conducting; Il trovatore with Elinor Ross, McCracken and Bastianini; and a Cav-and-Pag bill starring Evans, Sandor Konya, Wilma Lipp, Glade Peterson and Irene Dalis, directed by Tito Capobianco. Kriegsman found Capobianco's direction "obvious, but unpretentious and wholly effective." Thirteen years after Kriegsman's assessment of the man's work, Capobianco would be made artistic director of San Diego Opera.
Remarkable productions continued in 1962: Don Giovanni with memorable leading ladies Victoria de los Angeles, Schwarzkopf, and Jolanda Meneguzzer, plus Tozzi and Evans, Ludwig conducting; and II trovatore with Elinor Ross, Sona Cervena, McCracken, Bastianini, John Macurdy, Molinari-Pradelli conducting. An alternately thrilling and hilarious Falstaff came in 1963 with Evans' incomparable impersonation of the fat knight, plus Mary Costa, Thomas Stewart, Janis Martin, and Janos Ferencsik conducting. The season was fleshed out by the aforementioned Resnik-Kirsten-McCracken Queen of Spades; and The Valkyrie with Vickers' matchless Siegmund, Otto Edelmann's imposing Wotan, Amy Shuard as Brünnhilde, Siv Ericsdotter as Sieglinde, and Ludwig conducting.
1964, the last SFO season at the Fox, saw Tito Gobbi's brilliant Gianni Schicchi on a double bill with Carmina Burana featuring the then very popular Mary Costa. Resnik, Lorengar, and Vickers were heard in Carmen. The year closed with McCracken's celebrated Otello, partnered by Lorengar as his long- suffering bride, Desdemona; Molinari-Pradelli conducted.
One of the profound ironies of our local cultural life is that the Fox Theatre, now glamorous and respectable in its expensively refurbished state, was reviled at the time as being inappropriate for so highbrow an undertaking as grand opera. During the days of the San Francisco Opera's visits, the Fox auditorium's acoustics were only marginally better than those of Russ. You could not make out any words, no matter what the language. Nor was the place ideally equipped for large stage shows - and who wanted to sit in seats stuck with chewing gum and redolent of rancid buttered popcorn?
The embarrassment of having to attend high art/high society functions in a lowly movie theater eventually resulted in a campaign to build a new civic auditorium. When the actual designs for such a building were finally unveiled in 1962, the seating capacity was calculated with the San Francisco Opera's visits in mind. There were, in fact, some objections to plans for such a capacious hall. "How far should three yearly performances of the San Francisco Opera dictate our needs?" queried The San Diego Union's critic, Kriegsman.
But the visionaries who dreamed and fought for our present Civic Theatre were numerous in the San Diego Opera Guild, as well as in the local press. Bruno Ussher, a San Diego Union music critic before Kriegsman, was vociferous on the subject for several years. Guild member Mrs. George Roy Stevenson summed up the issue, saying, "Only with the possession of appropriate and necessary facilities, now sadly lacking, will our citizens know the happy and beneficent experience of developing their cultural life as they deserve."
By the mid-'60s, Los Angelenos had finally built their long-dreamed-of Music Center. Its crowning jewel, the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, turned out to be a theater with only half the seating capacity of Shrine Auditorium. Audiences were eager to frequent their more intimate temple to the arts and quickly lost all interest in going to the cavernous Shrine to take in any event more cultural than a three-ring circus. San Francisco Opera's management, however, much preferred the larger revenues of the huge conventioneers' venue. The Pavilion meant smaller crowds and dwindling profits, and soon the company threatened to stop coming to Los Angeles altogether. Since the SFO's San Diego visits had always been a mere side-junket stemming from the much larger Los Angeles season, our local opera season seemed doomed.
But the San Diego Opera Guild was prepared for this worst-case scenario. What the Guild had really wanted for some time was its own San Diego company in a brand-new theater. ……
CORRIERE DELLA SERA
1998.02.09
LA STAMPA
1998.02.25
OPERA INTERNATIONAL
1998 September
Anniversaire Donizetti
L E Y L A G E N C E R
L ' u l t i m a r e g i n a
En cette année où l'on célèbre le 150ème anniversaire de la disparition de Gaetano Donizetti, avec deux résurrections d'importance cet automne - Alahor in Granata à Séville, puis l'édition critique de Dom Sébastien, roi de Portugal à Bergame et à Bologne -, l'une des figures emblématiques de la renaissance du compositeur ouvre pour nous son album de souvenirs. Entre 1957 (débuts donizettiens dans Lucia di Lammermoor) et 1979 (adieux à Lucrezia Borgia), Leyla Gencer a porté très haut le flambeau de la re- découverte, tirant de l'oubli Roberto Devereux en 1964, Maria Stuarda en 1967, Belisario en 1969, Caterina Cornaro en 1972 et Les Martyrs en 1975.
← Poliuto a la Scala, pendant la saison 1960 – 1961
Même si vous avez chanté les
répertoires les plus différents au cours de votre carrière, de Monteverdi à
Prokofiev, en passant par Mozart, Rossini, Verdi et Puccini, votre nom reste
indissolublement lié à celui de Donizetti. Comment l'expliquez-vous ?
Dès le départ, Donizetti m'a
attirée, par sa sensibilité que je qualifierais de « moderne », par sa capacité
à comprendre les nombreuses variations qui peuvent affecter l'âme humaine, au
fil des vicissitudes de l'existence. Dans lesscènes de folie de ses opéras,
vous ressentez cette force dramatique, née de changements qui surviennent à
l'improviste, mais aussi de l'évocation des souvenirs du passé, dans une âme
qui, petit à petit, s'évade de la réalité.
Pour le comprendre, il faut vivre
ces émotions, ces altérations subtiles de l'humeur et du caractère, et les
vivre en profondeur. Quand vous étudiez un personnage donizettien, la lecture
attentive du livret, de la pièce qui l'a inspiré, peut certes vous aider à
cerner son profil psychologique ; mais l'essentiel est ailleurs, dans ce que
l'artiste ressent au plus profond de lui-même. Le drame, aujourd'hui, c'est que
l'on veut exécuter la musique exactement comme elle est écrite, sans chercher
ni ressentir les courants de passion qui la sous-tendent. Donizetti, pourtant,
n'est que passion, et chacune de ses héroïnes possède sa propre couleur de
timbre et son propre rythme théâtral.
Quelles sont les principales
exigences de la vocalità donizettienne ?
Je m'insurge quand j'entends
affirmer que les grands chefs ne dirigent pas Donizetti parce que l'orchestre,
dans ses ouvrages lyriques, est un simple accompagnateur du bel canto... C'est
faux ! A son époque, le bel canto avait jeté ses derniers feux, et Donizetti a
opéré une véritable révolution en pliant le chant aux exigences du théâtre. Je
l'ai senti tout au long de mon itinéraire artistique, plus que d'autres, peut-être,
dans la mesure où je n'ai pas systématiquement accordé la priorité à la beauté
du son et à la perfection de la ligne. Car, pour un artiste, le plus
intéressant reste la manière dont il utilise sa voix pour adhérer au plus près
à chaque situation dramatique.
La virtuosité, par exemple : à
peu près tous les opéras de Donizetti l'exigent, mais les vocalises ne doivent
jamais être une fin en soi, un simple prétexte à une démonstration d’agilité ;
au contraire, elles sont un moyen d'expression, strictement musical, et doivent
traduire tour à tour la joie et la douleur. Quand Elisabetta couvre
d'invectives Roberto Devereux, les échelles descendantes, de l'aigu au grave,
n'ont aucune vocation décorative, mais illustrent, pour le bénéfice de
l'auditeur, l'état d'âme de la reine outragée, à ce moment précis de
l'intrigue. Dans Poliuto, le schéma est exactement le même : Paolina entre en
chantant une plainte mélancolique sur la tombe de sa mère, puis se lance
soudain dans une cabalette de bravoure qui, pour trouver sa justification dramatique,
doit impérativement exprimer le caractère improvisé de cette explosion de joie.
Les récitatifs donizettiens sont
aussi très particuliers leur incisivité est « naturelle », et ils sont
tellement bien écrits que l'interprète n'a plus rien à y ajouter. Tout est
prévu par le compositeur : les pauses, les sforzandi, les intentions les plus
infimes... Il suffit de les respecter, tout en leur insufflant ce supplément
d'âme sans lequel un personnage ne saurait vivre aux yeux et aux oreilles du
public.
Certains chanteurs, pourtant,
n'hésitent pas à rajouter des suraigus, à interpoler des cadences de leur cru,
voire à changer carrément un air à droite à gauche...
Tout ajout, toute déformation,
tout changement arbitraire relève, à mon sens, du sacrilège. Depuis quarante
ans, tout a été fait pour montrer au public ce qu'était réellement le théâtre
de Donizetti: une structure extrêmement moderne, qui peut parler aux yeux et
aux oreilles de tous, en cette fin de XXème siècle. Revenir en arrière, c'est
privilégier une interprétation stéréotypée, démodée... comme si l'on visitait
un magasin d'antiquités !
Déjà, à l'époque de Rossini, la
rigueur avait fait son apparition dans l'univers du bel canto. Donizetti va
encore plus loin dans cette voie, avec plus d'efficacité encore. Et quand vous
ouvrez l'une de ses partitions, il n'y a rien à changer ! En 1964, par exemple,
pour la résurrection de Roberto Devereux au San Carlo de Naples, je n'ai
absolument rien modifié, rien ajouté, sinon peut-être une petite variation
finale ou un aigu qu'aujourd'hui, je ne ferais plus.
On reproche souvent aux opéras de
Donizetti leurs intrigues, de « petites histoires » qui n'auraient aucune
consistance dramaturgique. Qu'en pensez-vous ?
Ce ne sont en rien de « petites
histoires » : chaque opéra possède sa propre finalité dramaturgique, sa propre
construction. Cette soidisant faiblesse est l'un des prétextes qu'invoquent les
grands chefs pour se tenir à l'écart de Donizetti. Mais la vérité est ailleurs
: cette musique est en réalité d'une difficulté redoutable, l'orchestre devant
délivrer son propre message, particulièrement périlleux à cerner pour un
maestro. Ici, tout est affaire d'intuition, qualité qui n'est pas accordée à
tout le monde !
A quand remonte votre première
rencontre avec Donizetti ?
Au cours de l'été 1949, alors que
j'étais encore à Istanbul, Giannina Arangi-Lombardi m'a fait travailler l'air
d'entrée de Lucrezia Borgia, en s'appuyant sur sa propre interprétation au
disque. Un véritable coup de foudre ! J'ai ensuite suivi Arangi-Lombardi au
Conservatoire d'Ankara, et elle m'a énormément appris sur le plan vocal bien
sûr, dans la mesure où elle chantait d'une manière extrêmement moderne pour son
époque, mais également scénique.
Je la revois dans ma maison sur
le Bosphore, descendant les deux escaliers intérieurs en chantant « Ecco
l'orrido campo » d'Un ballo in maschera, pour m'enseigner comment évoluer sur
une scène. Agée d'une soixantaine d'années, elle avait encore une allure
royale, le dos droit, raffinée jusqu'au bout des ongles, avec ces immenses
rangs de perles se déployant sur son corsage, dès 10 heures du matin ! Pas plus
que les autres, je n'ai jamais oublié cette leçon d'élégance.
Quel a été votre premier rôle
donizettien à la scène ?
Lucia di Lammermoor, à San Francisco. Tout est parti d'une rencontre au Théâtre d'Etat d'Ankara, avec un chef italien qui s'appelait Di Ferdinando. C'est avec lui que j'ai découvert que ma voix me prédisposait naturellement au chant virtuose, que les montées dans le suraigu ne me posaient aucun problème, alors qu'Arangi-Lombardi m'orientait davantage
← Lucrezia Borgia a la Scala, en 1970
vers le lirico, lirico
drammatico, voyant en moi son héritière. Di Ferdinando m'a conseillé deux airs
: la folie de Lucia et la finale du premier acte de La Traviata qui, dès lors,
sont devenus mes exercices favoris. Je n'aime pas, en effet, aligner les
vocalises dans le vide, et je préfère avoir un air comme support. En 1957, au
pied levé, l'Opéra de San Francisco m'a proposé le rôle de Lucia dans son
intégralité, et je l'ai appris en cinq jours ! Une folie, mais la réussite a
été au rendez-vous : le personnage m'est apparu sous toutes ses facettes dès la
première lecture et, si je l'ai ensuite rechanté à Trieste, puis à Venise, mon
incarnation n'a jamais changé !
Un après Lucia, vous abordez Anna
Bolena : quels souvenirs gardez-vous de cette période ?
C'est l'une des plus fascinantes
de toute ma carrière, l'époque où j'ai eu la chance de travailler avec
Gianandrea Gavazzeni, puis avec Vittorio Gui, en particulier quand, pendant
l'été 1965, nous nous sommes tous retrouvés à Glyndebourne, où je reprenais le
rôle d'Anna Bolena, abordé à la RAI, en 1958. J'ai beaucoup appris en
dialoguant avec eux, beaucoup de choses sur la musique et l'opéra, mais aussi
sur la culture en général, dont ces deux hommes exceptionnels étaient
d'incomparables ambassadeurs.
Par la suite, je n'ai plus jamais
pu chanter Anna Bolena sans évoquer le souvenir de Glyndebourne et du château
natal de la reine décapitée, Hever Castle, avec son cours d'eau, ses platanes
(ceux de l'air « Al dolce guidami castel natio, ai verdi platani, al queto rio
») et, à l'intérieur, sa magnifique collection de Holbein. Comment rester
insensible devant pareil spectacle et comment, au moment d'interpréter l'héroïne
de Donizetti, ne pas tirer une sorte d'enrichissement spirituel de cette visite
?
Après Anna Bolena et Elisabetta
de Roberto Devereux, comment avez-vous abordé le rôle de Maria Stuarda,
troisième reine Tudor de votre itinéraire ?
Maria Stuarda est très différente
d'Anna Bolena et d'Elisabetta, très éloignée également de la vérité historique,
Donizetti et son librettiste ayant mythifié la reine d'Ecosse, en particulier
dans sa dimension spirituelle, presque mystique, qui en fait un symbole d'amour
et de sacrifice. Le personnage n'en demeure pas moins fascinant, dans son
mélange de douceur et de violence presque incontrôlée, avec ses crimes, ses
péchés, sa soif de pouvoir et cette passion dévorante qui l'habite. Le point
culminant du rôle demeure la scène de la confession, dans laquelle je me suis
to talement
investie, comme si j'étais un
médium pénétrant l'esprit d'une personne disparue. J'ai rarement vécu dans mon
existence pareille immersion... cela tient presque du miracle ! J'adore
également le tableau final, et je me souviens encore de l'émotion éprouvée au
moment de mon entrée, tout au fond de la scène, vêtue d'une robe rouge et d'un
immense voile noir. Je m'avançais au milieu des dames de compagnie en attaquant
l'extraordinaire récitatif d'introduction, et je voyais les larmes couler sur
leur visage : elles y croyaient vraiment ! Peut-être est-ce qui manque le plus
dans l'opéra à l'heure actuelle, cette faculté de transmettre immédiatement
l'émotion, par le seul biais de la musique...
Cette recréation de Maria Stuarda
au Mai Musical Florentin, en 1967, dans un spectacle de De Lullo et Pizzi,
appartient à la légende de l'opéra. Aviez-vous le sentiment, à l'époque, de
participer à une véritable opération de « renaissance » du genre, sous la
houlette de metteurs en scène et de scénographes avides d'imposer une lumière
nouvelle ?
Luchino Visconti, vous savez, a
suivi toutes les répétitions de Maria Stuarda ! De Lullo et Pizzi, d'autre
part, étaient entourés d'une équipe de jeunes créateurs qui ont largement
contribué à la réussite finale... Tout était nouveau à l'époque : les décors «
modernes », faits à partir de rien ; le rôle prédominant des éclairages ; la
superposition et la fusion des coloris, le noir et l'argent en l'occurrence,
parfois illuminés de rares touches de lumière (le blanc et or de la robe
d'Elisabetta, par exemple, à son entrée).
Un an plus tôt, au San Carlo de
Naples, vous aviez imposé une autre grande héroïne tragique de Donizetti :
Lucrezia Borgia. Comment la situez-vous par rapport aux reines Tudor ?
C'est probablement le personnage
que j'ai le moins ressenti de l'intérieur. Par rapport au projet initial, le
chef avait changé, mes partenaires ne m'inspiraient guère, et l'atmosphère de
magie qui avait entouré Roberto Devereux ou Anna Bolena était absente... De
fait, je n'ai pas le souvenir de quelque chose d'exceptionnel.
Là encore, Donizetti et son
librettiste se sont éloignés de l'histoire ; ils ont « humanisé » Lucrezia en
imaginant une espèce de rédemption finale. C'est ainsi que je l'ai abordée :
sans rien de cruel, de dégradant, de perfide ou d'immoral, mais avec une sorte
de no- blesse intérieure (que l'on remarque sur les portraits de la vraie
Lucrezia Borgia), qui transparaît dès son récitatif et air d'entrée, « Com’è bello
», un chant extatique, tout de douleur rentrée et de nostalgie, qui m'a toujours
bouleversée. J'aimais également beaucoup la scène où la Borgia fait son
apparition au milieu de la fête au Palais Negroni : un extraordinaire moment de
théâtre !
Les scènes finales sont-elles,
comme on l'affirme souvent, les moments les plus réussis des opéras de
Donizetti ?
Je crois que c'est là que
Donizetti a donné ce qu'il avait de plus fort. Dans Belisario, par exemple, que
j'ai chanté à Venise, en 1969, pour la première fois en ce siècle, la scène finale
donne le vertige ! Toute la gamme des sentiments y passe: repentir, remords, désespoir...
jusqu'au point culminant, digne d'une tragédie de Shakespeare. J'ai beaucoup
aimé cet opéra, situé à Byzance, où s'interpénètrent les cadres de la tragédie
classique et les passions les plus furieusement romantiques. L'accueil,
d'ailleurs, a été triomphal sur la Lagune, sous la baguette de Gavazzeni.
Tout aussi épique et grandiose,
le finale de Caterina Cornaro - encore un opéra que j'ai tiré de l'oubli, au
San Carlo de Naples, en 1972, où la reine de Chypre semble aller au-delà de ses
propres forces et de son désespoir intime, pour entraîner son peuple dans une
sorte d'union sacrée, avec des paroles qui font explicitement référence au Risorgimento.
Avec la résurrection des Martyrs
à Bergame, en 1975, vous avez, pour la première fois, abordé la partie
française de la création donizettienne. Comment vous y êtes-vous préparée ?
Ma connaissance de la littérature
française m'a beaucoup aidée. A treize ans, j'avais déjà lu l’essentiel ! A
l'époque, je souhaitais devenir actrice, et Sarah Bernhardt était mon modèle.
J'ai donc dévoré le théâtre de Corneille, de Racine, mais aussi de nombreux
poèmes, tant classiques que contemporains. Au moment d'étudier Les Martyrs,
tout m'est revenu en mémoire : la longue respiration des alexandrins, la
poétique des souvenirs, proustienne avant l'heure, la noble force du devoir
transmuée en amour...
Comment voyez-vous l'évolution de
cette « Donizetti Renaissance », dont vous avez vécu la période la plus exaltante
?
Depuis deux ans, bicentenaire oblige, les théâtres programment Donizetti, mais comme s'il s'agissait d'un devoir ! Pas vraiment convaincus de la grandeur du musicien, ils ne contribuent pas à la réévaluation de son image auprès du grand public, et seuls les musicologues y trouvent en définitive leur compte. Je le regrette... Bien sûr, il ne s'agit pas de reproduire ce que nous avons fait il y a trente ans. Il faut faire encore mieux, aller encore plus loin, à condition d'avoir à sa disposition des personnalités vocales d'envergure, douées d'intelligence et de sensibilité, capables de tirer profit des expériences du passé... sans oublier des chefs persuadés de la valeur de cette musique !
Propos recueillis par Franca Cella
Franca Cella est l'auteur d'un ouvrage extrêmement complet sur Leyla Gencer, publié en 1986, en langue italienne : Leyla Gencer, romanzo vero di una primadonna. CGS Edizioni, Venise. 546 pages.
Le disque (as of 1998)
Rôle-titre
Gui/Sgourda, Oncina, Zanasi
Venise 1964. Nuova Era*
Rôle-titre
Gavazzeni/Simionato, Prevedi, Zaccaria
Milan 1965. GFC
Lausanne 1966. Myto*
Elvira
Quadri/G. Raimondi, Ausensi, Mazzoli
Buenos Aires 1961. Myto*
Rôle-titre
Franci/Mazzucato, Fioroni, Bottion, R. Raimondi
Venise 1968. Claque*
Rôle-titre
De Fabritiis/Lazzarini, Zambon, Sordello
Naples 1966. Bongiovanni*
Rôle-titre
Gavazzeni/Simionato, Rota, Bertocci, Clabassi
Milan 1958. Nuova Era*
Glyndebourne 1965. Hunt*
Antonina
Gavazzeni/Gencer, Pecile, Grilli, Taddei
Venise 1969. Melodram*
Bergame 1970. Arkadia*
Rôle-titre
Cillario/Aragall, Bruson, Clabassi
Naples 1972. Myto*
New York 1973. On Stage*
Rôle-titre
De Fabritiis/Prandelli, Carta, Botteghelli
Trieste 1957 Melodram*
Rôle-titre
Franci/Rota, Aragall, Petri
Naples 1966. Hunt*
Milan 1970. GDS*
Bergame 1971 (extraits). Myto*
Dallas 1973. Melodram*
Rôle-titre
Molinari-Pradelli/Verrett, Tagliavini, Ferrin, Fioravanti
Florence 1967. Nuova Era* / GOP*
Pauline
Camozzo/Di Felici, Bruson, Roni
Bergame 1975. Myto*
Venise 1978. Italian Opera Rarities*
Elisabetta
Rossi/Rota, Bondino, Cappuccilli
Naples 1964. Hunt*
Gavazzeni/Pecile, Moretti, Ferrin
HRE
Rôle-titre
Gui/Picchi, D'Orazi, Piacenti
Rome 1967. GOP
Milan 1972. Foyer*
Santuzza
Cattini/Zambon, Meliciani
Naples 1971 (extraits). MRF
Charlotte
Cillario/Tavolaccini, Tagliavini, Borriello
Trieste 1959. Arkadia*
Ottavia
Maderna/Bumbry, Di Stefano, Rinaldi
Milan 1967 (extraits). Myto*
Donna Anna
Solti/Jurinac, Freni, Siepi, Evans, Lewis
Londres 1962. GDS*
Rôle-titre
Capuana/Mattiucci, Del Bianco, Quilico
Naples 1967. Arkadia*
Primo corifea
Gavazzeni/Rossi-Lemeni, Maionica, Ortica
Milan 1958. UORC
Rôle-titre
De Fabritiis/Bordin Nave, Pecile, Grilli, Zanasi, R. Raimondi
Venise 1971. Mondo Musica*
Rome 1971. Melodram*
Madame Lidoine
Sanzogno/Zeani, Ratti, Pederzini, Cossotto
Milan 1957. Legendary
Renata
Kertesz/Carturan, Panerai, Carlin, Campi
Spolète 1959. GOP
Rôle-titre
Bellezza/De Santis, Taddei
Naples 1955. GOP*
Liù
De Fabritiis/Udovich, Corelli
Naples 1962 (extraits). Bongiovanni*
Edali
La Rosa Parodi/Pirazzini, Gavarini, Colzani, Monreale
Milan 1957. EJS
Rôle-titre
Sanzogno/Geszty, Grilli, Bottazzo Palerme
1970. Myto*
Palerme 1971. BJR
Matilde
Previtali/G. Raimondi, Guelfi,Washington
Naples 1965. GOP*
Rossi/Casoni, Alva, Robinson
Nuova Era*
La Falena
Gavazzeni/Lantieri, Bondino, D'Anna
Trieste 1976. Bongiovanni*
Julia
Previtali/Mattiucci, Merolla, Bruson,Ferrin
Palerme 1969. Nuova Era*
Lisa
Sanzogno/Annaloro, Radev, Bruscantini, Vinco
Milan 1961. GOP
Rôle-titre
Capuana/Cossotto, Bergonzi,Colzani, Giaiotti
Vérone 1966. GDS*
Odabella
Muti/Luchetti, Mittelmann, Ghiaurov
Florence 1972. Foyer*
Newark 1972. Robin Hood
Amelia
De Fabritiis/Lazzarini, Gatta,Bergonzi, Zanasi
Bologne 1961. Movimento Musica*
Lida
Gui/Limarilli, Taddei, Washington
Florence 1959. Fonit Cetra
Trieste 1963. HRE
Elisabetta
Previtali/Cossotto, Prevedi,Bruscantini, Ghiaurov
Rome 1968. Melodram*
Lucrezia
Serafin/Picchi, Guelfi, Maddalena
Venise 1957. Arkadia*
Elvira
Wolf-Ferrari/Cecchele, Taddei, R.Raimondi
Oviedo 1968. GDS*
Catane 1972. GOP*
Leonora
Votto/Carturan, Di Stefano, Protti, Siepi
Cologne 1957. Melodram*
Bologne 1964. GFC
Hélène
Gavazzeni/Aragall, Guelfi Venise 1963. Melodram*
Lady Macbeth
Gui/Taddei, Picchi, Mazzoli
Palerme 1960. GOP*
Venise 1968. Mondo Musica*
Gilda
Quadri/Burello, G. Raimondi, McNeil, Algorta
Buenos Aires 1960. GOP*
Amelia
Gavazzeni/Gobbi, Tozzi, Zampieri
Salzbourg 1961. Melodram
Violetta
Rescigno/Labo, Cappuccilli
Rio de Janeiro 1964 (extraits). Bongiovanni*
Leonora
Previtali/Barbieri, Del Monaco,Bastianini, Clabassi
Milan 1957. GOP*
Elena
Gavazzeni/Limarilli, Guelfi, Rossi-Lemeni
Rome 1964. Nuova Era*
Milan 1971 (extraits). Myto*
Agathe
Ziliani/Scotto, Christoff
Turin 1956 (extraits). On Stage*
Rôle-titre
Capuana/Cioni, Colzani
Trieste 1961. Arkadia*
Caterina Cornaro, Roberto Devereux, Maria Stuarda, Lucrezia Borgia, Il trovatore, La forza del destino, Aida, La Traviata, La Wally
Fonit Cetra*
Die Entführung aus dem Serail, La forza del destino, Suor Angelica, Lucia di Lammermoor
avec Luigi Infantino
Fonit Cetra*
Chopin - Bellini - Donizetti - Rossini Guerrini, piano
Cetra
Schumann - Liszt
Guerrini, piano
Cetra
Magaloff, piano
Arkadia*
Lucia di Lammermoor, Die Entführung aus dem Serail, Suor Angelica, La forza del destino, I due Foscari
Arkadia*
Die Entführung aus dem Serail, Idomeneo, Le nozze di Figaro, Don Giovanni Hunt*
Medea, Norma, Belisario, Maria Stuarda, Anna Bolena, Macbeth, II trovatore, Un ballo in maschera, La forza del destino, Don Carlo
Nuova Era*
Monteverdi - Vivaldi - Beethoven - Rossini - Spontini - Pacini – Donizetti - Carissimi - Mayr - Haendel – Bizet - Verdi
Scalera, piano
Bongiovanni*
Madama Butterfly, Eugène Onéguine, Tosca, Il trovatore, La forza del destino, Aida, La Traviata, La Wally, Die Entführung aus dem Serail, Suor Angelica, Lucia di Lammermoor, Dialogues des Carmélites, Monte Ivnor
Myto*
Il trovatore, La forza del destino, Lucia di Lammermoor, I due Foscari, Assassinio nella cattedrale, Il tabarro, Suor Angelica, Anna Bolena
Myto*
Schwanda, Simon Boccanegra, Werther, La battaglia di Legnano, L'Ange de feu
Myto*
Roberto Devereux, Nabucco, Macbeth, La forza del destino, Anna Bolena
Discoreale
Roberto Devereux, Anna Bolena, Maria Stuarda, Lucrezia Borgia, Macbeth, La battaglia di Legnano, I Vespri siciliani, I due Foscari, Nabucco, Jérusalem
EJS
Jaguar
Rôle-titre
Capuana/Cossotto, Bergonzi, Colzani, Giaiotti
Vérone 1966. Hardy Classic
Leonora
Previtali/Barbieri, Del Monaco, Bastianini, Clabassi
Studio 1957. Hardy Classic
Werther
Charlotte
Simonetto / Ballinari, Oncina,Sordello
Studio 1955. Hardy Classics
Testimonianza di un interprete donizettiana.
Intervista a Leyla Gencer per Opera International
(No. Settembre 1998)
(ruccolta de Franca Cella)
Versione originale (senza degli !)
Intervista A Leyla Gencer
1797-1848, 200. Anni fa nascava, 150 anni fa moriva Gaetano Donizetti. Due stagioni di anniversari ravvicinati hanne stimoleto un panorama internazionale di esecuzieni, risceperte, conbegni, mostre, rapportie con un compositore acclamanto dai suoi centemporanci, poi ridinensienate a pochi titoli trainvanti, e recuperate oggi cen 56 opere, sulla 70 compostia.
Ne parliano com Leyla Gencer, interprete pilota della rinascita donizettiana degli anni 1960-1970, con le sue riscerparte di regine ed eroine, la carica di sucesso popolare restitaite a Donizetti, la ricerca di una verita donizettiana preseguita sensa sesta. 11 opere di impatta olamerese, subito multiplicate della represe ne grandi teatri, dall’Italia a Edinburgh a New York, a della diffusione caprillare di registratizioni live a CD; liriche da camera prefuse con seduzione nei suoi concerti, a fervere di docente, attualmente in oarica all’Accademia di perfezionamente del Teatro alla Scala.
Il feeling che ci attira a Donizetti?
La sua sensibilita moderna al momento psicologia. Forse la malattia gli dava la capacita di capire che cosa di profondo e quanti cambiamenti puo subire la mente umana, a seconda delle vicende, dei traumi che subisce. Nelle sue pazzie c’e assolutamente questa forza drammatica di cambiamenti repentini, improvissi,
GAZETTA MATOVA
1998.10.11
Casa Verdi anche per giovani musicisti
Milano - La casa di riposo per musicisti`Fondazione Giuseppe Verdi' di Milanoospiterà dal `99 anche giovani studenti meritevolie bisognosi. "La Fondazione - ha detto ilpresidente Antonio Magnocavallo - ha procedutoad una riforma dello statuto: dal `99 CasaVerdi ospiterà anche studenti di musica di Conservatorio,Civica e Accademia della Scala, scelticon criteri di merito e disagio. Si cominceràda 2 a 4 ma sempre con la precedenza agli anzianimusicisti". A festeggiare la novità (proprioil 10 ottobre di 185 anni fa nacque GiuseppeVerdi), un vero e proprio `parterre de roi':da Saverio Borrelli a Giuseppe Di Stefano, Leyla Gencer, Giulietta Simionato, Magda Olivero.In 100 anni `Casa Verdi' ha ospitato piùdi 5000 anziani musicisti. Oggi gli ospiti sono60. Le stanze dopo la ristrutturazione saranno72. L'idea di aprire ai giovani è piaciuta ancheai grandi direttori Muti, Chailly, Abbado.
1 9 9 9
DICTIONNAIRE DE LA MUSIQUE
1999
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY
1999
MATTHEW
GUREWITSCH
Forget the
Callas Legend
The reissued official Callas discography reveals the
art that will last, which the diva's image often obscures
DIVAS come and go. Maria Callas is forever.
That, at any rate, is how it looks now, more than two decades after her death, at fifty-three, in her lonely Paris apartment. Though her glory years at La Scala, Covent Garden, the Opéra, and the Met lie some forty years back, sales of her recordings have never flagged. Indeed, so high has her stock remained that the industry giant EMI marked its centennial, last year, with a second CD reissue of the entire Callas discography as it was originally issued on Angel LPs. The company has included several live performances of unusual fare, previously available only on entrepreneurial labels. Remastered, repackaged, and accompanied by partisan yet judicious new commentary, the EMI cache runs to some thirty complete operas (including multiple versions of Lucia di Lammermoor, Norma, and La traviata, Callas specialties all), plus nearly a dozen recital discs. Unlike many vintage opera albums. which sell at budget prices, EMI's Callas titles still command top dollar.
Keepers of other flames fume about corporate greed and wish out loud that the public would light more candles for the icons they prefer. Renata Tebaldi, Joan Sutherland, Montserrat Caballé, Beverly Sills, or the undervalued Leyla Gencer from Turkey. But Callas was never the invention of some publicity machine. Nor is her cult-as some nay-sayers believe- the unearned dividend of her private soap opera (the ill-fated romance with Aristotle Onassis) or professional blowups (remarkably few, actually-a walkout here, a run-in there, all justified). True, in her lifetime a malicious, uncomprehending press splashed her across the front page. But at this late date all that matters is her supremacy as an artist. The danger for the future is that the legend will eclipse the work that new generations will take her greatness on faith alone.
A listener approaching the Callas legacy probably expects an altogether different beast. Who has not heard of Callas the tigress, of the dazzle of her coloratura, the frequent squalls that beset her high notes? The mind pieces together a caricature of a Jezebel of the stage, chewing the scenery, goading the groundlings to a frenzy with mannerism, stopping the show with a drop-dead vocal display.
In fact, the essence of her art was refinement. The term seems odd for a performer whose imagination and means of expression were so prodigious. She was eminently capable of the grand gesture: still, judging strictly from the evidence of her recordings, we know (and her few existing film clips confirm) that her power flowed not from excess but from unbroken concentration, unfaltering truth in the moment. It flowed also from irreproachable musicianship. People say that Callas would not hesitate to distort a vocal line for dramatic effect. In the throes of operatic passion plenty of singers snarl, growl, whine, and shriek. Callas was not one of them. She found all she needed in the notes.
As it happens, one of the first two opera albums I owned as a boy was her first recording for Angel: the 1953 Lucia di Lammermoor. (Unless noted, all recordings referred to are available on CD from EMI. The sound quality varies with the source materials but is generally state-of- the-art. Other material is obtainable on different labels, but caveat emptor: price. sound quality, and availability vary greatly.) In Donizetti's opera, derived from a romance by Sir Walter Scott, the heroine makes her entrance in a state of deep ap prehension. She awaits her lover at their trysting place. She must warn him of impending peril. He is late. Adding to her dread, as she soon reveals to a confidante, is a recent brush with a ghost-the spirit of a woman stabbed by her lover and left entombed in the very fountain near which Lucia now stands. "Quella fonte, ah!" she cries, launching the dreadful story: "Oh, that fountain!" Who could forget the chilly stab to the heart?
Years ago, I collected a wide spectrum of Callas recordings. I wore out my LPs of Cherubini's Medea and taped her Carmen (a role she never sang onstage) from the radio. In a scene that anticipated Terrence McNally's play The Lisbon Travia to a friend in college played me a pirate tape of the Triumphal Scene from Aida. breathless with anticipation for the climactic high E-flat that Verdi never wrote. Another friend introduced me to Callas the Wagnerian, floating through Isolde's Liebestod in Italian. In the seventies I witnessed the diva herself on the stage of Boston's Symphony Hall, on her rather sad final tour. Then, for ages, her albums gathered dust on my shelves. Not until the latest EMI reissue did, I attempt a comprehensive survey. Now, after playing no fewer than forty-one of Callas's complete performances in quick succession (and in purposely arbitrary order), covering all the EMI titles plus exotica from other sources, I wonder more than ever at the gap between her image and her art.
No Callas performance no syllable of the text, no note of the score, went unexamined. Singers so attuned to dramatic nuance-there are not many-are liable to come across as nervous and infirm of purpose, like writers who italicize everything and thus stress nothing. Art means choices, as we all know: to play up A, we give up B. In defiance of this incontrovertible theory. Callas could on occasion sculpt a passage instant by instant without losing sight of her target. At the opening of Act Three of the studio recording of Medea, taped in 1957, she honed each word of the invocation of the gods of hell to an edge of ferocity. Her usual practice, though, was to set the mood and then place expressive accents sparingly. Lucia's frisson by the fountain was only that, and that was all it needed to be. In the part of the doomed Anne Boleyn, in Donizetti's Anna Bolena, Callas fired off ball's-eye zingers at Henry VIII, well aware that Anne is on thin ice, as the tremor in her anger showed. In the "Miserere" from trovatore she smiled at grief. The finale of Medea, in contrast, had to be tremendous, and so it was. In a live performance in Florence in 1953 Callas rode the last phrases as if they were tidal waves surging to the abyss. (The passage is a bonus track on the complete 1958 Dallas Medea, on Gala, an excellent budget label.)
However deep their gifts of sympathy and self-transformation, actors privileged to test themselves against a gallery of the great roles reveal over time the bedrock of their own hearts and souls. As the constant in Callas, we discover a rare nobility, a proud, unflinching submission to fate. How apt, one might say: according to a dictum espoused notably by Puccini.
ETTORE BASTIANINI
1999 January
ALESSANDRO RIZZACASA
PHANTASMAGORIA: A Socialogy of Opera
1999 January
DAVID T. EVANS
Notes
1. Pirated recordings are those illegally made either by audience members or
from radio broadcasts, those of the former being of particularly unreliable
quality, distanced singing, loud prompters, and even louder audience coughs,
intakes of breath, seat creaks, comments and cheers. What they provide is the
'atmosphere of the 'live' event, warts and all. They also provide a detailed
record of particular performers and productions and, in some instances, of star
singers with few studio commercial recordings to their credit. Two in
particular in the post-war period vie for the dubious title Pirate Queen: Leyla
Gencer and Magda Olivero (referred to in the previous chapter). The former
made studio recitals for the Italian company Cetra but not one complete opera
studio recording. Her repertoire was very large but covered much of the bel
canto school opened up by Maria Callas and Verdi roles associated with the
latter's supposed (marketed) arch-rival, Renata Tebaldi during the 1950s. Decca
(Tebaldi) and EMI (Callas) competed with each other during this period almost
exclusively through these two 'divas', thus severely restricting the recording
opportunities of others. Olivero's specialty was verismo, but she made just two
complete studio recordings (30 years apart) of Liu in Turandot (Cetra) and
Fedora (Decca) in place of an indisposed Tebaldi Both Gencer and Olivero
now have massive pirate CD catalogues which largely confirm their reputations.
In the case of Olivero, the catalogue includes several versions of her major
roles: Manon Lescaut, Fedors, Adriana Lecouvreur and Minnie in La fanciulla del
West.
… the notion of amplified singing is totally incompatible with the accepted values of opera as an art form and makes a mockery of the conscientious efforts which I trust continue in the cause of the grand tradition. It might be felt that the matter should be laughed off as so obviously ludicrous, but my source, an editorial member (of Asahi Shinbun), spoke so knowledgeably that I think a serious probing is in order. Surely what is at issue, if sustainable, is so momentous as to make those arguments over surtitles pale into insignificance.
Singers such as Marilyn Horne refer somewhat ambiguously to the practice, and rumors have circulated around sound amplification at the Met, New York. Several critics took the ENO to task for its unedifying coarse amplification of Weill's The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagony in 1995 (Milnes in The Times 8 June and Porter The Sunday Times 11 June).
5. Of all the monuments of the century past, the Ring-revolutionary in its musical techniques and dramaturgic goals, all-embracing in scope and theme, and more than twenty- five years in the making-is at once the largest and most impressive in sheer scale (Bowie 1989 93).
Superstitions reign:
June Anderson (1993: 25) is pleased she is a Capricorn because there is a serenity within me which keeps some sort of balance Edita Gruberova also has Capricornian patience and persistence (p.98); Ragnar Ulfung (1975: 839) has that Piscean quality of being both reserved and yet also scintillatingly talkative. Shirley Verrett (*1973: 585) 'wanted my life to be the way I planned it. Maybe it's because I'm Gemini with Cancer rising. Not for Maria Stratas are the good luck charms used by other singers-teddy bears, photos of relations. She brings to her dressing room’s four sack in memory of the bed linens her mother made from such materials when she was a child: Marie McLaughlin's friends and family light candles for me whenever I sing (1993 1391). Ethnic stereotyping is rampant: Catherine Malfitano has Sicilian blood on her father's side, Russian and Irish on her mother's so it’s a bit hot-blooded all round, with some of that strange melancholy from the Russian, and a kind of crazy arrogance and humor from the Irish (1993: 1145) Julia Varady is Rumanian but calls herself Hungarian she has the quicksilver character, the quick-witted charm of her nation (1992: 646). though which one we are not told, John Lanigan (1971: 21) owed his dogged determination to being Australian; Alberto Remedios, though from Liverpool, owed his vocal qualities to his Spanish grandfather (1973 15) Leyla Gencer says that like all Moslems, I am lazy and a fatalist, instantly resigned to adversity (1972 692), although her interviewer disagrees-she has always fought tooth and nail. Régine Crespin, French, inherited from her Italian mother Latin vitality, sincerity, and forwardness of acting (1963: 229), so that, as Kundry, in Parsifal, all the passion, warmth, femininity, tenderness, were still there but endowed with some elemental strength; Jones is 'grateful to be Welsh. We're dreamers with a capacity for childlike simplicity and fantasies... sentimental, warm and religious, and they believe in things being preordained, as I do' (1990: 12). Fiorenza Cossotto agrees: "Our destiny is written for us (Hines 1982: 70). As for Grace Bumbry Fate took a hand in her career as early as high school (*1970 506). Singers have unlucky theatres which they can do little about for Leonie Rysanek (1994:15) and Hildegard Behrens ("1991: 502) it is Covent Garden Whatever the origins of stardom star quality would appear to be there for all to see: Ruggero Raimondi has 'charisma and an actor's instinct (1994a: 509) Pavarotti has what Rosa Ponselle defined as "that something impossible to describe which is the ability to communicate in just the same way as Caruso did! (1981: 123); and the charisma is gender-differentiated: like Lehmann (Lotte), Crespin has 'elemental feminine projection (*1963: 228)
… the notion of amplified singing is totally incompatible with the accepted values of opera as an art form and makes a mockery of the conscientious efforts which I trust continue in the cause of the grand tradition. It might be felt that the matter should be laughed off as so obviously ludicrous, but my source, an editorial member (of Asahi Shinbun), spoke so knowledgeably that I think a serious probing is in order. Surely what is at issue, if sustainable, is so momentous as to make those arguments over surtitles pale into insignificance.
Singers such as Marilyn Horne refer somewhat ambiguously to the practice, and rumors have circulated around sound amplification at the Met, New York. Several critics took the ENO to task for its unedifying coarse amplification of Weill's The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagony in 1995 (Milnes in The Times 8 June and Porter The Sunday Times 11 June).
5. Of all the monuments of the century past, the Ring-revolutionary in its musical techniques and dramaturgic goals, all-embracing in scope and theme, and more than twenty- five years in the making-is at once the largest and most impressive in sheer scale (Bowie 1989 93).
Superstitions reign:
June Anderson (1993: 25) is pleased she is a Capricorn because there is a serenity within me which keeps some sort of balance Edita Gruberova also has Capricornian patience and persistence (p.98); Ragnar Ulfung (1975: 839) has that Piscean quality of being both reserved and yet also scintillatingly talkative. Shirley Verrett (*1973: 585) 'wanted my life to be the way I planned it. Maybe it's because I'm Gemini with Cancer rising. Not for Maria Stratas are the good luck charms used by other singers-teddy bears, photos of relations. She brings to her dressing room’s four sack in memory of the bed linens her mother made from such materials when she was a child: Marie McLaughlin's friends and family light candles for me whenever I sing (1993 1391). Ethnic stereotyping is rampant: Catherine Malfitano has Sicilian blood on her father's side, Russian and Irish on her mother's so it’s a bit hot-blooded all round, with some of that strange melancholy from the Russian, and a kind of crazy arrogance and humor from the Irish (1993: 1145) Julia Varady is Rumanian but calls herself Hungarian she has the quicksilver character, the quick-witted charm of her nation (1992: 646). though which one we are not told, John Lanigan (1971: 21) owed his dogged determination to being Australian; Alberto Remedios, though from Liverpool, owed his vocal qualities to his Spanish grandfather (1973 15) Leyla Gencer says that like all Moslems, I am lazy and a fatalist, instantly resigned to adversity (1972 692), although her interviewer disagrees-she has always fought tooth and nail. Régine Crespin, French, inherited from her Italian mother Latin vitality, sincerity, and forwardness of acting (1963: 229), so that, as Kundry, in Parsifal, all the passion, warmth, femininity, tenderness, were still there but endowed with some elemental strength; Jones is 'grateful to be Welsh. We're dreamers with a capacity for childlike simplicity and fantasies... sentimental, warm and religious, and they believe in things being preordained, as I do' (1990: 12). Fiorenza Cossotto agrees: "Our destiny is written for us (Hines 1982: 70). As for Grace Bumbry Fate took a hand in her career as early as high school (*1970 506). Singers have unlucky theatres which they can do little about for Leonie Rysanek (1994:15) and Hildegard Behrens ("1991: 502) it is Covent Garden Whatever the origins of stardom star quality would appear to be there for all to see: Ruggero Raimondi has 'charisma and an actor's instinct (1994a: 509) Pavarotti has what Rosa Ponselle defined as "that something impossible to describe which is the ability to communicate in just the same way as Caruso did! (1981: 123); and the charisma is gender-differentiated: like Lehmann (Lotte), Crespin has 'elemental feminine projection (*1963: 228)
Given the hands dealt by God, Nature and the planets, it sometimes takes a surprisingly long time for mere mortals to recognize the star in their midst.
The career of Caballé emphasizes two important facts of operatic life that we are sometimes reluctant to acknowledge the singing to an unsurpassed degree: 'actor/actress singers such as Gencer (*1972: 695) Watson who completely identifies with her roles (1970: 1006); Pauline Tinsley who has always 'complete absorption in character (1982: 266): Baker a unique actor and exemplary singer (1970: 581) Silja: There is no boundary between what she acts and what she sings a completely musical-dramatic thing (1969: 194; and Agnes Baltsa who has a way of imprinting each character she becomes with a distinctive individuality through her own association of words and music, each shaped and stimulated by the other... [her] performances are never predictable" ("1985: 483) Windgassen created characters as a whole by penetrating their psychology. Towards this end the actual singing is only one means among many, controlled, intelligent and methodical he was often close to tears in performance (1962); her character studies are so real, like meeting actual people (Resnik's 1963:14): Crespin's elemental feminine projection enables the audience to sense the flesh and blood present behind the stage conventions (1963: 228). Baker claimed that 'Everything you do must mean something both to the artist and the audience. Whatever I'm interpreting must be reality. If you can achieve that other things will come naturally (*1970: 395). The greatness of Domgraf-Fassbender lay in his ability to use singing as a means of expressing tangible human emotions. His character portrayals were natural and convincing... with penetrating intensity, the selfsame qualities possessed by his daughter (Fassbender 1981: 789). There is a real sense here of actor-singers being the truest servants of their art, rather than the sometimes more famous stars. Popp (1982: 132) had the attributes of a true artist, rather than those of a manufactured or over glamorized star, by the essential musicality of her performance.
Talk of fearless intensity and charisma suggests an emotional involvement which might reduce singers to tears or worse.
I vividly remember the end of the second act of La fanciulle del West in Rio de Janeiro in 1964. I was laughing hysterically when the curtain fell and something snapped inside me. I stopped laughing and fell to the ground. I didn't faint. I was in a state of trance. They picked me up and Laura Guelfi, the wife of Giangiacomo, who played Rance, started to slap me in the face, apologising all the time. I managed to go for the curtain call but felt like an automaton and kept repeating a sentence over and over again (Olivero 1994: 15).
Olivero, the most famous Adriana Lecouvreur, likens this experience to Adriana's words 'umile encella del genio creator? (one must annul one's own identity and recapture the inspiration of the composer). Vickers sees the danger of such a commitment, referring to Wagner's reaction to the intensity of Tristan's Act III extended scene: "What have I done? What have I done? When Vickers was asked what effect, this act had on him during and after the performance, he replied:
Oh nothing, nothing at all when I prepare a role, I prepare it in a completely objective way. If when you sing Tristan you allow yourself to get caught up in the emotion of the opera, you will not survive. All the human emotions which are felt are automatically reflected in the human voice, and if you did not have a little policeman who said 'so much and no more... then you'd tear your voice to ribbons. You cannot surrender yourself to emotions (Vickers 1982: 362)
Stanislavski noted that, if an actor claims:
I entered into my role so completely, I was so powerfully affected by it that I began to weep and could not stop, (s)he must be warned that she has taken a wrong turn. This way lies hysteria ...not art. We must understand emotions (but) have a technique to control them the creative capacity of a singer or an actor is a science, which like other sciences has to be developed through study (Cannon 1982: 1111).
Some certainly feel that Olivero's way was hysteria, but in its own terms it was controlled and undoubtedly highly effective.
WOMEN IN WORLD HISTORY
(A BIOGRAPHICAL ENCYCLOPEDIA) VOL.VI
1999 January
Turkish soprano and coloratura who had a long and distinguished
international career as a bel canto singer of the highest quality. Born in
Istanbul, Turkey, on October 10, 1924 (though Gencer maintains she was born in
1928); married Ibrahim Gencer
Considering the fact that she never made any commercial recordings or sang at New York's Metropolitan Opera, Turkish soprano Leyla Gencer enjoys a strong artistic reputation that continues to grow with the passage of time. Born in Istanbul (standard reference works note the year as 1924, but Gencer has told interviewers the correct year is 1928) to a Polish Roman Catholic mother and a wealthy Turkish Muslim father, she made her stage debut in 1950 in Ankara singing the role of Santuzza. She entered several singing competitions in Turkey, and although she never won any, the young singer remained confident about her future prospects, having received strong support from her coaches Giannina Arangi-Lombardi and Apollo Granforte. Only when she began to sing in Italy in 1953 did Gencer be- come a star. Her Italian debut, which took place in Naples, tested the young singer's ability to work under extreme pressure. After an audition, she was asked if she wanted to sing in Cavalleria Rusticana. Her answer was in the affirmative, but she noted in passing that while she had indeed sung the work on stage, it was in Turkish not Italian. With only five days to learn her role in Italian, Gencer mastered it so well that her appearance, before 10,000 demanding Italian opera fans, was a triumph.
Within months, Gencer was engaged by Naples' San Carlo Opera House to sing in both Madama Butterfly and Eugene Onegin (which she sang in Italian, as is customary in Italy, al- though it is a Russian opera). Over the next decades, she would perform at most of the world's great opera houses, working with noted conductors including the legendary Italian maestro Tullio Serafin. The venerable Serafin put Gencer on the path to her later career as a bel canto singer, and it was with him that she learned roles, including Aida and Norma, for a number of operas. By 1956, Gencer was appearing regularly at Milan's La Scala Opera House. In 1957, she had the signal honour of singing the "Libera me" from Verdi's Requiem at the La Scala memorial service for its greatest musician, Arturo Toscanini. She rapidly built up a loyal following of fans who cheered her at every performance. Gencer appeared in several world premiere performances at La Scala, including Dialogues des Carmélites by Francis Poulenc in January 1957 and Assassinio nella cattedrale by Ildebrando Pizzetti in March 1958.
By the end of the 1950s, Gencer had become a major figure in the opera world, presenting annual guest appearances at Florence's Maggio musicale and the San Francisco Opera. In 1959, she sang at the Spoleto Festival in one of the rare performances of Sergei Prokofiev's The Fiery Angel. In 1961, Gencer made her Austrian premiere, appearing on stage both at the Vienna State Opera as well as the Salzburg Festival, where her performance of Amelia in Verdi's Simon Boccanegra earned rave reviews from critics and standing ovations from audiences. Gencer thrilled her audiences with portrayals of well-known heroines but also learned roles from a number of less well- known and virtually forgotten operas (by the end of her career, she had a repertory of 72 operas, overwhelmingly Italian but also including such modern works as Prokofiev's The Fiery Angel and Benjamin Britten's Albert Herring). In 1972, she appeared at Naples' Teatro San Carlo in the title role of Donizetti's long-neglected opera Caterina Cornaro.
Leyla Gencer brought not only great artistic talent to her singing and acting, but often provided new insights into old performing traditions that were in danger of becoming stale and hackneyed. Because she learned singing in a part of the world where European music was only one aspect of musical life, Gencer was not totally immersed in traditions: "Everything was new for me. When I studied, I remained very close to the score as written. I didn't imitate anyone. I sang according to my own musical conception, according to my own musical understanding. My colleagues had grown up in the verismo era and believed you always had to sing forte. Perhaps because I hadn't heard the others, I was untainted by any vestige of the infamous age of verismo [which placed an] emphasis on loud singing, on exaggeration. I sang with delicacy and nuance- a style that in a few years everyone imitated."
Leyla Gencer ended her opera career in 1983 but concertized until 1992. Since then, she has divided her time and energy between serving on competition juries and giving master classes. In 1995, a proud Turkish nation witnessed the first Yapi Kredi International Leyla Gencer Voice Competition. Held in Istanbul, it attracted young singers from around the world and was praised as a major cultural event that would only grow in importance in the future. By the end of the 1990s, a large number of Gencer live recordings from various phases of her long and remarkable career were available for opera lovers to enjoy and critique. Modern technology has thus been able to preserve the legacy of a great singing actress, an artist regarded by many critics as being "one of the last of the last prima donnas in the truly grand manner."
Considering the fact that she never made any commercial recordings or sang at New York's Metropolitan Opera, Turkish soprano Leyla Gencer enjoys a strong artistic reputation that continues to grow with the passage of time. Born in Istanbul (standard reference works note the year as 1924, but Gencer has told interviewers the correct year is 1928) to a Polish Roman Catholic mother and a wealthy Turkish Muslim father, she made her stage debut in 1950 in Ankara singing the role of Santuzza. She entered several singing competitions in Turkey, and although she never won any, the young singer remained confident about her future prospects, having received strong support from her coaches Giannina Arangi-Lombardi and Apollo Granforte. Only when she began to sing in Italy in 1953 did Gencer be- come a star. Her Italian debut, which took place in Naples, tested the young singer's ability to work under extreme pressure. After an audition, she was asked if she wanted to sing in Cavalleria Rusticana. Her answer was in the affirmative, but she noted in passing that while she had indeed sung the work on stage, it was in Turkish not Italian. With only five days to learn her role in Italian, Gencer mastered it so well that her appearance, before 10,000 demanding Italian opera fans, was a triumph.
Within months, Gencer was engaged by Naples' San Carlo Opera House to sing in both Madama Butterfly and Eugene Onegin (which she sang in Italian, as is customary in Italy, al- though it is a Russian opera). Over the next decades, she would perform at most of the world's great opera houses, working with noted conductors including the legendary Italian maestro Tullio Serafin. The venerable Serafin put Gencer on the path to her later career as a bel canto singer, and it was with him that she learned roles, including Aida and Norma, for a number of operas. By 1956, Gencer was appearing regularly at Milan's La Scala Opera House. In 1957, she had the signal honour of singing the "Libera me" from Verdi's Requiem at the La Scala memorial service for its greatest musician, Arturo Toscanini. She rapidly built up a loyal following of fans who cheered her at every performance. Gencer appeared in several world premiere performances at La Scala, including Dialogues des Carmélites by Francis Poulenc in January 1957 and Assassinio nella cattedrale by Ildebrando Pizzetti in March 1958.
By the end of the 1950s, Gencer had become a major figure in the opera world, presenting annual guest appearances at Florence's Maggio musicale and the San Francisco Opera. In 1959, she sang at the Spoleto Festival in one of the rare performances of Sergei Prokofiev's The Fiery Angel. In 1961, Gencer made her Austrian premiere, appearing on stage both at the Vienna State Opera as well as the Salzburg Festival, where her performance of Amelia in Verdi's Simon Boccanegra earned rave reviews from critics and standing ovations from audiences. Gencer thrilled her audiences with portrayals of well-known heroines but also learned roles from a number of less well- known and virtually forgotten operas (by the end of her career, she had a repertory of 72 operas, overwhelmingly Italian but also including such modern works as Prokofiev's The Fiery Angel and Benjamin Britten's Albert Herring). In 1972, she appeared at Naples' Teatro San Carlo in the title role of Donizetti's long-neglected opera Caterina Cornaro.
Leyla Gencer brought not only great artistic talent to her singing and acting, but often provided new insights into old performing traditions that were in danger of becoming stale and hackneyed. Because she learned singing in a part of the world where European music was only one aspect of musical life, Gencer was not totally immersed in traditions: "Everything was new for me. When I studied, I remained very close to the score as written. I didn't imitate anyone. I sang according to my own musical conception, according to my own musical understanding. My colleagues had grown up in the verismo era and believed you always had to sing forte. Perhaps because I hadn't heard the others, I was untainted by any vestige of the infamous age of verismo [which placed an] emphasis on loud singing, on exaggeration. I sang with delicacy and nuance- a style that in a few years everyone imitated."
Leyla Gencer ended her opera career in 1983 but concertized until 1992. Since then, she has divided her time and energy between serving on competition juries and giving master classes. In 1995, a proud Turkish nation witnessed the first Yapi Kredi International Leyla Gencer Voice Competition. Held in Istanbul, it attracted young singers from around the world and was praised as a major cultural event that would only grow in importance in the future. By the end of the 1990s, a large number of Gencer live recordings from various phases of her long and remarkable career were available for opera lovers to enjoy and critique. Modern technology has thus been able to preserve the legacy of a great singing actress, an artist regarded by many critics as being "one of the last of the last prima donnas in the truly grand manner."
SOURCES:
Blyth, Alan, ed. Opera on Record. London: Hutchinson, 1979.
Cella, Franca. Leyla Gencer: Romanzo vero di una prima donna. Venice: CGS, 1986.
Celletti, Rodolfo. "Leyla Gencer," In Opera. Vol. 23, no. 8. August 1972, pp. 692-696.
Hathaway, J. "Turkish Delight," in Opera News. Vol. 61, no. 1. July 1996, p. 6.
Kellow, Brian. "The Road to Istanbul," in Opera News. Vol. 60, no. 13. March 16, 1996, pp. 36-37.
- "Turkish Diva," in Opera News. Vol. 60, no. 13. March 16, 1996, pp. 38-39.
Luten, C.J. "Leyla Gencer, in Opera News. Vol. 62, no.
9. January 17, 1998, p. 39.
Mansel, Philip. "On the Bosphorus," in Opera News. Vol. 53, no. 16. May 1989, pp. 36-37.
Mark, Michael. "Leyla Gencer," in American Record Guide. Vol. 61, no. 4. July 1998, pp. 267-268.
Pines, Roger. "Another View," in Opera News. Vol. 58, no. 8. January 8, 1994, p. 33.
Sachs, Harvey. Toscanini. Philadelphia, PA: J.B. Lippin- cott, 1978.
Zucker, Stefan. "Leyla Gencer" (Bel Canto Society/Opera
Fanatic/Internet).
John Haag
Associate Professor of History,
University of Georgia, Athens, Georgia
LA VANGUARDIA
1999.01.16
Leyla Gencer: "Si no hice discos fue quizá porque se
temía que ensombreciera a otras"
■ La legendaria soprano
turca, una de la grandes voces del siglo, forma parte del jurado de la 36.a
edición del Concurs de Cant Francesc Viñas, que se inaugura hoy oficialmente
MARINO RODRÍGUEZ
Barcelona.- Un año más, el Concurs Internacional de Cant Francesc
Viñas, una de las competi ciones más destacadas de su especialidad y cuya 36.
edición se abre hoy oficialmente, ha vuelto a convencer a grandes figuras de la
lírica para que formen parte de su jurado, Asi, además de con nuestra Victoria
de los Ángeles o la italiana Magda Oli vero, en esta ocasión se cuenta con la
soprano turca Leyla Gencer, toda una leyenda que no visitaba Barce lona desde
que en la temporada 1975-76 canto "Poliuto" en el Gran Teatre del
Liceu.
"Tengo un gran recuerdo de Bar celona y de sa
público, que fue muy generoso conmigo, igual que la presa de aquí, auque yo
canté muy po co en el Liceu. De hecho, antes del 'Poliuto' sólo había cantado
una 'Norma'. Aquello fue en 1962, pero es imborrable para mí porque era la
primera vez que hacia esa obra, con la que luego obtuve grandes éxitos en
muchos teatros,"
Nacida en 1927 en Ankara, pero muy ligada a Italia desde
los inicios de su carrera en los cincuenta, Gencer, retirada desde hace años de
los escenarios, es considerada una de las grandes voces del siglo, especialmente
en el terreno del bel canto.
De hecho, como ella recuerda hoy, fue "una pionera
en la recuperación de las obras de Donizetti, pero también de los primeros
Verdi, como 'Jerusalem' o 'I due Foscari"
A pesar de su gran arte y su amplia carrera, en titulos,
años y tea tros, Gencer es mucho menos conocida del gran público que otras des
tacadas sopranos y, a diferencia de ellas, tampoco tuvo apenas oportu nidades
de grabar discos, lo que a la postre ha dado lugar a un florecien te mercado de
ediciones ilegales de sus interpretaciones en diversos tea tros. De hecho se
habla de ella como de una de las cantantes más "pirateadas" de la
historia. "Por supues to que no he visto ni un centimo de todo eso",
aclara.
↑ La soprano Leyla Gencer, fotografiada ayer en Barcelona
Photo: © Aldi Gara, Barcelona
Corea, otra vez el país más representado
■ La 36." edición del Concurs Internacional de Cant Francesc Viñas se abre esta tarde oficialmente en el tradicional escenario del Saló de Cent del Ayuntamiento de Barcelona con un pregón del alcalde Joan Clos y un posterior recital protagonizado por la so prano coreana Sumi Joganadora del concurso en 1985 y el tenor catalán Eduard Giménez, que, acompañados al piano por Irina Prilipko, interpreta rán arias y canciones de Tosti, Bellini, Rossini, Dell'Acqua, Donizetti y Johann Strauss.
Sumi Jo fue precisamente una de las artistas que abrieron las puertas al aluvión de cantantes corea nos que engrosan las listas de los concursos de canto en los últimos tiempos. Así, Corea vuelve a ser un año más el país más representado en el concurso Vi ñas, con 49 representantes sobre un total de 225 par- ticipantes provenientes de 38 estados, desde todas las grandes naciones europeas, hasta Canadá, Brasil o Singapur. Por España participan 35 cantantes.
Las pruebas comenzaron este pasado miércoles y se sucederán hasta la gran final, que se llevará a cabo en el teatro Victòria el próximo viernes por la tarde. El domingo 24 tendrá lugar el tradicional concierto final de los ganadores con la Orquestra del Liceu, en el Palau de la Música y bajo la batuta de Javier Pérez Batista. En el jurado del concuro figuran, además de las cantantes mencionadas, varios directivos de des tacados teatros de ópera.
"Lo de por qué apenas si se me ofreció hacer grabaciones constitu ye un gran misterio también para mi. Supongo que se debió a factores comerciales. En mi época habla varias grandes cantantes. Si no hice discos quizá fue porque se temía que hiciera sombra a otras. Además yo nunca tuve manager. Nunca me he preocupado por los aspectos comerciales de mi carrera; mis colegas de hoy creo que se saben organizar mucho mejor en este tema. Para mí, cantar ha sido una pasión y nunca me he preocupado por el dinero. Yo nunca he sido rica, nunca gané mucho dinero y el que tenía me lo gastaba. Estoy muy contenta de haber sido así."
"Nunca me preocupé por los aspectos comerciales; mis colegas de hoy creo que se organizan mucho mejor en este tema".
Toda una dama que domina el ar te de la diplomacia,
Gencer habla con admiración de las principales colegas con las que compitió en
los grandes teatros, pero no deja tampo co de poner los puntos sobre las les
Así, de Maria Callas afirma que "fue una gran artista y sobre todo una
gran trágica, pero era muy tem peramental y muy reservada. Su carrera fue corta
y contó con la admiración de Visconti, del superinten dente de La Scala y de la
prensa, que la ensalzó mucho, con justicia". Sobre Renata Tebaldi dice que
"poseía una voz magistral, bellisi ma, pero hizo sólo el gran repertorio,
no presentó nada nuevo, como si hicimos Montserrat Caballé y yo" A la
soprano catalana la califi ca de "una de las grandes voces del siglo"
y alaba su carácter "expansi vo, alegre. El mio está un poco entre el de
ella y e el de la Callas. A mi también se me llama diva, aunque no creo haberme
comportado como tal... Claro que una diva, una prima donna, nace, no se
hace".
LA REPUBBLICA
1999.01.28
ROBERTO BIANCHINI
Tre anni dal rogo, la Fenice non rinasce
Venezia - C' era un taglio di luna, e un' aria secca,
quasi ferma, quella sera. Un cielo pulito che si vestì di fuoco e colorò di
rosso, non erano neanche le nove, quando la Fenice bruciò, prima il tetto, poi
tutta, si consumò in meno di una notte, come una scatola di fiammiferi. Era il
29 gennaio del 1996, sono passati tre anni, il suo scheletro è ancora lì,
dentro una gabbia di tubi, ferme le gru, chiuso il cantiere, monumento alla
vergogna. Ricorsi, denunce, tribunali, tutto bloccato, nessuno che sa dire quando
i lavori ricominceranno, nessuno che osa dire quando Venezia riavrà la Fenice.
Se la riavrà. E il mondo che aveva pianto, che si era mosso, che aveva mandato
soldi (6 miliardi), e altri 8 ne aveva messi a disposizione su conti esteri,
adesso s' indigna. Negli uffici del teatro, box piantati attorno al tendone del
Palafenice nello squallore dell' isola-parcheggio del Tronchetto, piovono
messaggi di rabbia e di dolore, da ogni parte, nel terzo anniversario dell'
incendio. E' domani. Una ricorrenza mesta, senza discorsi, senza celebrazioni,
senza più promesse. Solo una trasmissione alla radio, la mattina (RadioTre) e
un concerto gratuito, la sera, nella chiesa di S. Stefano, organizzato dai
lavoratori del teatro, che usano parole come "impotenza, preoccupazione,
scetticismo, disattenzione, disagio", perché le prospettive di una
riapertura "si allontanano". "Venezia senza teatro, senza
teatri, è gravemente ferita, priva di memoria, di festa, di fantasia" dice
il regista Maurizio Scaparro, che sente "tornare l' amarezza, l' emozione,
la frustrazione". I messaggi alla Fenice, a tre anni dal rogo, piovono via
internet, via fax, via posta. E se c' è ancora, nonostante tutto, speranza,
nelle parole dei grandi nomi, come Leyla Gencer, Dee Dee Bridgewater ("spero
tanto di tornare a cantare nel teatro dove, prima di me, si sono esibiti Ella
Fitzgerald e Ray Charles"), c' è solo sdegno e amarezza in quelli del
popolo del loggione. "Dov' era, com' era, e dove non sarà mai ?" si
chiede Michele Girardi, musicologo di Parma, che accomuna "la colpa
atroce" di chi ha appiccato l' incendio a quella di chi "ne ostacola
la ricostruzione". Una "decisione sconcertante" quella di
sospendere i lavori, per Luca Garau, di Varese, che accusa la commissione prefettizia:
"Con un bando di quel genere il gioco di corsi e ricorsi e ricorsi ancora,
non era solo un rischio ma una certezza". Ma ce n' è anche per i veneziani
"che sono sempre stati inarrivabili per baloccarsi con le parole"
scrive Daria Mazzurana da Milano, e per i politici: "Signor Sindaco,
Signor Prefetto, Signori Ministri - chiede Giulia Perocco - quando potremo dire
di nuovo "è" e non "era" della Fenice? Da qualche mese ho
scoperto che dico "era", vuol dire che il teatro sta diventando il
passato, un pezzo morto, un brandello della memoria...". "E'
umiliante - accusa Alvise Zanchi, veneziano, trentun anni e "nessuna
fiducia di rivedere un' opera nel mio teatro" - ed è difficile non
sentirsi traditi, orfani, feriti, e non scoprire in una luce sinistra, come dei
personaggi da farsa amara, i politici e i responsabili che omettono di esporsi
e di pronunciarsi con forza per sbloccare la situazione". "Stupidità,
ignominia, incapacità" accusa Gabriele Visentini che se la prende con gli
appalti chiamati "trasparenti" e invece "gestiti sempre alla
stessa maniera" e con gli amministratori responsabili che si dimostrano,
viceversa, "irresponsabili". C' è anche chi manda un racconto, come
Giolonardo Dell' Arpa, musicista, che scrive di "un ragazzino che rivuole
il suo sogno": "a lui non frega nulla dei soldi, della burocrazia,
delle leggi e degli imbrogli: lui vuole di nuovo il suo luogo del sogno,
rivuole il suo teatro". E c' è chi, più pragmaticamente, come la contessa
Barbara Valmarana, manda un appello al ministro Melandri: "Ci aiuti, e
aiuti i veneziani a riavere il loro teatro". Ma c' è anche chi, come
Pierfranco Moliterni, docente all' università di Bari, chiede di non
dimenticare il Petruzzelli, per far sì che "con l' aiuto di tutti e senza
l' indifferenza di alcuno" risorga anche "il teatro dei
pugliesi". Dall' America, dalla Francia, dall' Australia arrivano anche
auguri e messaggi di speranza. "Fortuna e successo per la
ricostruzione" scrive Claudia Meuli da Costanza, "Aspettiamo la
riapertura con grande impazienza" dicono dall' associazione "Art et
Fugue" di Ginevra, "che il teatro mi aspetti" digita Maura
Termite da Milano, e Enrico Balli da Torino scrive venti volte la parola
"solidarietà". E' una pioggia di messaggi. Roberto da Pavia, Claudio
da Milano, Simone da Lucca, Francesco da Vicenza, Carlo da Torino, Cristiano da
Ferrara, Alberto da Udine, Richard da Pistoia... perché, come scrive Leonardo,
da Arezzo, "una storia così non può finire... stringete i denti!".
SCHERZO
1999 March
LA PASIÓN TURCA DE
LEYLA GENCER
Artista de culto entre los
aficionados al bel canto y reina absoluta de la discografia pirata, la mitica
soprano turca Leyla Gencer (Estambul, 1928) regresó a Barcelona para formar
parte del jurado del 36o Concurso Internacional de Canto Francesco Viñas. La gran interprete, que
logró imponer su fabulosa personalidad en una época marcada por la rivalidad
entre Maria Callas y Renata Tebaldi -y lo hizo sin el más mínimo apoyo de la
industria del disco-, sigue vinculada al mundo operistico transmitiendo su arte
a las nuevas generaciones de cantantes en la academia de la Scala de Milán,
manteniendo al tiempo una estrecha relación con la vida musical de su ciudad
natal como presidenta del Festival Internacional de Música de Estambul y del
concurso internacional de canto que lleva su nombre. "Se nace prima donna,
no se aprende a serlo", afirma con orgullo en esta entrevista, en la que
repasa su fabulosa trayectoria en los escenarios.
SCHERZO.- En 1962 debutó en el Gran Teatro del Liceo cantando Norma por primera vez en su camera con un éxito extraordinario y después sólo volvió en 1975, con Poliuto, de Donizetti. ¿Cómo recuerda su paso por el desaparecido coliseo barcelonés?
SCHERZO.- En 1962 debutó en el Gran Teatro del Liceo cantando Norma por primera vez en su camera con un éxito extraordinario y después sólo volvió en 1975, con Poliuto, de Donizetti. ¿Cómo recuerda su paso por el desaparecido coliseo barcelonés?
← Leyla Gencer y Tullio Serafin en I due Foscari en 1957
← Leyla Gencer en los anos 50
S.- Usted logró imponerse en los escenarios sin el apoyo de las multinacionales del disco y agencias artisticas. ¿Cómo se explica los motivos por los que fue marginada por la industria discográfica?
S.- Afortunadamente, la industria corsaria ha reparado esa injusticia y la proliferación de grabaciones piratas con sus gloriosas veladas mantienen vi va su leyenda entre las jovenes generaciones de aficionados al bel canto
L. G.- He vivido para el canto y he contribuido a enriquecer el repertorio operístico no sólo con los titulos de Donizetti, también con las obras del joven Verdi, que son maravillosas; ahí está esa Jerusa lem con Jaime Aragall, que enton- ces tenía una voz preciosa y los agudos necesarios, o I due Foscari, que canté en Venecia en 1954, La battaglia di Legnano o Macbeth, que es una de las óperas que más satisfacciones me ha dado... Es muy dificil escoger una obra favorita, porque siempre he cantado obras maravillosas. Desde luego está la Norma, Roberto De vereux, Maria Stuarda y Belisario serian probablemente mis obras favoritas en el terreno donizettiano. Siempre he cantado Donizetti estudiando la psicologia de los personajes, porque hasta en sus agilidades era un compositor que siempre escribía al servicio de una razón expresiva, aunque cada vez hay más sopranos que lo cantan con una dicción horrorosa y con una simple exhibición de técnica vocal que a mí, sinceramente, no me emociona lo más mínimo. Por cierto, también voy camino de convertirme en la reina de los videos históricos, gracias a la colección que vienen editando los archivos de la RAI y la Arena de Verona, y ahí están Il trovatore, con Mario del Monaco, Barbieri y Bastianini, Aida, con la Cossotto y Bergonzi o Werther, con Juan Oncina. Son parte de mi vida en la escena y me encanta verlas en los mercados. [Javier Pérez Senz]
IL PICCOLO
1999.03.07
CORRIERE DELLA SERA
1999.05.12
OPERNWELT
1999 June
OPERA NEWS
1999 July
ALBERT INNAURATO
Inside La Scala
TEMPLE OF MUSIC or TEMPLE OF DOOM?
Riccardo Muti saved me from the Gypsies (Part I)
We were in Milan, on an unusually warm day for February, walking to lunch on my first day at La Scala.
"Where is your overcoat?" he asked. "Walk along in just a sweater, and suddenly little people will surround you. Gypsies. They will cover you with a rolled-up newspaper." He shapes both hands around an imaginary paper and conducts them over me, a mesmerizing presto in 6/8 time. "They will then vanish, and so will your money, and your watch and anything else they can get. You be careful."
Sure enough, a few days later I was walking to rehearsal when, on a crowded street corner, with carabinieri watching, I was circled like a flame by a gang of young women -- human moths, carrying newspapers. They were swift, silent and sudden. "Via!" I yelled, hitting at them. They scattered. There was applause. I looked sharply over at the cops, who merely shrugged.
I wasn't so unnerved by the thought of having nearly lost my money and passport -- but the Gypsies would have gotten my pass to La Scala! It had been stamped just a few days before by the company's sovrintendente (the big boss), Carlo Fontana.
"You see, I told you," Muti laughed later. "Always have armor on when you walk in the world. The Gypsies may still get you, but they will have to work for what they get."
Opera news had sent me to La Scala to cover the last two weeks of rehearsals and the first two performances of a new production of La Forza del Destino -- the first time La Scala has mounted the opera in twenty-one years. (The cast back then offered Montserrat Caballé, José Carreras, Piero Cappuccilli and Nicolai Ghiaurov.) But my real reason for being there was to try to discover the answer to some questions going around the music industry about La Scala. Once, the theater was considered one of the great opera centers of the world. Italian opera really lived there, under the guidance of the great old maestros: De Sabata, Serafin, Gavazzeni, Gui. Every singer dreamed of making a debut there; it was the Italian equivalent of playing the Palace. In recent years, though, La Scala's importance in a singer's career has declined. It has become a place many artists avoid, a company where chaos and mismanagement can make even the toughest, most ambitious soprano scramble to book a flight home.
At the center of much of the controversy surrounding La Scala's management is Riccardo Muti. Before coming to Milan to work on this article, I hadn't been sure about Muti. Already he was starting to win me over. I admitted as much to Elvio Giudici, a leading critic of La Musica and contributor to La Repubblica. "But of course," Giudici snapped, "Muti is buying you!" Then he hung up on me.
Giudici, who is also author of the exhaustive and brilliant L'Opera in CD e Video, a 1,200-page tome, has gone to La Scala every significant night since he was ten, when he heard "La Callas in the Visconti Traviata." After that phone call, I guessed I could count Giudici as a former friend. Only in opera would my coming to like and admire Maestro Muti have sounded the death knell for a number of friendships on two continents.
Who works at La Scala and what do they do?
Like all the big institutions in Italy, La Scala has a hierarchical structure and a feudal feel. "You see," says the owner of the hotel where I'm staying, "in Italy we are just learning about business and corporations. Everyone still thinks in terms of the family -- not just mamma and papa, but everybody with two drops of the same blood, the church, the unions and the Mafia. We have political parties. Today there are twenty-four, tomorrow there might be twenty-eight.
Three people are in official positions of power at La Scala. First is the sovrintendente, "Dottore" Carlo Fontana. Then there is Maestro Riccardo Muti, direttore musicale, followed by Maestro Paolo Arcà, direttore artistico. (Muti tells me it is Italian law that the artistic director of any theater must be a "maestro," a musician with credentials. Orchestras have been known to strike if they felt the artistic director was not a good enough musician -- whether he conducted or not.) Maestro Arcà arrived at La Scala in 1994. He is a prize-winning composer, particularly of operas. (His Il Carillon del Gesuita was recorded by Nuova Era.) He is the chief teacher of composition at the Milan Conservatory. Arcà is in his mid-forties and looks younger, with an easy, open-faced charm. I remark on his fresh, youthful appearance. "That's La Scala," Arcà smiles. "It either kills you or keeps you young."
As frequently seems to be the case in Italy, it is not always clear who does what or possesses what degree of actual, as opposed to titular, power. Though much fuss is made about introducing me to most of the people in the theater, there are some older men at the rehearsals who are never introduced but look forbidding. La Scala has, it seems, hundreds of offices; it's not unusual to pass a door and catch with peripheral vision someone behind a desk, glaring. Yet neither a thousand-dollar suit nor a desk is a guarantee of anything in Italy.
Fontana has a small army of underlings and associates but -- as he makes clear often -- no equals. Arcà works with Maestro Luca Targenti, the theater's casting director. Muti's associate in the hierarchy is Dottore Alberto Tirola. One dare not address any of these men without his title unless invited to do so.
The idea of three people in power seems very strange to me. "Of course, it's strange -- it's Italy," agrees one long-time toiler in the chain gang of Italian arts administration. "Naturally, you must have someone who looks after the money, and naturally, you must have someone who makes artistic decisions. But La Scala, like a lot of our theaters, has three bosses officially, and an army of 'important' underlings, plus all the politicians who have wires in the theater. They belong to varying coalitions of parties defined by degrees of 'right' and 'left' that nobody outside of Italy would understand. And there are the theater Mafias, the unions, the big singers and their agents, the chorus and orchestra who sometimes organize against their own unions, the stage workers. There are the cliques with conflict of interest. They are paid by agents, the record companies, the unions, for information and influence. The result is paralysis -- no one really has to take responsibility for any decisions, and it's hard to blame anyone. And a strong personality like Muti can overrule any objection, even if it makes sense."
Muti the Hated, and the Decline of La Scala
Riccardo Muti is the world's most publicly detested conductor. In her book Cinderella and Company, Manuela Hoelterhoff calls him "the famously short maestro of fear." Yet Muti is extremely successful -- not to mention remarkably good-looking for a fifty-seven-year-old workaholic.
"You just get younger looking," says Itzhak Perlman, when he comes backstage after a grueling Vienna Philharmonic concert at which Muti has led the Schumann Second and the Shostakovitch Fifth. "Oh, caro, no," says Muti, "it is all a trick. You know -- the hair dye." In a second, Muti becomes a hairdresser dumping a ton of polish on his head and wiping it in. "And then of course, there is the plastic surgery." Instantly, he shifts from hairdresser to surgeon, staring at his features in the dressing-room mirror, then pulling his face in forty different directions in thirty seconds. Everyone laughs except Perlman, who continues to peer at him.
“I am not La Scala," says Muti. "Carlo Fontana is the boss. He consults with me, of course. But the final decisions are his. Paolo Arcà is the artistic director. He consults with me, too. But he and his staff plan, and there are many details I don't know about -- just as there are many money problems and decisions that are not my business, and I don't want to know about them either."
Though Muti insists he does not run La Scala, everybody blames him anyway. The power-wife of a major player at La Scala puts it this way: "La Scala is Muti, Muti is La Scala. You cannot separate the two."
Muti's poisonous reputation extends far and wide in the music business. "La Scala was the most important theater in Europe for sheer éclat," says Merle Hubbard, an artist representative who began at the Met in the Rudolf Bing days and has managed Luciano Pavarotti, Renée Fleming, Carol Vaness and Lauren Flanigan, all of whom have had their innings at La Scala. "But now it's not run by artists, it's run by a syndicate. It's a closed shop. It's impossible to know who's in charge. It's not run for the art. There's power-mongering everywhere, artistic direction nowhere. There's a reason Luciano stopped singing there as soon as possible."
"The Met is far more important in making careers today," Hubbard continues. "The Met must reach out all the time. Joe Volpe has done a great marketing job and is available to answer for decisions. For that I applaud him. But La Scala? It's a lost cause."
"The house is always packed," says my former friend Giudici, "but it is empty of significance. It is a tourist trap, a fashion show, a salon -- not a place of art. The only successes recently have been The Florentine Straw Hat by Nino Rota, conducted by Bruno Campanella, whom the Rota family insisted on, and Khovanshchina, conducted by Valery Gergiev. Muti runs everything but is irrelevant."
A case can be built against Muti's taste and tactics. But his talent? At a thrilling New York Philharmonic concert of Ravel, Busoni and Brahms in January (at which the orchestra refused to bow, applauding the maestro instead), the stunning Vienna Philharmonic concerts in New York in March, the Forza orchestra rehearsals, his ear, insight and authority were remarkable.
“It's hard to find an Italian critic who's willing to be both candid and specific. The atmosphere among those in the mainstream is cautious. One important critic I contacted would talk only in generalities: "Muti got my predecessor fired and has gotten a lot of us in trouble. After a bad review or two, we learn we'd better come 'round, or we'll be unemployed."
Can those allegations be proved? "Nothing can be proved in Italy, certainly nothing that happens at La Scala. I can't prove to you that they did Manon Lescaut there. I was in the theater, but I didn't notice a performance. Muti conducted -- so of course I gave it a respectful review." (Muti denied the charge of getting reviewers fired.)
Muti ascended the throne in 1986. One of the musicians who, out of "human kindness," tried to help with the transition, bristles at the suggestion that the rot set in at least a little while before Muti arrived. "Ma, no!" he yells deafeningly. "This Abbado -- I mean the giant, Claudio -- he not nice man, but he great visionary of the theater. La Scala now is a disaster. And there is one cause -- Muti, Muti, Muti. I work with him. I know. Basta."
Cautiously, I bring this point up with Muti. He is surprisingly sweet about it. "That is La Scala. They crucify you while you're here and canonize you later. Now, Maestro Abbado is a saint. I will be a saint too, once they do me in."
Hatred of the current La Scala, and of Muti, is far from muted. The angry feelings of malcontents are vented in the alternative press and in the second most feared place at La Scala -- the top gallery, or Loggione. The most feared place, of course, is the Sala Gialla.
In the Sala Gialla
The Sala Gialla, a windowless chamber in a corner of the second floor of La Scala, was where Toscanini rehearsed. After his time, the Board took it over. They still meet there. But Muti reclaimed it for his rehearsals. It's a long, forbidding room with a massive table in the center. On the walls are pictures of the wreckage of the house after the allied air raids during World War II. Above the grand piano at the far end is a huge, terrifying portrait of Arturo Toscanini. He glares down at everybody who enters the room.
"I call it the Muti diet," says Lauren Flanigan. "You get a contract at La Scala, and you expect to sing. You show up, and there are three other people cast in the same role. You lose a lot of weight obsessing about if and when he'll pick you." Flanigan remembers her experiences rehearsing the role of Abigaille in Nabucco for Muti. "There were four of us Abigailles. Three of us got to be friends. The fourth we called 'the nuclear Abigaille' -- we figured she was there in case the rest of us got killed in a nuclear holocaust, they'd have her. She was like a roach; she'd live through anything. So, the scene is going on, and he points from one person to another with his glasses, and you have to be ready to get up and sing. If he catches you by surprise and you choke, he gestures to somebody else, and you think, 'I'll never get it now.' So I learned to push my way to the head of the table, so I could see the glasses coming in my direction. I came back thirty-one pounds lighter."
The Sala Gialla is where Cecilia Bartoli met Renée Fleming. They were rehearsing for a Don Giovanni in which Bartoli hoped to sing Zerlina, Fleming Donna Elvira. Bartoli, who can dish with the best, clams up at first but gets around to some morsels. "Muti's yellow room, it is like Scarpia's torture chamber," she says, finally. "Everybody is there, and he goes back and forth. My cover was always there. Muti keeps people in the dark. No one ever knows who will actually sing."
"Rehearsing was like having high-school sing-offs," adds Fleming -- "You sing it now, then you sing it.' That's trying!"
La Scala Itself
Though not everyone honors my "free passage" graciously, I am allowed to walk all over La Scala on my own. On my first day, Muti shows me various passageways, so I won't get lost. It doesn't help. You need a map and compass to negotiate your way around La Scala, and I get lost every single day and night I am there.
"These are our guards and our Gods," Muti says, pointing to the giant statues of Rossini, Verdi, Donizetti and Bellini in the beautiful lobby. He opens the gold-framed glass doors and guides me into the shadowy theater. "This is our church."
We both look in silence for ten minutes. He vanishes, and I sit in this space, trying not to feel overwhelmed by sentiment. There are the gorgeous gilded boxes, glinting down on the plush red seats. Up there is that amazing chandelier, and above it the ceiling, with its intricate patterns suspended by magic in thin air.
And then, the stage. Even with the curtain up and workmen on platforms and ladders, it is breathtaking. The rehearsal lights are unlike any I've seen elsewhere. Mysterious figures emerge, then sink into semidarkness. My eyes are tricked into seeing haunted poses, my ears into hearing fluttering sounds. There are only stagehands moving scenery.
The auditorium is merely fifty-three years old; the stage goes back much further. But time evaporates in here. An art form, maybe one that is vanishing, is made flesh, so to speak. One can reach out and almost touch opera.
La Scala was completed in 1778, on the site where the church of Santa Maria della Scala once stood. The theater was run by a group of noble families, who hired impresarios to organize seasons, until 1815 -- the year La Scala began its ascendancy. As part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Milan and its primary theater enjoyed large subsidies. It became a showplace for the powerful Austrian government officials stationed in Milan. In 1859, when Italy was united (though how united the country actually became is a matter of serious and continuing debate), Milan's emerged as the jewel in the crown of Italian opera houses, even though the government was centered in Rome.
The Milan of 1839 was a paradoxical place that was typically Italian -- famous, but insulated and provincial. Many of the intellectual Milanese say the same thing about the city today. Regional antagonisms were inevitable. One reason Verdi was denied entry to the city's Conservatory was that he was a foreigner! Most Italians are still foreigners to the Milanese. Southern Italians are despised by the locals. They are called terroni, a word with nasty connotations. The idea is that the North (and Milan is the great city in the North) pays all the taxes squandered by the bums down South.
Claudio Abbado, Muti's predecessor, is from a great Milanese family -- an elegant, intellectual Northerner. Muti is from the far South. He was born in Puglia and raised in Naples. Arcà, whom Muti calls friend as well as colleague, is from Rome. Tirola has Neapolitan ancestors. Maestro Montanari, the "conductor of the stage," is Neapolitan through and through.
Muti invites me to a birthday party for Montanari, a long-time collaborator. Italians are more sensitive to accents and regionalisms than the English, and every bit as snobbish. Usually, my Italian accent inspires a lot of sniffing, if not confusion -- especially when I'm nervous. ("Please speak English," is asked of me often at La Scala.) I'm more relaxed chatting with them in this context, and suddenly they all stop. Muti takes a long time squinting at me and says, "Those vowels -- I notice -- Provincia di Chieti?"
"Well, Maestro, my paternal grandfather was from there." There is another silence. "Then you are one of us," cries Muti -- and my grandfather and I are toasted.
"Yes, I suppose we are terroni," says Muti. "But what does that word come from, after all? Terra -- the earth. Italy and art and all of us are of the earth, where else are we from? The great soil of Italy. If they think that is an insult, they are maleducatevi -- ignoramuses."
In 1897 came a "period of austerity," when subsidies were cut off. Those were crisis years. Eventually, a way was found to secure the house by obtaining more private funding and operating more like a corporation. Publisher Giulio Ricordi, along with composer, librettist and artistic propagandist Arrigo Boito, used La Scala to dominate art in Italy. They had help from the many wealthy and powerful families in Milan, such as the Visconti. Then as now, Milan was the business center of Italy. These powerful industrialists, politicians and intellectuals saw La Scala as their opera house.
While Puccini had as many flops as hits at the house, and La Fanciulla del West and Il Trittico had their premieres at the Met, La Scala was crucial to him and to all the other Italian opera composers of his time and later. It also helped establish the international viability of operas by Richard Wagner, Richard Strauss and Claude Debussy, most of these thanks to Arturo Toscanini, who had two terms running the house and was the first of a number of powerful conductors to have varying periods of control.
Toward the end of World War II, allied bombs hit the theater, destroying the auditorium. "We wish it had been the other way around," says Arcà, sighing. "If only your American bombs had hit the stage! Instead, they had to rebuild the auditorium. They kept the stage, which was absolutely undamaged. That was a disaster. Now we must rebuild the stage, which is too old-fashioned."
That means La Scala (as of today's planning) will close for "eighteen months" in 2001, so the stage can be entirely rebuilt. The company will have to relocate to another theater while this work is done.
"You do not need to raise your eyebrows at me," says Arcà, from his plush bench in the gorgeous lobby, where we are chatting while a rather desperate rehearsal grinds on in the theater. (Acoustically, La Scala is an iffy theater, but out here, it's all too easy to hear that destiny isn't smiling on this particular enterprise.) "After all, I am Italian. I know it can take twenty years to rebuild something here. But we must do it, and we will have to do it as quickly as possible!"
In the 1930s and '40s, the great conductor Victor De Sabata held sway at La Scala. After he became sick and lost interest in the early '50s, Antonio Ghiringhelli, an upper-class Milanese businessman/bureaucrat, took over. Though he feuded, Italian style, with all of them, Callas, Tebaldi, Visconti, the young Zeffirelli and a host of world-renowned singers had important seasons at the house. In the 1970s, Claudio Abbado made a significant artistic contribution with acclaimed Giorgio Strehler productions of Macbeth and Simon Boccanegra. Abbado also had access to a diminishing but impressive roster of artists including Mirella Freni, Shirley Verrett and Piero Cappuccilli.
In the last ten years, virtually no international stars have emerged from La Scala (though Roberto Alagna was a Muti discovery). Pavarotti, Freni, Scotto, Cossotto, Cappuccilli, Ghiaurov, Bruson, Bergonzi, among the currently active stars of an earlier La Scala era, are all over sixty; Simionato, Tebaldi, Corelli, Gencer, Stella, Di Stefano, Guelfi, Taddei are retired. Del Monaco is deceased. All of these were what the Italians call "creatures of La Scala" for longer or shorter periods of time.
Aside from Alagna, none of the big names in the international opera world under fifty owes anything to La Scala, and Muti is unique in being the only conductor to run the house and not produce international stars. "I know that," he says. "It is always in my thoughts. But give me names -- any names from anywhere in the world. We are doing the Verdi Centennial. I need names for Ballo, for Otello. You tell me, you tell Arcà, you tell Fontana. We will pick up the phone that second and try for them. Give me names!"
Cards on the Table
The most certain element in the La Scala Forza, besides Muti, is the acclaimed (though conservative) Argentinean régisseur, Hugo De Ana. He is in charge of everything visual -- sets, costumes, lighting, staging -- and will direct and edit the planned telecast. He did the same for the infamous Lucrezia Borgia in the summer of 1998 -- infamous because, during the first performance, Renée Fleming, singing the title role, was hooted, jeered, booed and finally verbally abused by a loud if not large segment of the audience.
It struck many as suspicious that Fleming was booed after she had had a well-publicized altercation with Muti over her inclusion in that ill-fated Don Giovanni. She also had difficulties over cadenzas with the conductor of the Lucrezia, Gianluigi Gelmetti, who fainted immediately following her first aria, returned after forty minutes to conduct the rest of the performance, fainted again and was rushed to the hospital.
The Lucrezia scandal was the first thing Muti talked about when we met backstage at that New York Philharmonic concert two weeks before I left for Milan. "I was in the house for two days during Lucrezia," said Muti. "I admire Fleming, and the management of La Scala had talked to her about a number of bel canto projects in the coming years. I encouraged that. She will sing her recital the day after you arrive in Milan. That would not happen if I felt she did not belong in the theater.
"We have a difficult public," allows Muti about the Fleming incident. When he leads me to his office on my first day in town, we pass twelve huge photos of famous maestros who have conducted at the theater, among them Carlos Kleiber, Lorin Maazel, Claudio Abbado, Karl Böhm and Herbert von Karajan. "All have been booed," Muti remarks offhandedly, "except this one." He stops in front of a portrait of Guido Cantelli, who was appointed principal conductor at La Scala in 1957. "He was lucky. He died." (Cantelli was killed in a plane crash just after his appointment was announced.)
Forza will star the hot young Argentinean tenor José Cura. Another tenor, Ernesto Gavazzi, a company favorite, will sing Trabuco. It seems likely that mezzo Luciana D'Intino will sing Preziosilla. The rest of the cast for the upcoming first night, including the Leonora, is anybody's guess. Argentinean Ines Salazar and Hungarian Georgina Lukacs have been engaged for Leonora; Leo Nucci and Giorgio Zancanaro have been engaged for Don Carlo, Giacomo Prestia and Antonio Papi are two possible Guardianos. Either Alfonso Antoniozzi or Roberto de Candia might sing Melitone.
"You are the first outsider to be allowed to see this much," remarked Carlo Fontana, with big eyes and what is known in Italian as "intenzione," when he stamped my pass. "I am giving you two weeks' freedom of the theater. You can go anywhere and talk to anyone."
That very night, trying to get backstage to see Renée Fleming, who had just given a triumphant concert (but had nevertheless been booed by some malcontents), I was denied entry to the theater by two hostile and insulting doormen. Not eight hours after the major public power of the theater had stamped a "free passage," his employees were looking at it and laughing.
Several Italian critics assure me there were "fool the American" drills before I got there. I'm sure there was debate about letting me in. Perhaps some orders had gone out to be careful. But this is the theater. More to the point, it's Italy. Chaotic hysteria is routine, and there is no insurance against it.
During one very tense rehearsal in the theater, Fontana loudly laments my presence, clasping his hands and imploring God's mercy, just as my grandmother used to do. She had an excuse -- she was Neapolitan. Fontana is a Milanese aristocrat.
"Well, that's what Forza will do to you," remarks a small but formidable lady with high, jet-black hair and rather a ferocious cast about the eyes. She's been watching what Hollywood would call the "suits" -- Fontana and henchmen in Armani finery -- hovering around the "talent" -- Muti in a sweater and a funk. She nods toward the little group, where much eye-rolling and hand-clasping is going on. Maestro's voice is soft, but his eyes are drilling small, lethal holes into his associates.
The ageless lady cackles. She is retired Turkish diva Leyla Gencer, who runs La Scala's school (roughly analogous to the Met's Young Artist program) at Muti's invitation and comes to all the rehearsals. "How is your health?" she asks. I feel fine. "You won't for long," she says. "You will have a bad influenza before Forza is finished with you. We will all be desperately sick. Wait and mark my words! Now, while they mourn, let me sit with you and tell you about my Forzas!"
"Her" Forzas were fascinating. And about the influenza? She was right.
In the Sala Gialla (Part II)
Thanks to my insider's pass, I am set to attend a 10 a.m. rehearsal in the dreaded Sala Gialla. In any case, I'm advised by an American singer, "Don't worry about getting there on time -- it's Italy. The singers will arrive half an hour late, Muti will stroll in forty-five minutes later and drink coffee for ten minutes."
Muti is at the piano at 9:50. The small rest rooms next to the Sala are jammed with people warming up. Woe betides anyone who needs to use them for their intended purpose. Promptly at ten, everybody sits with a score around the table. I'm not sure who some of these people are. There is a handsome teenager who has grown a beard to look older. There is a very round young man with a ponytail -- maybe he's covering one of the small parts.
Muti himself plays every piano rehearsal. The head coach for the production (Massimilliano Bulo in this case) stands beside him making notes for individual coachings, though Muti plays those, too, when he has time. The atmosphere is tense. Today Ines Salazar, officially the first Leonora, will sing. She's been sick but also has shown signs of vocal distress unrelated to her ailment. She is a voluptuous, doe-eyed beauty with a face of great sweetness and a terrified air.
Georgina Lukacs, who was hired as her "cover," has sung most of the rehearsals. She's exhausted and rather grim. People are happy and hopeful about Salazar's presence. José Cura is in Paris, singing a long run of Carmens. "In the old days, we would not have tolerated this," says one of the artistic staff. "Cura doesn't really know this part. And this is La Scala. But he runs from here to there. Even Muti has to endure it."
Giacomo Prestia, the official first Guardiano, is sick. Leo Nucci, whom Muti wants to sing Don Carlo, is having a last-minute angioplasty -- today. Muti went to see him before he went under anaesthesia. No one knows whether he will be in the production. Luciana D'Intino and her second, Mariana Pentcheva, are sick. Both Melitones have a serious case of the flu. I keep thinking of Leyla Gencer's prediction.
Since Salazar is nervous, Muti asks everybody to wait outside while he works with her on her first aria. People pace. More mucus than tone can be heard from inside the Sala, even over the nervous warming up that has recommenced in the rest rooms.
When we are readmitted, Muti works through the inn scene. He is gentle with Salazar: "Is it O.K. if we try that again? I don't want to tire you. You don't need to sing out. I know you have a beautiful voice." With the others, he makes jokes. He loves to get up and imitate the characters walking -- a mixture of Monty Python's Ministry of Funny Walks and, when he wants to make a point, Charlie Chaplin. It's precisely observed but hilariously exaggerated.
Muti's piano playing is thrilling. He's one of those conductors who "orchestrate" at the piano, giving a clear sense of the sonority, he will achieve in the pit, imitating certain instrumental combinations: "Here is the flute with the oboe -- use that color in your voice"; "Here is the bassoon -- let it led you to the expression." The most intricate figurations roll out from his fingers, in tempo, with absolute precision and beautiful tone. Unlike most rehearsal players (even most conductors, when they deign to play) he is not a piano-basher but a virtuoso making music. Everything he does has an expressive purpose.
He's leading without seeming to do so -- but singers are singers. There's a lot of throat-clearing, daydreaming and watch-checking. They don't seem to absorb what he plays for them, even when he points out how hearing the orchestra clearly will help them project their voices.
He works intensely with Giorgio Zancanaro, who will double Nucci and may sing the first night. Zancanaro has recorded the role with Muti and sung it frequently. But he's forgotten it. Muti goes over and over various sections, just for rhythms and the right notes.
"Now, Giorgio," he says at one point, "tell me, don't you make a lot of records?"
"But certainly, Maestro."
"But you don't like to listen to yourself?"
"No, Maestro, I am proud of my records."
"Except one, Giorgio."
"Well, maybe one or two, Maestro."
"I'm thinking of one in particular."
"I was hoarse at that one, Maestro."
"No, I mean our Forza!"
"Did we record Forza, Maestro?" There is a pause. "I think I lost that, Maestro. I will buy it today." Muti finds this hilarious, but Montanari, the maestro of the stage, rolls his eyes.
Muti works with everyone on the words and the precise expression of every moment. He is also looking for what American acting teachers and stage directors call the "arc" of the character. With Zancanaro, he tries to get at the unstable nature of Carlo -- a good-natured, clever storyteller, driven by a force he doesn't understand. In his effort to find out whether the strange person traveling with Trabuco is his sister, Carlo asks the peddler, "Who is that person -- personcina -- with you?"
"This strange word, Giorgio -- 'personcina' -- what do you think it means?" They discuss the word, which in context is a trap. "How would you trick somebody with a word, Giorgio?" Zancanaro has no idea.
"Well, Giorgio, you could say it like this" -- Muti demonstrates with a slightly poisonous charm. "Or you could try it like this." This time Muti smiles, but his eyes flash with anger. "Or perhaps you could see what happens when you throw the word out." He shrugs and gives a staccato reading.
Zancanaro sings it the same way every time.
Muti takes about an hour on the inn scene aria, "Son Pereda, son ricco d'onore." It's important to Muti that its three sections be full of different colors yet form a link. "Giorgio, this man tells the story. He's making it up as he goes along, it's loose, and he is having a good time. You can play with the rhythm." Muti sings it as though it were a funny Schubert song, full of quirky color.
Zancanaro tries.
After several times through, Muti moves on to the middle section. "Giorgio, listen to this." Muti plays the accompaniment with fury.
"Yes. Maestro."
"But do you understand, Giorgio? This is a version of the destiny theme, the melody that starts the overture." Muti plays it. "Now listen." Muti plays the accompaniment again. It's obvious -- when it's pointed out. "What does that mean to you, Giorgio?" Not much, it seems. "You see," explains Muti, "this man is trapped, as are all the characters. They can't help themselves. They are good people -- even this Carlo. He tells a story, it's fun, it's silly, then he is pulled the way the ocean pulls you into a violent storm. He forgets himself and becomes hate. Then all of a sudden -- Giorgio, are you listening?"
"Yes, Maestro."
"All of a sudden he is this charming person again, telling this funny story."
Again, Zancanaro sings it the same way.
Finally, Muti sings it. He starts with an easy smile and absolute charm, savoring the swinging rhythm. Then suddenly, when the destiny theme erupts, his eyes cloud over, his face becomes fixed, every word is a dagger, and the final phrase is a vicious thrust. Muti -- in character -- takes a short breath, laughs and shrugs, then returns to the jaunty tune, but this time, Carlo, as Muti sings him, can't quite lose the edge.
"You see, Giorgio, if you sing somewhat like that, you help the whole scene. That is the opera -- the strange world. No one is what he seems. It is like Pirandello -- where is the mask and where is the real person? You remember Pirandello, Giorgio? And the chorus and Preziosilla and Trabuco and even Leonora offstage, you make them richer, for they can respond to you."
Zancanaro sings it exactly as he did the first time through.
"Well," Muti says later, "you have to understand singers. He is worried about his voice; he wonders if he will sing the first night. He likes Nucci and is worried about him, but of course he would like to sing the first night himself. And today they all have permanent jet lag. He will take a plane or drive to go on for somebody who is sick in Vienna or Graz or Palermo between these rehearsals, if he can. He'll sleep in the car on the way back -- or not, if he can't find someone else to drive. And he will come to the rehearsals exhausted. And he is an old-timer. They learn it one way, and if you can get them to change two words, or add a color here and there, that is the most you expect."
Muti goes on to the convent scene. Everybody who can flees. Salazar runs out. There is a silence. She comes back in but clearly would rather be dead. Muti smiles at her and waves her closer. "Just try to feel it," he says. "You have a voice. But even if you are sick, if you feel and understand, that will help you sing." Once again, he tries to get her to be Leonora. "Son giunta! Grazie, o Dio!" she yells.
"But, Ines, you didn't need to yell. If you believe in God, and this woman does, He is everywhere, right beside your mouth. And you are relieved. You have escaped your brother. "Son giunta -- grazie, o Dio!" He sings like someone abandoning terror, almost without voice. And he looks around.
Salazar really tries, but she can't seem to get it. "You know why I looked around, what I was looking for?" She doesn't. "But Ines, what is her next line? 'Estremo asil quest'è per me' -- this is my last refuge." Muti speaks to her in English and sometimes in Spanish. "I looked around for the cross, for the church, for death in life. You see, she would kill herself if she could. But she can't, because she believes. So here she can find peace -- pace. And what will she implore God for later? Pace."
But Salazar, understandably, wants to get into the aria proper, which is treacherous. Muti tries to help. "I will relax the rhythm for you," he promises. "Don't worry." When it comes to "Deh! non m'abbandonar," he says, "I will watch you and breathe with you. If you have a little trouble I will hurry and save you."
But Salazar gets tighter and tighter; by the end of the aria, she is so frightened she has to run out of the room again. Muti takes her hands and kisses her cheek when she comes back. Then he sings and acts Melitone, since even the third cover is sick. The entire character is there in his voice and face while he sits at the piano. The expression in his eyes changes on every word, as the priest, who is supposed to be kind, sneers at the stranger in need, then catches on that there may be scandal ("Scomunicato siete?") but is too dumb to see he's talking to a woman. Once again Muti catches the strange juxtaposition in the opera -- it's funny and ugly.
The teenager with the beard stands up and sings. He is Antonio Papi, actually twenty-four, and is covering Guardiano. His is the first glorious voice I've heard during this trip to La Scala.
Muti tries to give Papi and Salazar what acting teachers call an "inner metaphor." "Do you hear the flute here, signora?" he asks, playing the trill under "È questo il porto." "Your soul must wait for that and when you hear the trill, your soul must vibrate to it -- you have found home, the blessing of God, light after the black night. Forget your voice. So you miss a note -- the flute is God's blessing."
"If she misses the note, forget the flute -- it'll be the loggione whistling," wisecracks Zancanaro. All the men laugh except Muti. Salazar runs out of the room again.
"I could have been rude to Zancanaro," Muti says to me during a break. "But it was too late. And look, by now she better realizes they may whistle. She must still be able to feel her part and give meaning. They even whistled Tebaldi here. If she is too scared to lose herself in Leonora, then it will be the story of Ines, not The Force of Destiny. I think you know which one is more interesting."
Still, when Salazar returns, he once again takes her hands and kisses her cheeks. He also sends everybody out but the round young man with the ponytail. Muti plays Alvaro's entrance, and this young fellow sing. Suddenly, an Italian tenor! His name is Salvatore Licitra (Cura's cover). Like Papi, he is someone Muti has found. Muti coaches him through every word and every phrase. "Don't let your voice slip back into your throat," he says. "Keep it forward. If you need a little time, I will wait for you. Don't start to bark." Licitra tries very hard and manages gorgeous phrases but makes mistakes. Muti is tender and infinitely patient.
When Zancanaro is allowed back into the room, Muti inspires Licitra into singing "Or muoio tranquillo" with a long, liquid, large-scale, melting line that is really Verdi and really thrilling.
“Look," says Lauren Flanigan, "he is a great opera conductor. You have to be serious, and you have to work. But if he knows you mean it, he is with you every second. He breathes and sings with you. You know, while I studied him, he studied me. One day he said, 'California' -- that's what he called me after he'd asked me where I was from -- 'California, you can hold those notes a little more and take more time. It's in your voice, you can do it, and it will be great!' He saw things in me and potentials I didn't know were there."
"I don't know that anyone understands Muti entirely," says Bartoli, "but that is true of all great musicians, perhaps. He remembers everything you do. He has strong ideas, so he isn't always happy. But if you are on [the same wavelength] with him, he will help you be even better. He was at every rehearsal, even the staging ones, and he was always helping. And during the performance it was all in his eyes -- the score, the feeling and his love for the music. It is hard not to give everything."
Later, I tell Muti most professional coaches don't do what he does, let alone conductors. Talk about the diaphragm, the tongue, keeping the voice forward, helping with breath? Impossible, in today's opera. Who knows that stuff? Perhaps worse, who cares?
"I will make a bet with you," Muti offers. "If you answer my question correctly, I will take you to the Four Seasons for lunch. If you cannot answer, you must spend a day without asking me any questions at all." I agree.
"Who was Maria Carbone?"
I tell him in detail, all her records and appearances, including the first Otello with Fusati. "You don't win -- yet. I played for her for five years. Every day, I played for the singers she was teaching, and for those she was coaching and for her classes. There was nothing about voices she didn't know, and she taught me everything she knew. All the tricks and fakes -- they can be useful -- and all the muscles and what the tongue and the jaw do. And the exercises for them, and for the diaphragm. And how to sing on the words, to make the words your servants. They can even make your voice more beautiful. Next question. Who was Pertile?"
"The greatest purely Italian spinto tenor of the century."
"What record of his is the best?"
"The Improvviso from Chénier."
He stares at me. "Well, I hope you are hungry. I owe you two lunches."
The Forza Flu
"Io non amarlo? Tu ben sai s'io l'ami!"
"Ma! È sai! Non- soy!" cries one of the power wives sitting in the theater. "Questo è La Scala. Non è una trattoria cinese!"
Muti stops after the act and talks intensely with his wife. He looks exhausted.
Cura has returned. So, has Nucci. The tenor, in costume, marks. When he sings full voice, the throaty honking is alarming. He doesn't seem to know the role securely. The clarinet plays the solo to "La vita è inferno all'infelice" gloriously. Cura lets out his voice for the first and last time. He sings "I panteloni son troppo largo!" -- the pants are too big.
Muti freezes. The maestros around me hiss. "Tenore!" cries one and makes the sign against the evil eye. Hugo de Ana and his costumer run up to the stage over the bridge.
Muti starts again. Cura croons. Nucci, just out of the hospital, sings full out. When Cura falters and they have to take a section again, Muti asks Nucci not to sing. "No, Maestro, I will sing," he says. Cura mouths the words, Nucci sings full out.
The adjustments are made, and "Solenne in quest'ora" starts. The "wounded" Cura has been placed on strategically arranged pillows. Instead of singing, he starts tossing the pillows across the stage. Muti goes right on. In the "Sleale" duet, Cura tries his voice and cracks, so he just mouths the words.
The maestros around me are enraged, but Muti goes on. The camp scene is suddenly alive and stunning. There is wild energy. Muti sings Melitone's sermon from the pit (both Melitones are still sick) -- hilarious and scary too. Luciana D'Intino also sings and acts full out, as does Ernesto Gavazzi, the Trabuco.
Cura stands in the wings, fussing with his costume.
Muti whips the orchestra and chorus up until the theater is shaking. "Maestro is truly incalzato tonight," says Arcà to me. He means Muti is beside himself but putting it all in the music, and "Rataplan" is a fierce explosion. Those who usually yawn through rehearsals -- stagehands, tech people, covers -- cheer at the end of this.
Muti throws his baton down and runs to his dressing room. The "suits" run after him. That fantastic chandelier comes on, and the applause continues. Leading it is Renata Tebaldi, who has been to all the rehearsals in the theater. She is radiant. "Look at the chandelier and the ceiling," she says. "This is my cradle, my temple! And you know, I would not be too unhappy if it were my grave."
Tebaldi has been ailing. I've been told she has been profoundly depressed. Muti has asked her to teach at La Scala's school. She has refused. He also asked her to come to all his rehearsals. At first, she hesitated. He went to her house, and after interminable cups of coffee, he persuaded her to come.
Nucci passes us. She congratulates him on singing full out. "I'm old," he laughs, sarcastically. "I need to sing at my age. The young people don't have to."
I gossip (like everybody else) about the two Leonoras: one screams, the other can't begin to pronounce. "Have you no pity?" demands Tebaldi. "That poor creature is terrified. Let's pray for her." But at the same instant, we look across the theater. There is Salazar, evidently on the brink of tears, in intense conversation with Leyla Gencer.
"Uh-oh," sighs Tebaldi, "I have a feeling we are in for the other one the rest of this rehearsal." Muti comes and kisses Tebaldi's hands and her cheeks. She hugs him and pats his back. "You remember when we had tenors?" he asks Tebaldi. "Tucker, for example. I begged him to come to Italy more. He sang Pagliacci with me. I was green, and he was so prepared, he taught me. But when I told him at rehearsal, he could hold a high note, he stood up and said, 'Thank you, Maestro.'" He shakes his head. "I will go back over the camp scene and to the end of the opera. Licitra will sing Alvaro, Cura will watch. Lukacs will sing Leonora."
Our attention is drawn to Gencer and Salazar. One assumes Gencer is trying to be comforting, but it's not a quality that emanates from her. "That poor girl," says Tebaldi.
"She gave a great audition two years ago, and I worked with her. It was a wonderful voice," says Muti.
"It is still a wonderful voice, Maestro," replies Tebaldi, "but she has done too many Toscas. She was a fine Donna Anna, and you know that is hard. But they must earn today, so they sing everything, and it is easy to growl and bark. That ruins your voice."
Gencer joins us and kisses and pats Muti. She kisses and pats me for good measure. "You are looking less well," she says. I admit I'm feeling unwell. "It will get worse," she says, "like the singing in this Forza."
"That girl needs to take six months off and breathe in the country air and not sing a note," says Tebaldi of Salazar, who looks very sad and vulnerable. "Then she needs to come back slowly, very slowly! No Toscas!"
"She needs to develop her falsetto!" says Gencer. "She needs to separate it from the rest of her voice and learn, so she always has the top. Then when she wants to use the chest, she can [do it] without the voice sounding like mud."
"That is her problem, Leyla," says Tebaldi. "The chest -- too high. This falsetto is a joke. A crutch!"
"It is how I made my career, Renata! I sing so many Forzas for so many years, I forget them. How many did you sing? I think you can remember."
Luckily, at this point, Arcà comes to get Muti. Gencer hurls herself in front of him and kisses and pats him. I get Antonio Papi and introduce him to Tebaldi. He is wide-eyed and kisses both her hands.
"You are wonderful," she says. "You are like the young Siepi."
Papi is almost crying. "I grew up listening to your records," he says. "I am very sorry I won't be able to sing with you."
She looks him up and down. "You know, I am very sorry not to be singing with you!" She throws her head back and her laugh resounds around the theater. He and I both see the irresistible and beautiful young woman she was. And we get a hint of that glorious voice.
Meanwhile, De Ana is sitting at the production desk, his head in his hands. "He saw me work with Lukacs, this afternoon. He knows!" he cries. He's talking about the staging rehearsals, which Muti watched like a hawk. De Ana will later be criticized for the singers' immobility. But at the rehearsal, De Ana was killing himself trying to get Lukacs to move and emote in the convent scene. He was literally running around the stage, begging her to do something -- anything. She just watched him, like an iceberg implacably heading for the Titanic.
"I just told Maestro, she is like steel," grouses De Ana. "And you know what he said? 'Good. She will need to be made of steel to survive this first night.'"
La Scala Itself (Part II)
The Metropolitan Opera does seven performances a week for thirty weeks. There were twenty-three operas in the repertory during the 1998-99 season. Some played six or seven times; some (Aida, La Bohème) twenty or more times. The stringent American musicians' unions strictly define "services." Every player is restricted to so many services per week before ruinously expensive overtime kicks in. Both rehearsals and performances count as "services." There are essentially two orchestras and two choruses at the Met.
La Scala does ten to twelve operas a year, over ten months. Each play six to eight times, alternating with ballets. A few that can be cast are brought back for three or four performances in the late spring or mid-fall.
Every opera gets three to five weeks' preparation, usually starting in the middle of the run of the opera being performed. Early rehearsals are held in an old movie theater, across town. It is too small, so the director frequently has to work with only extras, or only the chorus women, or only the principals.
Muti has built an exceptional orchestra. "That's nonsense!" cries one of his many detractors. "The orchestra was great under Abbado." But most of the men who played under Abbado have retired. Muti has replaced them with young men and women, many of whom have won major international competitions. He has trained them himself with the help of some of the older musicians. The orchestra has an "Italian" sound -- especially noticeable in winds and brass. But they pay automatic attention to inner voices and harmonic structure, fairly unusual in opera-house orchestras.
Muti has built a very comfortable and modern series of large and small rooms for the orchestra. But the chorus rooms are small, there are no large rehearsal rooms in the theater, and the dressing rooms, even those of the stars, are cubbyholes. There is also no way to store sets. With no electrically driven lifts, everything is worked manually by the stage crew.
At the Met, huge sets can be erected on the basement elevator and lifted into place for an almost instantaneous scene change. The set already in place can be slid backward into a huge space, or sideways into other huge spaces. At La Scala, every change, no matter how elaborate and complex, is made by hand.
"That is a big problem for us," says Arcà. "We would like to do more performances of more operas. But we must close for at least two weeks between operas (except for concerts), because to load in and then do the technical rehearsals takes all day. We will always be a 'stagione' house; but we could ideally keep that level of preparation and alternate two operas with the ballet, not just one."
In today's world, the day-to-day management of the Met is a model for every opera house. Most governments are cutting back on subsidies and asking tougher questions about where the money goes. Europeans on the younger end of the "baby boom," who are now in positions of power, lack their parents' unquestioning belief in the importance of "the arts." How far these new leaders will go remains unknown, but the disaster at Covent Garden and the near ruin of Russia's larger arts institutions have sent a chill through the world of subsidized theaters.
The Met makes do on a budget with government grants of less than 1 percent. Though box-office revenue is very important, ticket prices have kept pace with Broadway and, except for a relatively few gala evenings a season, are less expensive than in many European houses. Sections of the house are carefully divided into price ranges, but $150 will get you a good seat at the Met on an average night. Tickets for those seats are available at the box office. Since the house holds 4,000 people, there are often tickets available even for heavily subscribed evenings; and the house gives a goodly number of "non-subscription" performances.
Tickets at La Scala cost about $250 -- if you can get one. It is widely accepted by everyone in Milan that "ordinary people" cannot get tickets. "Bagarini" (scalpers) are pretty much the only way. They are used mainly by tourists. The box-office workers at La Scala are deliberately unhelpful. "This is our temple," says one, rebuking me for bad language, as I scream at him for refusing to give me my ticket, though he is holding the envelope in his hand and I have shown him my passport and Fontana's free pass.
"Yes, rudeness is a sacred rite here," I reply. Which means I have to get someone in management to accompany me to the box office and soothe the manager's feelings. But I am made to pay for that every time I walk in. Every night at the box office is an adventure; at the second Forza, two mature, heavy-set men hurl themselves to the floor and beat it in fury.
The Met gets about 35 percent of its funding privately; the other 65 percent comes from box-office revenue and earned income. There is a huge endowment. There is a massive fund-raising department. Of course, they do direct marketing, calling people at home. La Scala does none of that, nor does any other Italian theater. But they will have to. And the man who will try to bring this change about is Dottore Carlo Fontana.
"There are two words you should know in relation to Fontana," says one of his detractors -- "Lottananza and buon salotto." The first refers to the system by which managers of arts institutions in Italy make their way up the ranks. It has its particularly Latin characteristics, but a similar club exists in all systems where there is heavy government subsidy. People (usually men) get into this system through political allies. Once they win their spurs, they are set for life. They move from one theater to another. They are basically
bureaucrats committed to their own survival and that of the club they belong to. Much occurs in secret; alliances form and dissolve, and there is often little accountability. People have a way of "failing upward," so long as they can stay alive, regardless of competence or culpability, even despite radical political change.
The buon salotto is sort of the old boys' club of Italy. These are the wealthy, the intricately connected, the all-powerful.
"Fontana belongs to both. He was one of the best of that old school," says one of the young bloods at La Scala, who of course will not speak for attribution. "He worked miracles at Bologna. The question is, can he carry this theater into the future? It is an entirely different game. He doesn't know the rules."
"Yes," Fontana barks, when I relay the remark. "It is a new game, and I have invented the rules!" He really hasn't wanted to talk to me. I've gotten him to let me into his office by mentioning Sergio Escobar.
Escobar, I've been told, is Fontana's greatest enemy. Both were bloodied under the old regime at La Scala. Both were kicked out. Rumor has it that Fontana intrigued until Escobar had to leave; Fontana tells me it was he who was given the boot, while Escobar stayed on -- until axed by somebody else.
Escobar has been building his own empire; after stints in Genoa, Bologna and Rome, he has ended up in Milan, at the Piccolo Teatro. That is Italy's greatest prose theater, the one carried to enormous heights by the late Giorgio Strehler (Escobar's predecessor).
Muti is doing more and more work at the Piccolo Teatro. He will conduct a revival of Strehler's production of Così Fan Tutte there and also a new production of Nina, ossia Pazza per l'Amore, both in the fall. Naturally the word is that Escobar wants both Fontana's blood and his job.
I'm told everybody who really wants to can get tickets to La Scala. However, there are only 2,000 seats and only so many performances, most subscribed to by people who hang on for decades. Fontana has made it impossible to buy tickets at the box office without presenting verifiable ID. That has made it hard for bagarini, but of course not impossible. Nothing is impossible in Italy.
Fontana tried to change the way the cheapest seats were sold. They would sell only over the phone and you would need a credit card. This was meant as a way to stop claques (Fontana did away with the official theater claque years ago) and prevent people from paying Singhalese and Gypsies to stand in line for their tickets, then scalping them.
One of the anti-Fontana, anti-Muti pamphlets that show up every day at the theater contains a story that a delegation of conservatory and university students implored Muti to veto Fontana's plan. Most were too poor to have credit cards, and some even lacked phones. The new regulation was rescinded. To the pamphleteers, this proves Muti is gullible and Fontana merely a figurehead. There is no comment on this from La Scala officials, and it is not a good idea to mention the pamphlets to anybody at the theater in any circumstances whatsoever.
For a top-secret meeting of general managers from most of Europe's opera houses, hosted by La Scala in 1995, Fontana wrote an article (leaked to me by a disgruntled ex-employee), the first sentence of which read, "2001, opera addio." The article was titled "Poker d'Assi della Lirica" -- poker with aces on the opera stage. It's a reference to the end of Act II of La Fanciulla del West, when Minnie defeats her adversary with three aces. One assumes it was not lost on Dottore Fontana that she does so by cheating.
It was Fontana who pushed forward changes in funding methods. Now La Scala gets 60 percent of its budget through subsidy (10 percent from the city of Milan and the Province of Lombardy, 50 percent from the national government). The rest is raised privately. Ordinary citizens do not get a tax break on "charitable contributions." "But no Italian pays all his taxes anyway," the pizza parlor owner says. The current thinking is that it will never work. "If I were to give money to anyone publicly, I'd have to disclose all my income, and only a fool would do that," says another Italian "taxpayer."
However, under present regulations (due to change in 2001), corporations get a 33 percent break from contributions to arts institutions. Fontana told the newspapers two years ago that Giorgio Armani would give a certain number of millions every year for the next three years to support Italy's great art heritage. That was news to everybody, especially Armani. A secret delegate was sent to Fontana, who sent a secret delegate back. In the end, Armani gave the money, leading the way for other big Italian multi-nationals to donate to La Scala. (Many of the great names of Italian industry sit on the company's board of directors, and money-raising plans are supervised by a professor of economics who got his doctorate from the University of Pennsylvania.)
His handling of Armani has been held against Fontana in some quarters. It sounds like good old-fashioned hustling to me. It's what people in the arts do all the time in America. But to his critics, Fontana lost face and made La Scala look needy.
In any case, the laws will change. Fontana obviously hopes the deduction will go up -- and it will, if the government stays to the right. A swing to the left may do away with it entirely. It also is expected that state subsidies will be reduced another 9 percent, bringing the split to 51 percent state, 49 percent private.
Fontana's newest initiative is to open the sound archives of La Scala to a major record company to release the treasures there in superb sound. This was also news to a lot of people. But Michael Fine of Deutsche Grammophon was interested. He brokered a contract and has been searching the archives. "Of course, a lot of things have been stolen, and others are in terrible sound. So we are talking to pirates." Fine is optimistic that some great performances never released will be found and put out. But according to most of the managers in America, Fontana has yet to secure all the rights from the singers in the first releases.
"If I don't give my rights away, Fontana will shame me," says one singer -- "as if I owe La Scala. I assure you; he doesn't work for free. I don't either." I bet this singer, and everyone else, will cave in, in the end.
"You may be right," says my informant, "but this is costing Fontana something in his public standing. If he himself threatened these people to get money, in secret, that would-be o.k. But you can't do it in public. Anyway, Fontana is an old fool. He talks about marketing, but at least one wonderful project was vetoed by him because it had the 'evil eye.'"
I repeat the story to the "old fool" Fontana -- a very youthful and handsome fifty. "Look, I let them do La Forza del Destino," says Fontana. "If we get through it with most of our fingers and toes, and only a few pets and great-grandparents die, we will be doing very well. And we have just hired a marketing consultant. Now, despite what my enemies say, I work. Good day."
ALBERT INNAURATO is a playwright and writer on music.
All photos © Lelli & Masotti 1999 except; © John Wilkes 1999 (title background, top of page); © A. Tamoni 1999 (Fontana); 32: Opera News Archives ("Tickets at La Scala" interior), © Silvia Lelli Masotti (ticket line); © Roberto Masotti (interior, woman leaning on railing)
OPERA NEWS, Part I July 1999 Copyright © 1999 The Metropolitan Opera Guild, Inc.
OPERA NEWS, Part II August 1999 Copyright © 1999 The Metropolitan Opera Guild, Inc.
LA STAMPA
1999.11.19
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GAETANO DONIZETTI
A Research and Information Guide
2000
Discographies and
Videographies
21. Ashbrook, William.
"Composer of the Month: Gaetano Donizetti." BBC Music Magazine 10/10
(June 2002): 48-52.
Profiles Gaetano Donizetti,
with notes on his career, compositional style, a selected discography, books on
the composer, and historical events of his time are included. Available online
via Lexis-Nexus Academic:
22. "Gencer and
Donizetti." Opera Quarterly 6/3 (Spring 1989): 135-37.
The Turkish soprano, Leyla
Gencer, played an important role in the renaissance of interest in
Donizetti. Hers was an uneven voice, but her intense involvement with the
characters she portrayed allowed her to communicate far beyond the footlights.
She was a singing actress in the vein of Maria Callas for whom she was
understudy for Anna Bolena at La Scala in 1957. This article reviews four live
recordings of Anna Bolena, Lucrezia Borgia, Maria Stuarda, and Roberto Devereux
that have been re-mastered onto compact discs. Each set includes complete
libretti as well as essays on the soprano and her art.
23. "Recordings: Three
Donizetti Rarities" Opera Quarterly 19/2 (Spring 2003): 297-301.
Reviews three compact disc
releases of recordings of Gaetano Donizetti operas: La zingara, conducted by
Arnold Bosman (Dynamic); Le convenienze ed inconvenienze teatrali, conducted by
Enrique Mazzola (Kicco Classic), and Gli esiliati in Siberia, conducted by
Enrique Diemecke.
Critical Studies
154. Blier, Steven.
"Waiting for Gaetano." Opera News 62/5 (November 1997): 36-43.
Donizetti is often thought of
as a composer whose music is more fluff than substantive and much less
interesting than Rossini and Bellini. His operas in particular are viewed by
many as mediocre, with a few good roles or scenes that are vehicles for the singer.
Clearly, Donizetti suffers from an image problem. This article chronicles the
Donizetti revival of the late 1950s, spearheaded by singers such as Maria
Callas, Virginia Zeani, and Leyla Gencer. Part of this image problem is
that the recent interest in Donizetti's operas has come at a time when pro-
ductions are dominated by realism based on "verismo" techniques, and
which makes the composer's romantic melodramas look ridiculous. However, our
thoughts on Donizetti will change when we understand how he sought to overturn
conventions and change the musical construction and dramatic intensity of
nineteenth-century opera.
155. Brindicci, Monica, and Franco Mancini.
"Cronologia degli spettacoli (1822-1860)." In Donizetti e i teatri
napoletani nell'Ottocento, 239- 246. Naples: Electa, 1997.
A performance history of
Donizetti's operas was given in Naples from 1822 to 1860. Includes the place
and date of premiere, original cast lists, and dates of subsequent
performances, as well as the names of set and costume designers.
156. "L'incertezza
dell'opera: Censure, revisioni, adattamenti, col- lages." In
Donizetti, Napoli, l'Europa: atti del convegno di studi, Napoli, 11-13 dicembre
1997, 103-107. Ed. Franco Carmelo Greco, Franco Carmelo and Renato Di
Benedetto. Napoli: Edizioni Scientifiche Italiane, 2000.
Examines the issues of
censorship in early nineteenth-century Italy, and how revisions, adaptations,
and pastiches were used to circumvent the problems.
157. Brown, Clive.
"Nineteenth-Century Notation: Appearance and Meaning." In Il teatro
di Donizetti: atti dei convegni delle celebrazioni 1797/1997-1848/1998. II:
Percorsi e proposte di ricerca, 87-100. Saggi e monografie, 4. Ed. Paolo Cecchi
and Luca Zoppelli. Bergamo: Fondazione Donizetti, 2004.
Scholarship has shown that
considerable alterations and additions to the notated text in
nineteenth-century Italian operatic repertoire were expected. Modern performers
have been timid in applying more than
Production and Review Sources
An overview of the
presentation of Donizetti's operas in Lucca during the composer's lifetime and
in the decade immediately following his death. Includes transcriptions of
numerous contemporary press notices.
259. Gencer, Leyla. "Notes
on the Interpretation of Donizetti's Queens." Donizetti Society Journal 5
(1984): 208-15.
The well-known Donizetti
soprano, Leyla Gencer, presents her interpretation of roles in Anna
Bolena, Roberto Devereux, and Maria Stuarda. Using scenes that present the
first and final appearances of three queens in these works, Gencer outlines the
psychological identity of the individual characters, and also outlines the need
to understand the linguistic conventions of the period and the vocal style of
the composer to create a convincing performance. These remarks were given at a
series of seminars on the interpretation of Donizetti's operas (Trieste, Spring
1982) and are here translated into English by Stephen Hastings.
The Operas
While working with the
manuscript libretti for Donizetti's operas housed in Ricordi's Fondo Lucca, the
author came upon a libretto by Luigi Marchionni titled Belisario. This libretto
was the basis of Cammarano's version which he penned in 1832, and which he
re-elaborated for Donizetti's setting of the work. Several tables make
comparisons between the two libretti, including giving Donizetti's annotations
to the 1832 Cammarano libretto, the modifications made for the 1836 libretto,
and a complete catalog of Donizetti libretti housed in the Fondo's collection.
Discography:
405. Belisario. Mara Zampieri
(Antonina); Renato Bruson (Belisario); Vittorio Terranova (Alamiro); Stefania
Toczyska (Irene); Nino Meneghetti (Giustiniano); Orchestra e Coro del Teatro
Colon di Buenos Aires; Gianfranco Masini, conductor. Myto, 2004. 2 MCD 045.301.
Recorded live in Buenos Aires,
31 May 1981.
406. Belisario. Leyla Gencer,
soprano; Giuseppe Taddei, baritone; Teatro La Fenice, Gianandrea Gavazzeni,
conductor. Opera d'Oro, 2000. OPD-1258.
Recorded live 14 May 1969,
Venice.
750. Lucia di Lammermoor. Mariella
Devia, soprano; Damiana Pinti, mezzo-soprano; Enrico Cossutta, Blagoj Nacoski,
Giuseppe Sabba- tini, tenors; Vladimir Stoyanov, baritone; Carlo Colombara,
bass; Cagliari Theater Orchestra and Chorus, Gerard Korsten, conductor.
Dynamic, 2008, 576-1/2.
751. Lucia di Lammermoor. Leyla
Gencer, soprano; Liliana Hussu, mezzo-soprano; Giacinto Prandelli, Lorenzo
Sabatucci, Raimondo Botteghelli, tenors; Nino Carta, baritone; Antonio
Massaria, bass; Orchestra e Coro del Teatro Verdi di Trieste, Oliviero de
Fabritiis, conductor. Bongiovanni, 2007. GB 1198-2.
Recorded in Trieste, 30
November 1957.
752. Lucia di Lammermoor. Maria
Callas, soprano; Giuseppe di Stefano, tenor; Rolando Panerai, baritone; La
Scala Orchestra and Chorus, Herbert von Karajan, conductor. Opera d'Oro, 2006,
OPD-1447. Callas collection.
Recorded live in Berlin, 29
September 1955.
753. Lucia di Lammermoor. Maria
Callas, soprano; Giuseppe di Stefano, tenor; Tito Gobbi, bass; Maggio Musicale
Fiorentino, Tullio Serafin, conductor. EMI Classics, 2004. 7243 5 86197 2 0.
EMI classics historical.
Recorded 29-30 January and 1-6
February 1953, Teatro Comunale, Florence. Same performance also released in
2005 on the Naxos label: 8.110131/32.
754. Lucia di Lammermoor. Anthony
Michaels-Moore, Andrea Rost, Bruce Ford, Paul Charles Clarke, Alastair Miles,
Louise Winter, Ryland Davies; London Voices, The Hanover Band, Sir Charles
Mackerras, conductor. Sony Music Entertainment, 1998. S2K 63174. First recording
of original 1835 version of the opera performed on period instruments. Recorded
2-13 August 1997 at Abbey Road Studio, London,
755. Lucia di Lammermoor.
Montserrat Caballé, soprano; José Carreras, tenor; Samuel Ramey, bass;
Ambrosian Opera Chorus, New Philhar- monia Orchestra, Jesús López-Cobos,
conductor. Philips 426 563-2. Recorded live, 18 January 1954, Milan.
756. Lucia di Lammermoor. Anna
Moffo, soprano; Carlo Bergonzi, tenor; Ezio Flagello, bass-baritone; RCA
Italiana Opera, Georges Prêtre, conductor. RCA 6504-2 RG.
The Complete Operas
790. Richards, John B.
"Lucrezia Borgia: The Brindisi, Il segreto per esser felice (Orsini's
ballata)." Record Collector 20/11-12 (December 1972): 270-75.
Discography. Not examined.
791. Speagle, John. Opera and
Parisian Boulevard Theatre, 1800-1850. Ph.D. diss., Princeton University, 2006.
Mélodrame, a form of spoken
theatre of immense popularity in Paris of 1800, exercised a profound influence
on its operatic contemporaries in France, grand opéra, in Italy, opera
semiseria and Romantic melodramma. This dissertation focuses mainly on the
Italian side, on concrete connections between operas and the plays that served
as their models. Excerpts by Bellini, Donizetti, Meyerbeer, and Halévy,
selected from dozens of operas based on mélodrames, demonstrate the imprint of
the distinctive Parisian genre. In Naples (Chapter 2), mélodrames helped to
coin a local genre of opera semiseria that filtered sentiment and spectacle
through dialect and comedy, while accommodating such Romantic experiments as
Donizetti's Ottomesi in due ore. Boulevard models lent distinctive shape to two
seminal Romantic operas (Chapter 4), inspiring the sentimental highlights of
Bellini's II pirata, and the action and narrative color of Donizetti's Lucrezia
Borgia.
792. Verti, Roberto. Lucrezia
Borgia. Opere e balletti 2000-2001 / Teatro comunale di Bologna, Fondazione, 4.
Bologna: Compositori, 2001. ISBN-13: 9788877942685. ISBN-10: 8877942681. LC:
ML410.D7 L83 2001.
Introductory text (pp. 5-28)
gives an overview of the opera's com- positional and reception history, while
the remainder of the volume is the libretto to the work in Italian only.
Discography:
793. Lucrezia Borgia. Vasso
Papantoniou, soprano; Cora Canne-Meijer, mezzo-soprano; Jose Carreras, tenor;
Jose Van Dam, baritone; Chorus and Orchestre Lyrique de l'ORTF, Pierre-Michel
Le Conte, conductor. Gala, 2005. GL 100.763.
Recorded in performance, July
1972, Paris.
794. Lucrezia Borgia. Leyla
Gencer; Alfredo Kraus; Elena Zilio; Bonaldo Giaiotti; Chorus and Orchestra
of the Teatro Communale, Florence, Gabriele Ferro, conductor. Living Stage,
2004, LS 1096,
A discussion of the use of
biblical themes in Mehul's Joseph, Rossini's Moise et Pharaon, Donizetti's
Poliuto, Meyerbeer's Robert le diable and Les Huguenots, Saint-Saëns's Samson
et Dalila, and other works. Abstract taken from RILM Abstracts Online.
936. Black, J. N.
"Cammarano's Self-Borrowings: The Libretto of Poliuto." Donizetti
Society Journal 4 (1980): 89–103.
The fate of Donizetti's
original libretto to Poliuto, after its reworking into Les martyrs, is
virtually undocumented. The opera's librettist, Salvatore Cammarano, used this
libretto as a source of verses for other texts he was developing.
Self-borrowing by composers is a well- established practice. However, this
practice by librettists has not been extensively studied.
937. Schlitzer, Franco.
"Dumas, Cammarano e le vicende del Poliuto." In Mondo teatrale
dell'ottocento, 49-53. Naples: Fausto Fiorentino Libraio, 1954.
Alexandre Dumas the elder
traveled to Naples for the first time in the autumn of 1835, a season that saw
the premiere of Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor and the death of Vincenzo
Bellini. The author describes a letter of 1840 or 1841 from the writer to Donizetti
that hints at the preparation of a libretto for a work to be produced at the
Théâtre- Italien in Paris. Dumas revealed he had three acts already sketched
out. It cannot be ascertained to which projected work this letter refers, as no
response from the composer is extant. Likewise, a letter from the librettist
Cammarano to Donizetti provides information for the author's musings on the
creation of Poliuto and its transformation into the French grand opera, Les
martyrs.
938. Poliuto. Leyla Gencer,
Amadeo Zambon, Vincente Sardinero, Ferruccio Mazzoli; Orchestra del Teatro del
Liceo, Giuseppe Morelli, conductor. Golden Melodram, 2007. MDM50065. Opera
live.
Recorded 1975 in Barcelona.
939. Poliuto. Maria Callas,
soprano; Franco Corelli, tenor, Ettore Bastianini, baritone; Nicola Zaccaria,
bass; Orchestra and Chorus of La Scala, Milan, Antonio Votto, conductor. Opera
d'Oro, 1999. OPD-1228. Callas collection.
Recorded during a live
performance, La Scala, Milan, 7 December 1960. Same performance was also
released in 1997 on the EMI Classics label: 7243 5 65448 2 6.
Notes in the program for production
of the work at La Fenice during the 1977-78 season. Discusses the newly devised
libretto by Scribe, the events surrounding the premiere of the work, and the
transformation of the earlier Poliuto into this new work.
955. Girardi, Michele.
"Donizetti e il grand opéra: Il caso de Les martyrs." In L'Opera teatrale di Gaetano Donizetti: atti del
Convegno Internazionale di Studio, 135-47. Bergamo: Comune di Bergamo, 1993. Although the
bulk of Donizetti's career focused on creating stage works for Italian
theaters, conquering the operatic world in Paris, especially the Académie
Royale de Musique, better known as the Opéra, was one of his primary goals. Les
martyrs, Donizetti's French adaptation of his earlier Poliuto, follows in a
long line of French grand opera, especially Meyerbeer's Robert le diable (1831)
and Les Huguenots (1836), as well as Halévy's La juive (1835). Inspiration for
Donizetti's adaptation can be traced to the tenor Alfred Nourrit, who had
premiered the Meyerbeer and Halévy works. All four of these works share a
common theme: the religious background of a character as the basis for
conflict. Although Donizetti's original score remained largely the same, his
adaptation focused more closely on details of orchestration, as well as melodic
and harmonic embellishments. The force of Les martyrs was great enough that
Verdi adapted two moments from the work for inclusion in Il trovatore and La
forza del destino. In Italian; summary in English.
Discography:
956. Les martyrs. Leyla Gencer,
soprano; Ottavio Garaventa, Oslavio Di Credico, tenors; Renato Bruson,
baritone; Ferruccio Furlanetto, Francesco Signor, basses; Orchestra e Coro del
Teatro La Fenice di Venezia, Gianluigi Gelmetti, conductor. Living Stage, 2004.
LS 1128.
Recorded live in performance,
24 June 1978.
957. Les martyrs. Leyla Gencer,
soprano; Mario di Felici, tenor; Renato Bruson, baritone; Teatro Donizetti di
Bergamo, Adolfo Camozzo, conductor. Myto, 1997. MCD 972.154.
Recorded live in performance,
8 September 1975.
958. Les martyrs. Leyla Gencer,
soprano; Ottavio Garaventa, tenor; Renato Bruson, baritone; Ferruccio
Furlanetto, bass; Orchestra e Coro del Teatro La Fenice, Gianluigi Gelmetti,
conductor. Italian Opera Rarities, 1994. LO 7716/18.
968. Robert Devereux: tragische
Oper in drei Akten. Berlin: [s.n.], 1841. LC:
ML 48.S2747.
Articles/Dissertations/Critics
969. Black, John. "Élisabeth
d'Angleterre, Il Conte d'Essex, and Roberto Devereux." Donizetti Society
Journal 5 (1984): 135-46.
Identifying the literary
source of an opera libretto can be a complex undertaking. Once the source has
been identified, it is important to understand how the poet molded the basic
material to make it suitable for the conventions that governed operatic works.
The case of Donizetti's Roberto Devereux, to a libretto by Salvatore Cammarano,
is particularly illuminating, due to its close relationship to the original
source, Elisabeth d'Angleterre by Ancelot. However, even more instructive is
that this original play was also used by Felice Romani as a basis for an opera
by Saverio Mercadante (Il conte d'Essex [1833]). The author provides an outline
of the contents of each scene in Ancelot's play and the corresponding numbers
in both operas in an effort to compare the work habits of the two librettists.
970. Dean, Winton. "Donizetti
and Queen Elizabeth." In Essays on Opera, 182-86. Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1990. ISBN: 0-19-315265-7. LC: ML 1700.D4 1990.
A critical assessment of
Roberto Devereux that focuses on the popular- ity of English history as an
inspiration for the plots of Romantic opera. An analysis in the form of an
extended plot summary is provided. Originally appeared in Opera 4/6 (June 1953):
333-36.
971. Parente, Alfredo. "Un
nuovo, grande acquisto donizettiano: La riscoperta del Roberto Devereux."
In L'opera italiana in musica: scritti e saggi in onore di Eugenio Gara, 75-79.
Milan: Rizzoli, 1965. LC: ML 1733.064.
On 2 May 1964, the author
attended a performance of Roberto Devereux at the Teatro San Carlo in Naples,
starring the soprano Leyla Gencer. This was the catalyst for this reassessment
of the work. He opines that this opera shows Donizetti at the height of his
powers, artistically mature and absolutely secure in his compositional tech-
nique. The musical language employed in this work is extremely rich, a profound
assimilation of all that had come before him into a unified language, one
undeniably Donizettian.
972. Tatian, Carol W. Structural
Conventions in Roberto Devereux. M.A. thesis, University of Pittsburgh, 1986.
L’OPERA MODE d’EMPLOI
2000
ALAIN PERROUX
IV. Pratique
Bienvenue
en Lyricomanie !
De la curiosité au fanatisme,
il y a un pas que d'aucuns
franchissent allégrement.
Pourquoi pas vous ?
Parvenus au bout de ce périple à travers siècles et
genres, voix et ouvrages, théâtres et festivals, vous voici fin prêt à vous
muer en lyricomane aussi fervent que farouche.
Qu'est-ce qu'un lyricomane?
Allez à l'opéra, ouvrez grand vos yeux et vos oreilles.
Vous verrez alors que la salle abrite une population pas aussi homogène qu'on
veut bien le dire, mais où certains types particuliers sont représentés avec
constance. Il y a la dame du parterre, abonnée depuis tant de saisons qu'elle
regrette le temps lointain où l'on chantait les opéras dans la langue du pays
d'accueil, quand Madame Butterfly entonnait l'illustre « Sur la mer calmée »...
Il y a aussi l'abonné du poulailler, dont les jugements à l'emporte-pièce ne
souffrent aucune contradiction et dont les plus beaux spécimens se trouvent à
la Scala, où ce sont eux qui décident du succès ou de l'échec d'une soirée.
Parmi les habitués des salles, il y a aussi certains élé-
gants qui ne manquent aucune représentation de leur diva favorite et n'oublient
surtout pas d'aller quérir son auto- graphe à la sortie des artistes. Un livre
à succès a été consacré à une frange d'entre eux, The Queen's Throat: Opera,
Homosexuality and the Mystery of Desire, qui s'efforce d'in- vestiguer les
liens passionnels qu'entretient une fraction non- négligeable des gays et des
lesbiennes avec l'art lyrique.
Certains autres n'évitent pas le dogmatisme. Il existe
ainsi des wagnériens patentés qui diront pis que pendre du moindre opéra
italien et rêvent du retour des casques à cornes dans les mises en scène du
Ring. À l'inverse, le belcan- tiste farouche vantera la morbidezza d'un timbre,
le cantabi- le d'une ligne de chant et se plaindra de la pénurie qui frappe le
soprano drammatico d'agilità depuis que Leyla Gencer (dont il possède tous les
enregistrements pirates) s'est retirée des scènes. On n'oubliera pas le
baroqueux intégriste, lequel ne supporte guère les ouvrages composés au-delà de
1750. Les notes inégales ainsi que l'ornementation des arie da capo n'ont aucun
secret pour lui.
Comme son nom l'indique, le lyricomane est un mono-
maniaque, vouant à l'opéra une passion aussi extravagante que le genre
lui-même. Art des émotions fortes et des trans- ports les plus doux, ce dernier
emporte les âmes et se rit de la demi-mesure. Ainsi que le disent deux auteurs
anglo-saxons: « L'opéra est comme une huître, il faut l'avaler complètement ou
pas du tout. » Certains semblent juste avoir avalé le coquillage en même temps que l'huître.
La lyricomanie se soigne-t-elle ?
Non, Dieu merci ! Alors autant l'entretenir à l'aide de
quelques objets « cultes » qui figurent dans la panoplie du lyricomane aguerri,
l'opéra se prêtant à tous les fétichismes et commerces d'idoles.
• Le disque de Florence Foster-Jenkins (RCA) : Au musée des horreurs lyriques (très fourni comme on peut s'en douter), le fameux enregistrement que cette milliardaire réalisa lors d'un de ses récitals à Carnegie Hall en 1944 est à marquer d'une pierre mauve. Doté d'une voix qui soutient la comparaison avec les plus belles sonneries de portable et d'une témérité à toute épreuve, ce rossignol new-yorkais se lance dans les grands tubes du soprano colorature. Incontournable.
• La vidéocassette des adieux à la scène d'Anna Russell (VAI): Encore une Américaine aux talents vocaux précaires, mais qui, elle, en était consciente, au point de se recycler dans le deuxième degré. Filmée ici à un âge avancé, Anna Russell offre à entendre son cheval de bataille : une présentation du Ring de Wagner avec exemples musicaux et mines déconfites à l'appui. Pour les anglophones seulement.
• Le IIe acte de Tosca avec Maria Callas (EMI): Afin de pouvoir s'extasier en toute connaissance de cause (voir le chapitre L'écran lyrique, p. 219).
• Les jumelles de théâtre : Outil délicieusement daté, indispensable au mélomane désargenté, et qui généralement ne grossit rien du tout.
• L'affiche dédicacée par Carlos Kleiber: Le chic du chic, à peu près introuvable aujourd'hui. Pour les collectionneurs qui en ont les moyens, une telle relique produit autant d'effet sur un mur qu'un Niki de Saint Phalle.
Dernières précisions, inspirées de Daniel Pennac:
Les droits imprescriptibles du
lyricomane:
-S'habiller comme il l'entend pour
aller à l'opéra
-Ne pas se ruiner pour aller à l'opéra
-Siffler ou applaudir à contre-courant
-S'endormir pendant une représentation
-Exprimer le fond de sa pensée - ou le
taire
Bon voyage...
GIUSEPPE VERDI L’UOMO, L’OPERA,
IL MITO
2000.01.10
FRANCESCO DEGRADA
Propositi per una mostra su Verdi
Carlo Fontana mi propone una grande esposizione in occasione del primo centenario della morte di Giuseppe Verdi, innovembre, al Palazzo Reale di Milano. Grazie della fiducia, ma devo pensarci su. Si fa presto a dire Verdi. "Va pensiero".Viva V.E.R.D.I. Non si sa da che parte cominciare. Ci sono — mi dice — fonti inesauribili di materiale fra il Museo delTeatro alla Scala e l'Archivio di Casa Ricordi.Ho paura che si tratti essenzialmente di una mostra cartacea, senz'anima: lettere, libretti, spartiti, fogli autografi, bozzettidi scena, figurini di costumi. Carta. Dov'è il grande impatto visivo? Dov'è l'emozione? Penso che sarebbe meglio cherinunciassi, perché ho passato troppi anni della mia carriera in trincea a battermi con tutta la passione della fede che lamusica di Verdi ha fatto nascere in me per rassegnarmi ad abbassare le armi proprio adesso. Non posso fare a Verdi questotorto; gli devo troppi momenti di vera commozione, così rari in chi si è indurito in tanti anni di mestiere. Mi basta pensare aun "Libera me, Domine" intonato da Leyla Gencer a Massenzio in una notte d'estate tanti anni fa: nel pensare questamostra devo ritrovare questo tipo di emozione. Bisogna mettersi al lavoro con animo puro: tornare a Busseto, a VillaSant'Agata, sentire Verdi vivo.Spiego tutto questo a Carlo Fontana, a Francesco Degrada, a Pierluigi Petrobelli, a Gabriele Dotto, lo racconto a RiccardoMuti. Sono tutti d'accordo, per fortuna: non solo carta, dunque, non solo documenti, ma immagini di vita e di lavoroevocate attraverso i luoghi veri e le opere, nel clima che le ha ispirate. Perciò ci devono essere la casa natale di Roncole e lacamera a Villa Sant'Agata, per la cui ricostruzione dovrò coinvolgere i Carrara Verdi, ottenerne la fiducia e lacomprensione. Si devono raccontare per immagini i mondi nei quali Verdi è stato da subito protagonista, dal Teatro allaScala dei suoi esordi clamorosi ai salotti milanesi degli incontri determinanti, da Manzoni a Francesco Hayez, la cui pitturastorica tanto ha nutrito la sua cultura figurativa. Bisogna raccontare la sua influenza sull'editoria musicale, illustrare il suoimpegno politico e sociale, da cui nasce con gesto generoso la Casa di Riposo per Musicisti. Forse si dovrebbe riuscire araccogliere i resti sparsi della stanza dell'Hótel de Milan, per ritrovare il silenzio profondo e la solitudine del momento in cuiil grande Maestro si è spento.Poi si deve affrontare il suo monumentale lavoro. Tutte indistintamente le sue opere devono essere documentate condisegni di scene e costumi. Posso contare per questo sulla infallibilità di Mercedes Viale Ferrero e la complicità di VittoriaCrespi Morbio. Con Degrada e Petrobelli abbiamo già deciso di dare spazio alle fonti letterarie, perché tutti capiscano cheVerdi possedeva una solida cultura, per niente provinciale, e un senso assoluto del teatro, che faceva di lui un registaconsapevole. Bisogna che la sua biblioteca sia presente, almeno in parte, nel percorso della mostra. Siccome sono uomo diteatro, non resisto alla tentazione di ricostituire una delle scene più spettacolari: il trionfo di Aida, che penso di evocaremolto liberamente a partire dal bozzetto e dai costumi di Magnani per la prima rappresentazione alla Scala nel 1872. Mabisogna mettersi subito al lavoro: non c'è un minuto da perdere. Ho già dei compagni di cordata: gli architetti FrancescoMuti e Luca Rolla, Gigi Saccomandi e Giovanna Buzzi; e mi rassicura che tutto sia tenuto sotto controllo da RobertaCavallini. Per celebrare il mito di Verdi penso a una ricostruzione in scala ridotta — partendo dai venti bozzetti superstiti di Ximenes, che rappresentano altrettanti personaggi verdiani — del monumento che la città di Parma dedicò nel 1913 allamemoria del Maestro, e che la guerra e l'insensibilità civile hanno cancellato.Questa sintesi evocativa dell'opera di Verdi dovrebbe, spero, lasciare in chiusura un segno al visitatore: ricordare ad ognunoquale immenso patrimonio d'amore questo grande uomo ci ha lasciato in eredità, per sempre.
LE MONDE
2000.06.13
2 0
0 1
LA STAMPA
2001.01.15
LA VANGUARDIA
2001.01.26
THE BOSTON GLOBE
2001.02.02
LA REPUBBLICA
2001.02.13
LUIGI DI FRONZO
I VIP della lirica racontano ecco a voi “Il Mio Verdi”
Finalmente un libro che non parla di Verdi ma fa parlare di Verdi quelli che l' hanno amato, studiato, analizzato e soprattutto cantato, diretto e messo in scena. Sono infatti i più celebri cantanti, registi e direttori d' orchestra, da Abbado a Bruson, da Ronconi a Muti i testimoni che Leonetta Bentivoglio ha raccolto nel suo libro «Il mio Verdi« (ed. Socrates, 28mila lire): sedici celebrità che qui rispondono alle domande della giornalista, inviato di La Repubblica, ripercorrendo il loro rapporto con l' opera di Verdi e ciascuno raccontando il titolo preferito. Il libro verrà presentato oggi nel Ridotto dei Palchi della Scala alle 18.30. Con l' autrice ci saranno Lorenzo Arruga, Leyla Gencer, Leo Nucci, Luca Ronconi, il sovrintendete Carlo Fontana che firma la prefazione e Angelo Foletto autore delle schede delle opere e della discografia. Ingresso libero.
LA REPUBBLICA
2001.02.14
PAOLO ZONCA
Da Muti a Liliana Cavani a ciascuno il suo Verdi
Il baritono Leo Nucci parla del sentimento di dolore espresso nel coro degli ebrei del Nabucco. Il regista Jonathan Miller spiega la sua interpretazione provocatoria del Rigoletto, dove il gobbo diventa un barista losco, sciancato e mafioso. Luca Ronconi racconta il suo stretto rapporto col Trovatore, opera poeticamente densa e complessa. Riccardo Muti esprime la sua felicità nel dirigere il Faslstaff. Sono solo alcune delle testimonianze raccolte dalla gioornalista Leonetta Bentivoglio nel libro Il mio Verdi (Socrates edizioni) presentato ieri alla Scala. La parola non è data ai musicologi o ai critici, ma a sedici tra interpreti, registi, direttori che hanno portato in scena i dodici più grandi capolavori del compositore di Busseto: da Macbeth (Renato Bruson e Leyla Gencer) a Traviata (Liliana Cavani e Zubin Meta), dal Ballo in maschera (Luciano Pavarotti) alla Forza del destino (Giuseppe Sinopoli), dal Don Carlo (Myungwhun Chung), ad Aida (Riccardo Chailly e Franco Zeffirelli), da Simon Boccanegra (Claudio Abbado e Mirella Freni) a Otello (Peter Stein). La prefazione è di Carlo Fontana, le schede delle opere di Angelo Foletto. La presentazione è stata l' occasione per affrontare il tema della qualità delle voci verdiane attuali. Fontana ha difeso i cantanti di oggi: «Certo ci sono vocalità meno ricche, ma l' arte dell' interpretazione è legata al proprio tempo. Tanti cantanti del passato oggi sarebbero inadeguati: se sul palco della Scala ci fosse ora Beniamino Gigli, succederebbe il finimondo. Bisognerebbe avere il coraggio di rompere in libertà con la tradizione. Dobbiamo guardare il presente con gli occhi del presente».
LA REPUBBLICA
2001.07.09
RAMON VLAD
Giuseppe Verdi a ciascuno il suo
Verdi visto dai suoi interpreti. Il prossimo 27 gennaio si compiranno cento anni dalla scomparsa di Giuseppe Verdi. La vita musicale nel 2001 sarà dominata inevitabilmente da miriadi di celebrazioni di questa ricorrenza lasciando ben poco spazio ad altre iniziative che pur si imporrebbero, come, ad esempio, la celebrazione del bicentenario della nascita di Vincenzo Bellini. Il Ministero per i Beni e le Attività culturali ha provveduto con largo, opportuno anticipo, a costituire un Comitato Nazionale per le Celebrazioni Verdiane che svolge un encomiabile lavoro di promozione e di coordinamento delle manifestazioni programmate in Italia. Un Verdi Festival diretto da Bruno Cagli verrà inaugurato il 27 gennaio nel Duomo di Parma, alla presenza del Presidente Ciampi e del Ministro Melandri, con l’esecuzione del Requiem di Verdi diretto da Valery Gergiev e nello stesso giorno, nel piccolo Teatro Verdi di Busseto, andrà in scena un’Aida intimistica con la regia di Zeffirelli. Tra il 27 gennaio e il 1 febbraio un Convegno Internazionale di Studi «Verdi 2001» si svolgerà a Parma per proseguire presso la New York University e la Yale University di New Haven. Gli Enti lirici e le consimili istituzioni italiane non hanno però atteso la fine di gennaio. Il Carlo Felice di Genova ha aperto la stagione 2000/2001 con un’edizione in lingua francese di Jérusalem. La Scala ha puntato sul Trovatore. Ed è quest’ultimo spettacolo che ha suscitato la più larga messe di critiche e articoli di ogni genere. Nella maggior parte di questi scritti uno spazio invero eccessivo appare dedicato alla questione se Riccardo Muti aveva fatto bene o male di seguire alla lettera la partitura di Verdi e di vietare al tenore di cantare il catartico Do nell’Aria Di quella pira, consacrato dalla tradizione, ma non richiesto dall’autore. Bisogna sperare che il maxiconvegno parmenseamericano rechi un contributo davvero sostanzioso sull’approfondimento delle conoscenze circa la personalità e l’arte del più celebrato tra i compositori italiani. Lo dovrebbe far sperare il fatto che a quel convegno è stata invitata la crema degli studiosi verdiani di tutto il mondo. Non vi figura però nessun direttore d’orchestra, nessun regista, nessun cantante. Cioè nessun interprete. Nessuno di quegli artefici che soli possono far sì che l’esecuzione di un’opera assuma valore di un’epifania o di una risurrezione. Appare dunque quanto mai attuale e opportuna la pubblicazione di un libro come quello in cui, sotto il titolo Il mio Verdi, Leonetta Bentivoglio fa parlare sedici dei più grandi interpreti verdiani del nostro tempo delle opere di Verdi da essi più intensamente rivissute (Edizioni Socrates, pagg. 176, lire 28.000). L’idea di questo piccolo, ma prezioso volume, nasce da una serie di quattro interviste scritte per la Repubblica nell’estate del 2000 (con Zubin Mehta per La Traviata, Luciano Pavarotti per Un ballo in maschera, Riccardo Muti per Falstaff e Jonathan Miller per Rigoletto) alle quali sono state aggiunte dodici conversazioni: con i cantanti Leo Nucci, Renato Bruson, Leyla Gencer e Mirella Freni; con i direttori Giuseppe Sinopoli, MyungWhun Chung, Riccardo Chailly e Claudio Abbado; con i registi Luca Ronconi, Liliana Cavani, Franco Zeffirelli e Peter Stein. Modestamente l’autrice parla di «una uniforme esposizione di stile divulgativo e giornalistico, senza pretese saggistiche o musicologiche». Bisogna dire però che non poche pagine rivestono invece un autentico interesse musicologico. Così, ad esempio, quelle in cui Riccardo Chailly rivendica e precisa i veri e propri prestiti che Mahler mutuò dal Falstaff e soprattutto dall’Aida. O quelle in cui Sinopoli collega aspetti di La forza del destino ad esperienze di compositori che vanno da Musorgskij a Nono. Di sorprendente interesse le risposte di cantanti colti e consapevoli come la Gencer e Nucci. Quest’ultimo riferisce l’impressionante episodio avvenuto a Tel Aviv, nel 1994, quando il pubblico che assisteva alla prima rappresentazione del Nabucco in Israele, alle parole “Torna Israello, torna alle gioie del patrio suol”, si alzò in piedi «per applaudire e urlare». Quasi a dimostrare che l’opera non ha nessun bisogno di essere «attualizzata» mediante le famigerate «trasposizioni d’epoca» come quella per cui Miller ambientò il Rigoletto nell’ambiente della mafia italoamericana di Coney Island. E nella sua intervista Miller ci promette ancora: «... nel 2001, a Torino, farò un Macbeth ambientato in Kosovo. Nel ruolo del titolo ci sarà Arkan, il macellaio di Milosevic, capo del famigerato gruppo delle “tigri” serbe. Era sposato con una cantante, tale Zeza... Sarà lei la mia Lady Macbeth». Non so davvero come si possa giustificare una simile concezione che obbliga l’orecchio a percepire una musica dell’Ottocento, mentre l’occhio deve guardare immagini del 2000. Con la conseguente distruzione schizofrenica di qualsiasi parvenza di unità dell’opera rappresentata. Per fortuna ci sono anche registi che rispettano maggiormente le intenzioni dei compositori. Un confortante esempio ce lo offre in questo contesto Peter Stein il quale, prima di mettere in scena l’Otello, confessa di aver studiato le indicazioni dello stesso Verdi, pubblicate nel volume La disposizione scenica con «una descrizione minuziosissima della messa in scena così come la voleva il compositore, con i disegni dei costumi e l’organizzazione del palcoscenico». L’interesse del volume è accresciuto da lucide ed equilibrate schede e da un’ampia discografia di Angelo Foletto. La prefazione di Carlo Fontana testimonia dell’ormai superata contrapposizione WagnerVerdi e conclude con la constatazione pienamente condivisibile: «Questo libro contribuisce intelligentemente alla riflessione sull’opera di Verdi».
Verdi visto dai suoi interpreti. Il prossimo 27 gennaio si compiranno cento anni dalla scomparsa di Giuseppe Verdi. La vita musicale nel 2001 sarà dominata inevitabilmente da miriadi di celebrazioni di questa ricorrenza lasciando ben poco spazio ad altre iniziative che pur si imporrebbero, come, ad esempio, la celebrazione del bicentenario della nascita di Vincenzo Bellini. Il Ministero per i Beni e le Attività culturali ha provveduto con largo, opportuno anticipo, a costituire un Comitato Nazionale per le Celebrazioni Verdiane che svolge un encomiabile lavoro di promozione e di coordinamento delle manifestazioni programmate in Italia. Un Verdi Festival diretto da Bruno Cagli verrà inaugurato il 27 gennaio nel Duomo di Parma, alla presenza del Presidente Ciampi e del Ministro Melandri, con l’esecuzione del Requiem di Verdi diretto da Valery Gergiev e nello stesso giorno, nel piccolo Teatro Verdi di Busseto, andrà in scena un’Aida intimistica con la regia di Zeffirelli. Tra il 27 gennaio e il 1 febbraio un Convegno Internazionale di Studi «Verdi 2001» si svolgerà a Parma per proseguire presso la New York University e la Yale University di New Haven. Gli Enti lirici e le consimili istituzioni italiane non hanno però atteso la fine di gennaio. Il Carlo Felice di Genova ha aperto la stagione 2000/2001 con un’edizione in lingua francese di Jérusalem. La Scala ha puntato sul Trovatore. Ed è quest’ultimo spettacolo che ha suscitato la più larga messe di critiche e articoli di ogni genere. Nella maggior parte di questi scritti uno spazio invero eccessivo appare dedicato alla questione se Riccardo Muti aveva fatto bene o male di seguire alla lettera la partitura di Verdi e di vietare al tenore di cantare il catartico Do nell’Aria Di quella pira, consacrato dalla tradizione, ma non richiesto dall’autore. Bisogna sperare che il maxiconvegno parmenseamericano rechi un contributo davvero sostanzioso sull’approfondimento delle conoscenze circa la personalità e l’arte del più celebrato tra i compositori italiani. Lo dovrebbe far sperare il fatto che a quel convegno è stata invitata la crema degli studiosi verdiani di tutto il mondo. Non vi figura però nessun direttore d’orchestra, nessun regista, nessun cantante. Cioè nessun interprete. Nessuno di quegli artefici che soli possono far sì che l’esecuzione di un’opera assuma valore di un’epifania o di una risurrezione. Appare dunque quanto mai attuale e opportuna la pubblicazione di un libro come quello in cui, sotto il titolo Il mio Verdi, Leonetta Bentivoglio fa parlare sedici dei più grandi interpreti verdiani del nostro tempo delle opere di Verdi da essi più intensamente rivissute (Edizioni Socrates, pagg. 176, lire 28.000). L’idea di questo piccolo, ma prezioso volume, nasce da una serie di quattro interviste scritte per la Repubblica nell’estate del 2000 (con Zubin Mehta per La Traviata, Luciano Pavarotti per Un ballo in maschera, Riccardo Muti per Falstaff e Jonathan Miller per Rigoletto) alle quali sono state aggiunte dodici conversazioni: con i cantanti Leo Nucci, Renato Bruson, Leyla Gencer e Mirella Freni; con i direttori Giuseppe Sinopoli, MyungWhun Chung, Riccardo Chailly e Claudio Abbado; con i registi Luca Ronconi, Liliana Cavani, Franco Zeffirelli e Peter Stein. Modestamente l’autrice parla di «una uniforme esposizione di stile divulgativo e giornalistico, senza pretese saggistiche o musicologiche». Bisogna dire però che non poche pagine rivestono invece un autentico interesse musicologico. Così, ad esempio, quelle in cui Riccardo Chailly rivendica e precisa i veri e propri prestiti che Mahler mutuò dal Falstaff e soprattutto dall’Aida. O quelle in cui Sinopoli collega aspetti di La forza del destino ad esperienze di compositori che vanno da Musorgskij a Nono. Di sorprendente interesse le risposte di cantanti colti e consapevoli come la Gencer e Nucci. Quest’ultimo riferisce l’impressionante episodio avvenuto a Tel Aviv, nel 1994, quando il pubblico che assisteva alla prima rappresentazione del Nabucco in Israele, alle parole “Torna Israello, torna alle gioie del patrio suol”, si alzò in piedi «per applaudire e urlare». Quasi a dimostrare che l’opera non ha nessun bisogno di essere «attualizzata» mediante le famigerate «trasposizioni d’epoca» come quella per cui Miller ambientò il Rigoletto nell’ambiente della mafia italoamericana di Coney Island. E nella sua intervista Miller ci promette ancora: «... nel 2001, a Torino, farò un Macbeth ambientato in Kosovo. Nel ruolo del titolo ci sarà Arkan, il macellaio di Milosevic, capo del famigerato gruppo delle “tigri” serbe. Era sposato con una cantante, tale Zeza... Sarà lei la mia Lady Macbeth». Non so davvero come si possa giustificare una simile concezione che obbliga l’orecchio a percepire una musica dell’Ottocento, mentre l’occhio deve guardare immagini del 2000. Con la conseguente distruzione schizofrenica di qualsiasi parvenza di unità dell’opera rappresentata. Per fortuna ci sono anche registi che rispettano maggiormente le intenzioni dei compositori. Un confortante esempio ce lo offre in questo contesto Peter Stein il quale, prima di mettere in scena l’Otello, confessa di aver studiato le indicazioni dello stesso Verdi, pubblicate nel volume La disposizione scenica con «una descrizione minuziosissima della messa in scena così come la voleva il compositore, con i disegni dei costumi e l’organizzazione del palcoscenico». L’interesse del volume è accresciuto da lucide ed equilibrate schede e da un’ampia discografia di Angelo Foletto. La prefazione di Carlo Fontana testimonia dell’ormai superata contrapposizione WagnerVerdi e conclude con la constatazione pienamente condivisibile: «Questo libro contribuisce intelligentemente alla riflessione sull’opera di Verdi».
LA REPUBBLICA
2001.11.22
MARIELLA TANZARELLA
'Io, il loggionista in via d' estinzione'
«La mia prima volta nel loggione la trascorsi una sera del 1948, avevo otto anni e mi ci portò mio nonno, grande appassionato di lirica. Da allora non ho più smesso di andarci». Adriano Oliva, sessantun anni, milanese, fresco pensionato (era dirigente in un grande gruppo assicurativo), fa parte del nucleo storico dei loggionisti, frequentatori assidui da decenni, intenditori raffinati e agguerriti sostenitori di quello che Fontana ha definito «un reperto archeologico». Che cosa risponde a questa affermazione del sovrintendente? «Reperto archeologico? Ma per piacere. Lui non vuole capire la vitalità del loggione, i suoi contenuti. E non gli sembra un reperto archeologico, un retaggio feudale, il meccanismo degli abbonamenti, diciamo così, ereditari? Da generazioni se li passano le stesse famiglie, e non permettono l' accesso a nessun altro, a nessun elemento nuovo. Gli sembra bello? E poi, davvero, non tiene conto di quanta cultura e amore per la lirica ci siano nel nostro gruppo». Come si diventa loggionisti? «Per passione. Io, le dicevo, quella sera del '48 ero un bambino, e mi feci un sonno profondo. Ma poi mio nonno mi portò ancora, e fui affascinato da quel teatro così scintillante. Qualche anno dopo (studiavo al Berchet) cominciai ad andarci per conto mio, e divenni un habitué. Il biglietto costava 125 lire. Non poche, per uno studente, ma quella sala tutta oro e velluto, con quel fascino particolare, mi rapiva. Non mi perdevo un' opera, anche le più inconsuete. A quei tempi in una stagione c' erano fino a 25 titoli, più il balletto. La domenica c' erano due spettacoli: me li vedevo tutti e due». E si metteva in coda «Certo. Non era come adesso. Erano code vere, si restava lì ammassati, finché toglievano le catene e ci si precipitava dentro, e giù spintoni, pestate di piedi~ All' inizio ci facevano stare all' interno del teatro, c' era uno sportello al piano di sopra e la coda scendeva per lo scalone. Ogni tanto c' erano i soliti furbi, arrivavano per ultimi e cercavano di confondersi tra i primi». E una volta entrati, com' era l' atmosfera? «Magica. Elettrizzante. Non c' erano le poltroncine, ma le panche di legno, e si finiva per salirci tutti in piedi per vedere, sentire, fare il tifo, accalorarsi. Certo, avevamo nomi come Callas, Tebaldi, Del Monaco, Di Stefano, Corelli, per citarne solo qualcuno. C' era l' imbarazzo della scelta tra i migliori. Io, per non sbagliare, andavo a sentirli tutti. Ero studente, liceo classico, mi interessava la cultura in genere, e mi piaceva discutere con gli altri». Il "suo" gruppo è sempre stato affiatato «Altro che. Durante le code, e poi negli intervalli, si discuteva di tutto, arte, musica, letteratura. Dopo si continuava a parlare fuori, in strada, al massimo si beveva un bicchiere da Scoffone, d' estate si prendeva l' anguria o la granita ai chioschi di piazza Castello. Nascevano affinità e simpatie, grandi amicizie, anche l' amore: ci sono state coppie che si sono sposate, e continuano a venire in loggione». Ha fatto conoscenze speciali? «Persone di grande preparazione, vecchie e giovani. Artisti: come Rajna Kabaiwanska, che studiava a Milano, o Alberto Cupido, che da studente faceva parte della claque per guadagnare qualcosa, o il compianto maestro Dino Ciani. E poi tanti melomani di altre città, e stranieri. Compresi i "transistor", cioè i giapponesi, li chiamavamo così perché avevano un sacco di apparecchi. Noi li accompagnavamo di qua e di là, e magari li ospitavamo quando venivano per uno spettacolo. E poi, se andavamo in trasferta per assistere a opere in teatri italiani o stranieri venivamo ospitati a nostra volta.. I soldi non giravano tanto, né quando ero studente né da militare. Ecco, il periodo della leva è stato l' unico in cui mi sono perso un 7 dicembre. In compenso, ho trascinato un po' di commilitoni alla Scala, gente che non aveva mai messo piede in un teatro, e si sono entusiasmati. Andammo a Parigi a sentire la Callas, che a Milano non veniva più; a Palermo per una rara Elisabetta regina d' Inghilterra; a Firenze per Muti, che era entusiasta e straordinario. Visitavamo musei e mostre. E a teatro spesso non pagavamo, grazie all' amicizia con artisti conosciuti in loggione: una volta, a Brescia, il teatro era esaurito, ma la Gencer e la Cossotto, nostre amiche, costrinsero la direzione a farci entrare. A Milano frequentavamo i luoghi della prosa, il Piccolo di Grassi e di Strehler. Non si può dire che siamo fruitori superficiali, come vede». Ci sono fra voi dei personaggi di riferimento? «Ci sono sempre stati. Noi eravamo un gruppo di giovani, ma la nostra migliore amica era la Rina, la famosa Rina Falcetti, che aveva settant' anni ed era acerrima nemica della Callas. Adesso c' è Luisa Mandelli, detta Annina perché era una cantante ed ebbe quel ruolo in Traviata accanto alla Callas. Durante gli intervalli, la gente va da lei a fare commenti su opera e artisti. Si commenta sempre, tra noi, e a volte in modo accanito, ma sempre mantenendo il senso del divertimento. Ridimensionerei il mito che ci descrive come fischiatori e contestatori: sì, siamo palati raffinati e cerchiamo il meglio, cogliamo le calate di tono dei nuovi artisti, a volte anche di quelli affermati, ma non siamo dei maleducati. Fontana dice che abbiamo rovinato il Ballo in Maschera, a maggio: ma dovrebbe sapere che gli insulti alla Guleghina sono partiti dai palchi, non da noi».
«La mia prima volta nel loggione la trascorsi una sera del 1948, avevo otto anni e mi ci portò mio nonno, grande appassionato di lirica. Da allora non ho più smesso di andarci». Adriano Oliva, sessantun anni, milanese, fresco pensionato (era dirigente in un grande gruppo assicurativo), fa parte del nucleo storico dei loggionisti, frequentatori assidui da decenni, intenditori raffinati e agguerriti sostenitori di quello che Fontana ha definito «un reperto archeologico». Che cosa risponde a questa affermazione del sovrintendente? «Reperto archeologico? Ma per piacere. Lui non vuole capire la vitalità del loggione, i suoi contenuti. E non gli sembra un reperto archeologico, un retaggio feudale, il meccanismo degli abbonamenti, diciamo così, ereditari? Da generazioni se li passano le stesse famiglie, e non permettono l' accesso a nessun altro, a nessun elemento nuovo. Gli sembra bello? E poi, davvero, non tiene conto di quanta cultura e amore per la lirica ci siano nel nostro gruppo». Come si diventa loggionisti? «Per passione. Io, le dicevo, quella sera del '48 ero un bambino, e mi feci un sonno profondo. Ma poi mio nonno mi portò ancora, e fui affascinato da quel teatro così scintillante. Qualche anno dopo (studiavo al Berchet) cominciai ad andarci per conto mio, e divenni un habitué. Il biglietto costava 125 lire. Non poche, per uno studente, ma quella sala tutta oro e velluto, con quel fascino particolare, mi rapiva. Non mi perdevo un' opera, anche le più inconsuete. A quei tempi in una stagione c' erano fino a 25 titoli, più il balletto. La domenica c' erano due spettacoli: me li vedevo tutti e due». E si metteva in coda «Certo. Non era come adesso. Erano code vere, si restava lì ammassati, finché toglievano le catene e ci si precipitava dentro, e giù spintoni, pestate di piedi~ All' inizio ci facevano stare all' interno del teatro, c' era uno sportello al piano di sopra e la coda scendeva per lo scalone. Ogni tanto c' erano i soliti furbi, arrivavano per ultimi e cercavano di confondersi tra i primi». E una volta entrati, com' era l' atmosfera? «Magica. Elettrizzante. Non c' erano le poltroncine, ma le panche di legno, e si finiva per salirci tutti in piedi per vedere, sentire, fare il tifo, accalorarsi. Certo, avevamo nomi come Callas, Tebaldi, Del Monaco, Di Stefano, Corelli, per citarne solo qualcuno. C' era l' imbarazzo della scelta tra i migliori. Io, per non sbagliare, andavo a sentirli tutti. Ero studente, liceo classico, mi interessava la cultura in genere, e mi piaceva discutere con gli altri». Il "suo" gruppo è sempre stato affiatato «Altro che. Durante le code, e poi negli intervalli, si discuteva di tutto, arte, musica, letteratura. Dopo si continuava a parlare fuori, in strada, al massimo si beveva un bicchiere da Scoffone, d' estate si prendeva l' anguria o la granita ai chioschi di piazza Castello. Nascevano affinità e simpatie, grandi amicizie, anche l' amore: ci sono state coppie che si sono sposate, e continuano a venire in loggione». Ha fatto conoscenze speciali? «Persone di grande preparazione, vecchie e giovani. Artisti: come Rajna Kabaiwanska, che studiava a Milano, o Alberto Cupido, che da studente faceva parte della claque per guadagnare qualcosa, o il compianto maestro Dino Ciani. E poi tanti melomani di altre città, e stranieri. Compresi i "transistor", cioè i giapponesi, li chiamavamo così perché avevano un sacco di apparecchi. Noi li accompagnavamo di qua e di là, e magari li ospitavamo quando venivano per uno spettacolo. E poi, se andavamo in trasferta per assistere a opere in teatri italiani o stranieri venivamo ospitati a nostra volta.. I soldi non giravano tanto, né quando ero studente né da militare. Ecco, il periodo della leva è stato l' unico in cui mi sono perso un 7 dicembre. In compenso, ho trascinato un po' di commilitoni alla Scala, gente che non aveva mai messo piede in un teatro, e si sono entusiasmati. Andammo a Parigi a sentire la Callas, che a Milano non veniva più; a Palermo per una rara Elisabetta regina d' Inghilterra; a Firenze per Muti, che era entusiasta e straordinario. Visitavamo musei e mostre. E a teatro spesso non pagavamo, grazie all' amicizia con artisti conosciuti in loggione: una volta, a Brescia, il teatro era esaurito, ma la Gencer e la Cossotto, nostre amiche, costrinsero la direzione a farci entrare. A Milano frequentavamo i luoghi della prosa, il Piccolo di Grassi e di Strehler. Non si può dire che siamo fruitori superficiali, come vede». Ci sono fra voi dei personaggi di riferimento? «Ci sono sempre stati. Noi eravamo un gruppo di giovani, ma la nostra migliore amica era la Rina, la famosa Rina Falcetti, che aveva settant' anni ed era acerrima nemica della Callas. Adesso c' è Luisa Mandelli, detta Annina perché era una cantante ed ebbe quel ruolo in Traviata accanto alla Callas. Durante gli intervalli, la gente va da lei a fare commenti su opera e artisti. Si commenta sempre, tra noi, e a volte in modo accanito, ma sempre mantenendo il senso del divertimento. Ridimensionerei il mito che ci descrive come fischiatori e contestatori: sì, siamo palati raffinati e cerchiamo il meglio, cogliamo le calate di tono dei nuovi artisti, a volte anche di quelli affermati, ma non siamo dei maleducati. Fontana dice che abbiamo rovinato il Ballo in Maschera, a maggio: ma dovrebbe sapere che gli insulti alla Guleghina sono partiti dai palchi, non da noi».
THE SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER
2001.12.17
LA REPUBBLICA
2001.12.30
ANGELO FOLETTO
2 0 0 2
LE STELLE DELLA LIRICA
2002
LA STAMPA
2002.10.28
CORRIERE DELLA SERA
2002.12.08
NUEVA HERALD
2002.12.08
Para el gran Enrico Caruso, Il Trovatore, de Verdi, requería "los
cuatro mejores cantantes del mundo". Reunirlos es más dificil; tampoco
basta sólo con buenas intenciones. Pisándole los talones al reciente disco por
Riccardo Muti(SONY), llega Antonio Pappano, dirigiendo la pareja Angela
Gheorghiu y Roberto Alagna. Sin voces de peso y color esencialmente verdianas,
Alagna convence como Manricomén de un interminable agudo en Di quella pira, de
dudoso gustomientras la bella Gheorghiu emerge musicalmente correcta, pero no
deja de impresionar como una cantante genérica. Su Leonora cumple, no
deslumbra. Decidido a conquistar Verdi, Thomas Hampson traza un inteligente
Conde de Luna y Larissa Diadkova una impactante Azucena de timbre eslavo. El
resultado es satisfactorio aunque las palmas se las lleve Pappano y la London
Symphony gracias a una brillante interpretación en la mejor tradición
(EMI-557360). No es un secreto que las mezzos representan lo mejor de la
cosecha actual de cantantes. La estadounidense Jennifer Larmore protagoniza una
fiera Elisabetta Regina D'Inghilterra, de Rossini que rivaliza dignamente con
la añeja versión de Montserrat Caballé. Desde la overturala misma de El Barbero
de Sevillaal etéreo dúo con Matilde, un anticipo del "Mira O Norma"
belliniano, abundan las agradables sorpresas. Tanto Bruce Ford como Majella
Cullagh están estupendos en esta valiosa entrega de Opera Rara (ORC22).
El mismo sello edita una recopilación de escenas de oscuras óperas belcantistas bajo el título Tiranos y amantes, interesante complemento al Rossini comentado.(ORR221).
Es una pena que Alceste no sea más frecuentada, porque posee una estatura comparable a Orfeo y Euridice e Ifigenia en Táuride, cumbres del reformador C. W. Gluck. En la versión italiana, la sacrificada heroína fue encarnada por Callas y Leyla Gencer; marcó la despedida operística de Janet Baker, y hace dos décadas la grabó Jessye Norman. Ahora, emanada de la controvertida puesta de Robert Wilson, llega la toma sonora dirigida por John Eliot Gardiner que utiliza la versión francesa de 1776 con instrumentos de época. Sin la magnificencia vocal de una Flagstad (o de la misma Norman), Anne Sofie von Otter es la Alceste ideal del equipo Gardiner-Wilson. Apasionada y vulnerable, emerge austera, lineal y estática; pero internamente fogosa. Todo un ejemplo de la cantante moderna capaz de adaptarse a los designios del director musical y del dramático, sin sacrificar un ápice de calidad vocal. A su lado, los excelentes Paul Groves y Dietrich Henschel, enmarcados por el Coro Monteverdi y los English Baroque Soloists. Una edición espléndida para tener en cuenta (PHILIPS-289-470-293).
Cuando grandes intérpretes abordan géneros tachados de "menores", los revaloran e incluso revelan facetas desconocidas. Sucedió cuando Elisabeth Schwarzkopf engalanó la opereta vienesa con registros hoy legendarios o cuando Régine Crespin encarnó sus pares francesas con gracia irresistible. En la misma vena de Frederica von Stade y Felicity Lott, Anne-Sofie von Otter- cada día más inmersa en el repertorio galobrinda un efervescente Recital Offenbach grabado en el Chatelet parisino acompañada por Marc Minkowski y Los Músicos del Louvre. En el Aria de la Borrachera (La Perichole) o el endiablado Sexteto del Alfabeto, la sueca exhibe un desparpajo escénico que echa por tierra su fama de distante. Un hallazgo divertido es el Je suis Alsacienne, junto al vivaz Laurent Naouri y previsiblemente memorables los clásicos de La Gran Duquesa de Gerolstein, La Bella Helena y La vida parisina (DG-289-471-501). Por su parte, Ian Bostridge lleva a buen puerto el Songbook, del multifacético Nöel Coward. Una inesperada adición al catálogo de canciones compuestas entre 1920-1930 donde, afortunadamente, no cae en la trampa de copiar al inimitable Coward (EMI-557374). Con interpretaciones inmaculadas del repertorio menos trillado, Bostridge sigue confirmándose como el más sagaz tenor lírico de su generación. Otro ejemplo es su siniestro y seductor Quint en The Turn of the Screw, dirigida por el insolentemente joven Daniel Harding. Joya del teatro musical del siglo XX, es un Britten tan complejo y sutil como el Henry James que la inspiró. Como la Governanta, Joan Rodgers completa un elenco ejemplar (VIRGIN-545521). Asimismo, Bostridge se une a la ascendente soprano Dorothea Röschmann en el séptimo volumen de la edición completa de las Canciones de Schumann capitaneada por el incansable Graham Johnson. Con el ciclo Myrten y dúos selectos conforma otra entrega excepcional (Hyperion CDJ33107).
Por si esto fuera poco, el tenor participa en un magnífico Recital Schubert, del joven pianista noruego Leif Ove And nessoberbio en la Sonata D959 con cinco memorables intervenciones como liederista (EMI-557266).
Para finalizar, la flamante recopilación El arte de Cecilia Bartoli es el vehículo ideal para volverse adicto a la lirica en un santiamén. Desde el sublime Laschia ch pianga, de Handel inicial a los duetos en primicia grabados con Pavarotti-o los fragmentos con Bryn Terfel-, este CD no tiene altibajos. Mención aparte merece el Vivaldi, imposible de sacárselo de la mente después de haberlo escuchado apenas dos veces. Para disfrutar en todo momento, y terminar adquiriendo las versiones completas de donde fueron se leccionadas. ¡Brava Bartoli! (DECCA 289-473-380). [Sebastian Spreng]
El mismo sello edita una recopilación de escenas de oscuras óperas belcantistas bajo el título Tiranos y amantes, interesante complemento al Rossini comentado.(ORR221).
Es una pena que Alceste no sea más frecuentada, porque posee una estatura comparable a Orfeo y Euridice e Ifigenia en Táuride, cumbres del reformador C. W. Gluck. En la versión italiana, la sacrificada heroína fue encarnada por Callas y Leyla Gencer; marcó la despedida operística de Janet Baker, y hace dos décadas la grabó Jessye Norman. Ahora, emanada de la controvertida puesta de Robert Wilson, llega la toma sonora dirigida por John Eliot Gardiner que utiliza la versión francesa de 1776 con instrumentos de época. Sin la magnificencia vocal de una Flagstad (o de la misma Norman), Anne Sofie von Otter es la Alceste ideal del equipo Gardiner-Wilson. Apasionada y vulnerable, emerge austera, lineal y estática; pero internamente fogosa. Todo un ejemplo de la cantante moderna capaz de adaptarse a los designios del director musical y del dramático, sin sacrificar un ápice de calidad vocal. A su lado, los excelentes Paul Groves y Dietrich Henschel, enmarcados por el Coro Monteverdi y los English Baroque Soloists. Una edición espléndida para tener en cuenta (PHILIPS-289-470-293).
Cuando grandes intérpretes abordan géneros tachados de "menores", los revaloran e incluso revelan facetas desconocidas. Sucedió cuando Elisabeth Schwarzkopf engalanó la opereta vienesa con registros hoy legendarios o cuando Régine Crespin encarnó sus pares francesas con gracia irresistible. En la misma vena de Frederica von Stade y Felicity Lott, Anne-Sofie von Otter- cada día más inmersa en el repertorio galobrinda un efervescente Recital Offenbach grabado en el Chatelet parisino acompañada por Marc Minkowski y Los Músicos del Louvre. En el Aria de la Borrachera (La Perichole) o el endiablado Sexteto del Alfabeto, la sueca exhibe un desparpajo escénico que echa por tierra su fama de distante. Un hallazgo divertido es el Je suis Alsacienne, junto al vivaz Laurent Naouri y previsiblemente memorables los clásicos de La Gran Duquesa de Gerolstein, La Bella Helena y La vida parisina (DG-289-471-501). Por su parte, Ian Bostridge lleva a buen puerto el Songbook, del multifacético Nöel Coward. Una inesperada adición al catálogo de canciones compuestas entre 1920-1930 donde, afortunadamente, no cae en la trampa de copiar al inimitable Coward (EMI-557374). Con interpretaciones inmaculadas del repertorio menos trillado, Bostridge sigue confirmándose como el más sagaz tenor lírico de su generación. Otro ejemplo es su siniestro y seductor Quint en The Turn of the Screw, dirigida por el insolentemente joven Daniel Harding. Joya del teatro musical del siglo XX, es un Britten tan complejo y sutil como el Henry James que la inspiró. Como la Governanta, Joan Rodgers completa un elenco ejemplar (VIRGIN-545521). Asimismo, Bostridge se une a la ascendente soprano Dorothea Röschmann en el séptimo volumen de la edición completa de las Canciones de Schumann capitaneada por el incansable Graham Johnson. Con el ciclo Myrten y dúos selectos conforma otra entrega excepcional (Hyperion CDJ33107).
Por si esto fuera poco, el tenor participa en un magnífico Recital Schubert, del joven pianista noruego Leif Ove And nessoberbio en la Sonata D959 con cinco memorables intervenciones como liederista (EMI-557266).
Para finalizar, la flamante recopilación El arte de Cecilia Bartoli es el vehículo ideal para volverse adicto a la lirica en un santiamén. Desde el sublime Laschia ch pianga, de Handel inicial a los duetos en primicia grabados con Pavarotti-o los fragmentos con Bryn Terfel-, este CD no tiene altibajos. Mención aparte merece el Vivaldi, imposible de sacárselo de la mente después de haberlo escuchado apenas dos veces. Para disfrutar en todo momento, y terminar adquiriendo las versiones completas de donde fueron se leccionadas. ¡Brava Bartoli! (DECCA 289-473-380). [Sebastian Spreng]
2 0 0 3
GROSSES SANGERLEXIKON
2003
Gencer, Leyla, Sopran, 10. 10. 1924 Ankara; Ausbildung
am Konservatorium von Ankara durch Elvira de Hidalgo, die auch die Lehrerin von
Maria Callas gewesen war. Sie debütierte 1950 an der Oper von Ankara als
Santuzza in «Cavalleria rusticana». Nach weiteren Studien bei Giannina
Arangi-Lombardi und Apollo Granforte begann sie 1953 als Madame Butterfly am
Teatro San Carlo von Neapel ihre eigentliche Karriere in Italien. Sie hatte
dort sogleich große Erfolge und sang u.a 1956 am Teatro Verdi Triest die Agathe
im «Freischütz». Seit 1957 trat sie an der Mailänder Scala auf, so am 26. 1.
1957 in der UraufFührung der Oper «Dialogues des Carmélites» von Francis
Poulenc (als Madame Lidoine), am 1.3. 1958 in der von «Assassinio nella
cattedrale» von Ildebrando Pizzetti. 1957 sang sie in der Kathedrale von
Mailand bei den Begräbnisfeierlichkeiten für den Großen Dirigenten Arturo
Toscanini. Seit 1956 gastierte sie fast alljährlich in San Francisco, 1959 beim
Maggio musicale Florenz. Hier hatte sie einen ihrer größten Erfolge in Verdis
«La Battaglia di Legnano», 1966 als Alceste in der gleichnamigen Oper von
Gluck. 1959 sang sie bei den Festspielen von Spoleto die Renata in Prokofieffs
«Ange de feu». 1961 Gastspiele an der Wiener Staatsoper; bei den Festspielen
von Salzburg 1961 als Amelia in «Simon Boccanegra» von Verdi zu Gast. 1962-63
und 1965-68 sang sie bei den Festspielen von Verona die Titelrolle in «Norma»,
die Aida und die Amelia in Verdis «Ballo in maschera». An der Londoner Covent
Garden Oper trat sie 1962 als Elisabetta in Verdis «Don Carlos» und als Donna
Anna im «Don Giovanni» auf. 1962- 63 und 1965 hörte man sie bei den Festspielen
von Glyndebourne als Gräfin in «Nozze di Figaro» und als Titelheldin in «Anna
Bolena» von Donizetti, 1969 und 1972 beim Edinburgh Festival als Maria
Stuarda und als Elisabetta d'Inghilterra in den gleichnamigen Opern von
Donizetti bzw. Rossini. 1967 gastierte sie in San Francisco in der Titelrolle
von Ponchiellis «La Gioconda», an der Scala als Elettra in «Idomeneo» von
Mozart, 1968 am Teatro Fenice Venedig als Medea in der Oper gleichen Namens
von Cherubini, 1969 am Teatro Massimo Palermo als Giulia in «La Vestale» von
Spontini. 1972 großer Erfolg an der Mailänder Scala als Titelheldin in «Alceste»
von Gluck, 1971 auch an der Oper von Rom als Giulia in «La Vestale» von
Spontini. 1972 gestaltete sie am Teatro San Carlo Neapel die Titelpartie in der
Premiere der vergessenen Oper «Caterina Cornaro» von Donizetti, die sie dann
1973 auch in der New Yorker Carnegie Hall sang. Sie trat an den Staatsopern von
Wien und München, am Bolschoj Theater Moskau, an den Opern von Leningrad,
Stockholm, Oslo, Warschau, am Teatro Colón Buenos Aires, in Brüssel und Rio de
Janeiro gastweise auf. In besonderer Weise erwarb sich die vielseitig begabte
Primadonna Verdienste um die Wiederbelebung in Vergessenheit geratener
Belcanto-Opern aus der ersten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts, wobei sie sich auf
der Bühne auch als große Darstellerin erwies. 1989 wurde sie zur türkischen
Staatskünstlerin ernannt, 1990 verlieh die Universität von Istanbul ihr die
Ehrendoktorwürde. Dramatische Sopranstimme, die aber zugleich die Kunst des
Koloraturgesangs virtuos beherrschte und über einen fein nuancierten Vortrag
verfügte. Sie lebte nach Abschluß ihrer Karriere in Mailand und war u.a. seit
1983 Präsidentin des Festivals von Istanbul und in den Jahren 1983-89
künstlerische Direktorin der Organisation ASLICO, die in Norditalien
Opernauffüh Carnegie Hall sang. Sie trat an den Staatsopern von Wien und
München, am Bolschoj Theater Moskau, an den Opern von Leningrad, Stockholm,
Oslo, Warschau, am Teatro Colón Buenos Aires, in Brüssel und Rio de Janeiro
gastweise auf. In besonderer Weise erwarb sich die vielseitig begabte
Primadonna Verdienste um die Wiederbelebung in Vergessenheit geratener
Belcanto-Opern aus der ersten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts, wobei sie sich auf
der Bühne auch als große Darstellerin erwies. 1989 wurde sie zur türkischen
Staatskünstlerin ernannt, 1990 verlieh die Universität von Istanbul ihr die
Ehrendoktorwürde. Dramatische Sopranstimme, die aber zugleich die Kunst des
Koloraturgesangs virtuos beherrschte und über einen fein nuancierten Vortrag
verfügte. Sie lebte nach Abschluß ihrer Karriere in Mailand und war u.a. seit
1983 Präsidentin des Festivals von Istanbul und in den Jahren 1983-89
künstlerische Direktorin der Organisation ASLICO, die in Norditalien
Opernaufführungen mit Nachwuchssängern veranstaltete. Seit 1997 war sie als
Lehrerin und im Koordinationsstab der Accademia della Scala in Mailand tätig;
Lit: R. Celletti: Leyla Gencer (in «Opera», 1972); E. Cella: «Leyla Gencer» (Venedig/Wien, 1986). Schallplatten: Einige Aufnahmen auf Cetra. Mitschnitte von Opernaufführungen auf ANNA-Records («Troubadour»), Robin Hood-Records («Attila» von Verdi), MRF («I Lombardi» von Verdi, «Caterina Cornaro» von Donizetti, «Saffo» von Giovanni Pacini, «Belisario» von Donizetti, «La Vestale» von Spontini), Foyer («I Puritani» von Bellini), Replica («Werther» von Massenet), Cetra Opera Live («I due Foscari» von Verdi), Morgan («Francesca da Rimini»von Riccardo Zandonai), Movimento Musica («Simon Boccanegra» von Verdi), Bongiovanni («Fale na» von Antonio Smareglia), TIS («Roberto Devereux», «Lucrezia Borgia» und «Maria Stuarda» von Donizetti), RAI-Nuova Era («Anna Bolena» von Donizetti), Mondo Musica («Macbeth» von Verdi, «La Gioconda» von Ponchielli, «Fedora» von Giordano, Aufnahmen aus dem Teatro Fenice Venedig); Video- Aufnahmen auf Hardy-Video («Werther»von Massenet; «Troubadour»; «Aida», Verona 1966).
TEATRO ALLA FENICE 1792-1996
2003
La Callas interpretò la parte dell'infelice sacerdotessa dei Galli il 13
gennaio 1950 in un'edizione di prim'ordine, con Gino Penno nella parte di
Pollione e Tancredi Pasero in quella di Oroveso; fu poi Violetta Valéry nella
Traviata che inaugurò la stagione di carnevale 1952- 1953 e chiuse il suo
rapporto con Venezia come protagonista di due tra le opere più importanti del
suo repertorio: Lucia di Lammermoor (13 febbraio 1954) e Medea di Cherubini
diretta da Vittorio Gui (2 marzo), in quella linea di recupero della vocalità
belcantistica che avrebbe segnato la sua breve carriera, fino al ritiro dalle
scene.
Tra gli interpreti maschili spicca il nome di Franco Corelli, che fu Johnson nella Fanciulla del West di Puccini (26 gennaio 1955) con Giangiacomo Guelfi, e proseguì il rapporto con La Fenice esiben. dosi in Carmen al fianco della Simionato e in Aida con la Cerquetti nell'anno successivo; tornò poi nel 1960 per La forza del destino e Turandot, e nel 1961 per un'edizione di riferimento dell'Andrea Ché nier diretto da De Fabritiis, con Ettore Bastianini e Antonietta Stella. Alfredo Kraus, pochi giorni dopo aver cantato nella Passione di Malipiero, debuttò in uno dei suoi ruoli prediletti, Alfredo Germont nella Traviata, nel maggio 1956, al fianco di Renata Scotto, e tornò molte volte a Venezia come reincarnazione del tenore romantico. L'anno successivo Leyla Gencer si produsse nei Due Foscari, e poi Carlo Bergonzi cantò Turiddu con la Simionato in una Cavalleria rusticana in piazza San Marco, precedendo Del Monaco, che fu Canio nei Pagliacci (1957). Oltre alle promesse del canto, più o meno giovani, ci furono anche debutti assai tardivi, come quello del grandissimo Giacomo Lauri Volpi, che cantò per la prima e ultima volta alla Fenice nel Trovatore del 1958, l'anno prima del ritiro dalle scene, alla bellezza di sessantasei anni! Un po' più anziano di lui, il settantunenne Mariano Stabile fu beatificato nel 1959, quando interpretò il Falstaff sotto la bacchetta di Serafin, e al tempo stesso firmò la regia del capolavoro verdiano.
La presenza degli artisti che abbiamo appena menzionato e di tanti altri ancora testimonia che La Fenice stava decisamente riguada gnando, dopo decenni di oscurità, un posto di primo piano nella cultura e nell'arte dei suoni a livello mondiale come teatro di esperimenti. Crebbe, ad esempio, l'interesse per la danza, che spinse la direzione a programmare un ampio ciclo di «Balletti sinfonici. Creazioni e interpretazioni coreografiche di Nives Poli» nel marzo 1954. se musiche di Vivaldi, Ravel, De Falla e altri (sul podio l'eclettico Ettore Gracis). L'anno prima la tournée dell'American National BalNessuna opera fu data in prima assoluta nei Festival tra il 1956 e il 1958, ma tra i titoli spicca Threni, id est Lamentationes Jeremia Propheta (1958) che Stravinskij, approdato alla tecnica seriale, volle dedicare alla memoria del direttore artistico della Biennale Alessandro Piovesan, scomparso prematuramente agli inizi dell'anno. In attesa dell'esplosione del genio teatrale di Sylvano Bussotti, che sbarcherà a Venezia verso la metà degli anni '60, Luciano Berio, anch'egli molto attivo sul fronte del rinnovamento, approdò alla Biennale il 20 settembre 1959 con Thema (omaggio a Joyce) in un «concerto straordinario di musica elettronicas e il giorno dopo con il racconto mimico Allez-hop diretto dall'infaticabile Sanzogno e interpretato dalla voce per eccellenza della nuova musica, Cathy Berberian; il lavoro chiudeva un programma eccellente, dedito alla commistione stilistica e di genere, visto che prevedeva una parte di musica cameristica comprendente il Livre pour quatuor di Boulez e Artikulation di Ligeti, nuovi per l'Italia, oltre al quartetto in due tempi di Maderna, e fu replicato insieme a due altre opere date allora per la prima volta: Diagramma circolare, azione drammatica in un tempo di Alberto Bruni Tedeschi e Il circo Max, «profanazione musicale in un atto» di Gino Negri (25 settembre), con la regia di Franco Enriquez. Non fu certo, per Berio, un esordio nel segno del radicalismo, come notò la critica, e il grande poeta Eugenio Montale, a Venezia in veste di recensore, lo colse molto bene siamo forse (ma è una semplice ipotesi) di fronte ad una musica di alto spet tacolo di varietà scritta da un compositore ultra aggiornato che cerca di lasciarsi alle spalle la dodecafonia utilizzandone i ritrovati e le formule. Ma a quale scopo? [...] Basterà dire che il limite di quest'opera sapientemente organizzata, rigorosamente inconseguente, com'è proprio del sistema a cui appartiene, è che nessuno, forse nemmeno il Berio stesso, potrà dire fino a che punto l'autore abbia preso sul serio la sua materia".
Il compositore, comunque, mantenne con rigore, anche nel prosieguo, l'atteggiamento con cui aveva cominciato la sua carriera, mostrando un'autentica predisposizione per il teatro musicale Come pochi interprete del proprio tempo, attento agli sviluppi del linguaggio, si tenne a debita distanza dall'impegno manifestato dagli artisti suoi coetanei, sentendosi svincolato dalla scelta obbligata della sua epoca tra webemismo e tradizione.
Di li a poco il radicalismo vero avrebbe ottenuto le luci della ribalta. Su questa via irta di difficoltà, ma che Venezia seppe proteggere tra le anse dei suoi canali, vi è un ultimo avvenimento che merita di essere segnalato, anche perché ne è in qualche modo una delle premesse più importanti e meno note. Nel 1938, come ricorda Giovanni Morelli, Hermann Scherchen, forse incoraggiato dalle prime edizioni del Festival, propose a Goffredo Petrassi di istituire un corso estivo di direzione d'orchestra, dove i giovani avrebbero studiato sotto la sua guida le opere di autori del passato, come Monteverdi e Scarlatti, insieme a quelle di autori contemporanei, quali Dallapiccola, Hartmann, Webern. La proposta fu azzerata da un telegramma proveniente dal MinCulPop, che proibiva l'ingaggio sotto qualsiasi titolo di Scherchen, perché «noto comunista». Il progetto fu ripreso con esiti ottimi nell'estate del 1948, e portò a risultati insperati:
Il corso di direzione «quarantottana» di Scherchen è divenuto oggi un pic colo mito storico: in poco meno di un mese il Maestro tedesco richiamò a Venezia uno stuolo di gioventù musicale che non aveva vissuto appieno gli anni bui [...]. Quell'occasione [...] era simbolica ma anche reale; sembrava voler essere, e difatto forse lo fu, un atto di fondazione di una internazionale giovani per l'affermazione dei valori artistici già umiliati dai regimi nazifascistici, sperabilmente risorgenti a Venezia, presso il suo Festival e il suo Teatro [... Ebbene, in quell'estate del 1948, Malipiero chiamò Bruno Maderna e Luigi Nono, espose loro una certa sua rinuncia a poterli seguire personalmente nello sviluppo della loro già espressa vocazione avanguardi stica, e, autorevolmente, autoritariamente, li obbligò a iscriversi e a frequentare intensivamente il corso di Scherchen, a cercare li il loro radica mento formativo, ideologico, tecnico. E in effetti accadde che in quel brevissimo mese di apprendistato a contatto con il Maestro e con i giovani compagni venuti da quelle scuole decentrate nel mondo fondate ovunque dai musicisti emigrati, Luigi Nono e Bruno Maderna, per loro espressa testimonianza, trovarono tutti gli input elementari della loro imminente carrie ra artistica: idee e tecniche per la creazione delle loro prime opere originali (emblematicamente forse, in prima posizione, Il canto sospeso). Opere ori ginali e rinnovatamente veneziane.
STAGIONI D'ORO (1959-1979)
Nel 1959 Mario Labroca tornò alla Fenice come direttore artistico, affiancando il sovrintendente Floris Ammannati, per rimanervi, da vero "doge", sino alle soglie della morte che sopravvenne il 21 luglio 1973 (mentre Ammannati durò in carica fino al 1975, anno in cui rassegnò le dimissioni). Il suo regno, che comprendeva anche la direzione artistica del Festival dal 1959 al 1970, coincise quasi per intero con quello di un altro "doge", il democristiano Giovanni Favaretto Fisca, sindaco di Venezia dal 1960 al 1970.
Iniziò così un periodo d'oro per La Fenice, ancor più rilevante del quindicennio appena trascorso: la grande cultura di Labroca, unita alla competenza nelle scelte di programmazione sia delle stagioni tradizionali sia del Festival, la sua fantasia nell'impaginazione dei programmi, l'entusiasmo che lo spinse a moltiplicare le occasioni di riflessione anche grazie a nuovi cicli tematici - oltre a una disponibilità finanziaria, garantita da Ammannati, tanto generosa da permettere l'ingaggio degli artisti più prestigiosifurono un patrimonio tanto vasto quanto prezioso che venne messo a disposizione dei veneziani.
Si scorra la cronologia della prima stagione lirica invernale. In aper tura troviamo La battaglia di Legnano di Verdi con Leyla Gencer (26 Durante la gestione di Labroca i lavori di Gian Francesco Malipiero recitarono la parte del leone tra le prime assolute inserite nelle stagioni regolan, a cominciare da Mondi celesti e infernali nel 1961, anno in cui si videro anche le prime rappresentazioni moderne della Dama spagnola e il cavaliere romano di Alessandro Scarlatti, in una lussuosa edizione diretta da Antal Dorati (con Fiorenza Cossotto fra i cantanti, Maurice Béjart quale regista e coreografo, e le scene di Salvador Dali), e di Ercole amante di Francesco Cavalli, sfarzosa par. titura per la corte di Luigi xrv, rispolverata da Riccardo Nielsen che la rimodernò secondo le usanze che risalivano a quelle della "generazione dell'80". Mentre il rapporto tra Gian Carlo Menotti e La Fenice proseguiva con la prima assoluta della versione originale italiana dell'Ultimo selvaggio (1964), tre ulteriori novità di Malipiero, Don Tartufo Bacchettone (da Molière) e Rappresentazione e festa di carnasciale e della quaresima in prima assoluta, furono dirette da Ettore Gracis insieme alla prima lagunare del Capitan Spavento (20 gennaio 1970: nello stesso anno debuttò anche il profetico atto unico di Gino Negri Pubblicità ninfa gentile). Tra le prime veneziane di rilievo vanno segnalate quelle del Cordovano di Goffredo Petrassi (1963) e di Procedura penale di Luciano Chailly.
Proseguiva inoltre il viaggio tra i titoli meno frequentati del passato prossimo e remoto, propiziato anche dall'istituzione nel 1960 di un Centro di avviamento al teatro lirico, voluto da Ammannati e Labrocail quale aveva sperimentato la nuova formula negli anni passati al Maggio fiorentino. Dopo un Matrimonio segreto diretto da Rescigno nel 1961, il Centro offri nel 1962 una breve stagione con la prima veneziana della rossiniana Pietra del paragone. Nel 1968 l'Orfeo di Monteverdi tornò nella sua veste di opera di corte, poiché fu allestito nella sala dello Scrutinio di palazzo Ducale", mentre l'anno dopo venne prodotto il Didone e Enea di Purcell. Nel 1970 furono rappresentate alla Fenice per la prima volta Armida di Rossini con Cristina Deutekom e Pietro Bottazzo, e la strepitosa farsa Le conve nienze e inconvenienze teatrali di Donizetti, mentre risorse La straniera di Bellini con Renata Scotto nel ruolo della protagonista Alaida. L'attenzione crescente per i titoli belliniani è attestata dall'importante ripresa di un'opera di non facile ascolto composta espres samente per La Fenice, come Beatrice di Tenda, che ricomparve nel 1964, interpretata da Leyla Gencer e diretta da Vittorio Gui.
Il massimo teatro veneziano continuò ad essere una meta prediletta per le tournées di importanti complessi artistici stranieri, che of frivano alla città, oltre ai pezzi migliori del repertorio, anche titoli assai meno frequentati. Il teatro nazionale dell'Opera di Belgrado tornò nel 1967 con Boris Godunov, La dama di picche di Čajkovskij e Romeo e Giulietta di Prokof'ev, e l'anno dopo fece conoscere un capolavoro "nazionale" cèco come La sposa venduta di Bředrich Smetana. La Komische Oper di Berlino, tra i massimi luoghi di sperimentazione nel teatro musicale di quegli anni, apri la stagione lirica di primavera del 1965 con una delle sue produzioni più famose, Les contes d'Hoffmann di Offenbach nella versione rivista dal grande regista Walter Felsenstein, e subito dopo dette L'opera del mendicante (The beggars opera) di John Gay, nell'adattamento di Britten. Nel 1971 il teatro nazionale croato ripropose all'attenzione del pub blico L'amore delle tre melarance di Prokof'ev e Il mandarino mera viglioso di Bartók.
La qualità degli interpreti negli anni di Labroca fu straordinaria in tutti i campi, e alla Fenice arrivava davvero il meglio del meglio, a cominciare dai cantanti. Il grande tenore canadese Jon Vickers, maestro d'interpretazione, fu il fulcro di un magnifico Fidelio diret to da Karl Böhm, con la regia di Rudolf Hartmann (10 maggio 1962), ma nello stesso anno Renata Scotto e Alfredo Kraus incendia rono (e, visti i fatti del 1996, è meglio precisare che si tratta di metafora) la platea con un Rigoletto diretto da Gavazzeni". Il baritono Piero Cappuccilli, vero mattatore nel repertorio lirico sciorinato dai teatri del dopoguerra, aveva esordito all'aperto, cantando la parte di Silvio nei Pagliacci accanto a Del Monaco, in uno spettacolo che comprendeva anche Cavalleria rusticana, in piazza San Marco nel 1957, ma arrivò al palcoscenico della Fenice solo nel 1972, in un Rigoletto diretto da Jesus Lopez Cobos, con il duca di Mantova di Jaime Aragall, una delle voci più straordinarie di quegli anni, e Sandro Bolchi che firmò la regia. Dal canto suo il baritono Renato Bru son, interprete quanto mai duttile ed elegante, debuttò nel ruolo di Creonte nell'Edipo re (Edipus Rex) di Stravinskij (1965) a fianco di Ruggero Raimondi (Tiresia), e subito dopo fu scritturato per la tournée dei complessi del teatro a Wiesbaden sempre nel 1965, per cantare nella Gerusalemme di Verdi con un cast stellare, diretto da Ettore Gracis, e completato da Ruggero Raimondi, attivissimo alla Fenice nelle stagioni di Labroca-Ammannati, Leyla Gencer e Jaime Aragall". Mario Del Monaco fu il bandito gentiluomo nell'Er mani che inaugurò la stagione 1966-1967, e tornò come Don José nella Carmen del 1971, contrastato dall'Escamillo di Bruson. E che dire del Roberto Devereux, capolavoro allora poco conosciuto di Doni. zetti, che fu diretto da Bruno Bartoletti (10 febbraio 1972), dove debuttò a Venezia Monserrat Caballé, al fianco del tenore Gianni Raimondi, che aveva incantato i veneziani sin dalla prima fugace comparsa nella Resurrezione e vita di Virgilio Mortari al teatro Ver de di San Giorgio (1954)? Se la Caballé torno a Venezia solo per un concerto, Raimondi, reduce dalle esperienze scaligere con Karajan, continuò a sedurre la platea lagunare sin dalla sua prima Bohème alla Fenice nel 1967. Passare in rassegna tutte le stelle che illuminarono il teatro del Selva in quelle stagioni felici richiederebbe un romanzo, ma va ricordato almeno Gastone Limarilli che, partito come doppio prima di Bergonzi, poi di Del Monaco in due edizioni successive di Aida (1961, 1962), si lanciò nelle temperie veriste con I pagliacci nel 1963, per poi apparire in alcuni tra i ruoli più ingrati, come Des Grieux in Manon Lescaut, Don Alvaro nella Forza del destino, e poi Andrea Chénier, fino a Calaf e oltre.
Ruolo di Michele (nel Tabarro) e di Gianni Schicchi, e Maria Chiara quale Suor Angelica. Salome ed Elektra di Richard Strauss vennero riprese in tedesco, la prima in coppia con Didone e Enea nel 1969 (con Paula Bukovac e René Kollo nella parte dell'infelice e innamorato Narraboth), mentre la seconda fu data nel 1961 insieme a Lucre zia di Respighi, e nuovamente replicata in un dittico, di cui faceva parte anche l'Edipo re (1971): si trattava di un'edizione di riferimen to diretta da Fritz Rieger, grazie alle voci celeberrime di Inge Borkh e Regina Resnik che, oltre a interpretare Clitennestra, curò anche la regia, mentre le scene furono ideate da Arbit Blatas, marito della Resnik. Nel frattempo, oltre a questi due titoli decisamente più noti, La Fenice produsse anche Arabella di Strauss nel 1966, diretta da Meinhard von Zallinger. Nel 1967 furono eseguiti per la prima volta a Venezia Il castello di Barbablù di Bartók (in italiano, con il regista Lamberto Pugelli a interpretare la voce recitante del bardo nel prologo), insieme a Il prigioniero di Dallapiccola. Rimase costante anche l'attenzione per il teatro di Wagner, di cui si vide, tra l'altro, un ter zo Ring des Nibelungen completo in lingua originale, diretto da Otmar Suitner (la regia era di Heinz Arnold) nel febbraio-marzo del 1968.
Tra gli interpreti maschili spicca il nome di Franco Corelli, che fu Johnson nella Fanciulla del West di Puccini (26 gennaio 1955) con Giangiacomo Guelfi, e proseguì il rapporto con La Fenice esiben. dosi in Carmen al fianco della Simionato e in Aida con la Cerquetti nell'anno successivo; tornò poi nel 1960 per La forza del destino e Turandot, e nel 1961 per un'edizione di riferimento dell'Andrea Ché nier diretto da De Fabritiis, con Ettore Bastianini e Antonietta Stella. Alfredo Kraus, pochi giorni dopo aver cantato nella Passione di Malipiero, debuttò in uno dei suoi ruoli prediletti, Alfredo Germont nella Traviata, nel maggio 1956, al fianco di Renata Scotto, e tornò molte volte a Venezia come reincarnazione del tenore romantico. L'anno successivo Leyla Gencer si produsse nei Due Foscari, e poi Carlo Bergonzi cantò Turiddu con la Simionato in una Cavalleria rusticana in piazza San Marco, precedendo Del Monaco, che fu Canio nei Pagliacci (1957). Oltre alle promesse del canto, più o meno giovani, ci furono anche debutti assai tardivi, come quello del grandissimo Giacomo Lauri Volpi, che cantò per la prima e ultima volta alla Fenice nel Trovatore del 1958, l'anno prima del ritiro dalle scene, alla bellezza di sessantasei anni! Un po' più anziano di lui, il settantunenne Mariano Stabile fu beatificato nel 1959, quando interpretò il Falstaff sotto la bacchetta di Serafin, e al tempo stesso firmò la regia del capolavoro verdiano.
La presenza degli artisti che abbiamo appena menzionato e di tanti altri ancora testimonia che La Fenice stava decisamente riguada gnando, dopo decenni di oscurità, un posto di primo piano nella cultura e nell'arte dei suoni a livello mondiale come teatro di esperimenti. Crebbe, ad esempio, l'interesse per la danza, che spinse la direzione a programmare un ampio ciclo di «Balletti sinfonici. Creazioni e interpretazioni coreografiche di Nives Poli» nel marzo 1954. se musiche di Vivaldi, Ravel, De Falla e altri (sul podio l'eclettico Ettore Gracis). L'anno prima la tournée dell'American National BalNessuna opera fu data in prima assoluta nei Festival tra il 1956 e il 1958, ma tra i titoli spicca Threni, id est Lamentationes Jeremia Propheta (1958) che Stravinskij, approdato alla tecnica seriale, volle dedicare alla memoria del direttore artistico della Biennale Alessandro Piovesan, scomparso prematuramente agli inizi dell'anno. In attesa dell'esplosione del genio teatrale di Sylvano Bussotti, che sbarcherà a Venezia verso la metà degli anni '60, Luciano Berio, anch'egli molto attivo sul fronte del rinnovamento, approdò alla Biennale il 20 settembre 1959 con Thema (omaggio a Joyce) in un «concerto straordinario di musica elettronicas e il giorno dopo con il racconto mimico Allez-hop diretto dall'infaticabile Sanzogno e interpretato dalla voce per eccellenza della nuova musica, Cathy Berberian; il lavoro chiudeva un programma eccellente, dedito alla commistione stilistica e di genere, visto che prevedeva una parte di musica cameristica comprendente il Livre pour quatuor di Boulez e Artikulation di Ligeti, nuovi per l'Italia, oltre al quartetto in due tempi di Maderna, e fu replicato insieme a due altre opere date allora per la prima volta: Diagramma circolare, azione drammatica in un tempo di Alberto Bruni Tedeschi e Il circo Max, «profanazione musicale in un atto» di Gino Negri (25 settembre), con la regia di Franco Enriquez. Non fu certo, per Berio, un esordio nel segno del radicalismo, come notò la critica, e il grande poeta Eugenio Montale, a Venezia in veste di recensore, lo colse molto bene siamo forse (ma è una semplice ipotesi) di fronte ad una musica di alto spet tacolo di varietà scritta da un compositore ultra aggiornato che cerca di lasciarsi alle spalle la dodecafonia utilizzandone i ritrovati e le formule. Ma a quale scopo? [...] Basterà dire che il limite di quest'opera sapientemente organizzata, rigorosamente inconseguente, com'è proprio del sistema a cui appartiene, è che nessuno, forse nemmeno il Berio stesso, potrà dire fino a che punto l'autore abbia preso sul serio la sua materia".
Il compositore, comunque, mantenne con rigore, anche nel prosieguo, l'atteggiamento con cui aveva cominciato la sua carriera, mostrando un'autentica predisposizione per il teatro musicale Come pochi interprete del proprio tempo, attento agli sviluppi del linguaggio, si tenne a debita distanza dall'impegno manifestato dagli artisti suoi coetanei, sentendosi svincolato dalla scelta obbligata della sua epoca tra webemismo e tradizione.
Di li a poco il radicalismo vero avrebbe ottenuto le luci della ribalta. Su questa via irta di difficoltà, ma che Venezia seppe proteggere tra le anse dei suoi canali, vi è un ultimo avvenimento che merita di essere segnalato, anche perché ne è in qualche modo una delle premesse più importanti e meno note. Nel 1938, come ricorda Giovanni Morelli, Hermann Scherchen, forse incoraggiato dalle prime edizioni del Festival, propose a Goffredo Petrassi di istituire un corso estivo di direzione d'orchestra, dove i giovani avrebbero studiato sotto la sua guida le opere di autori del passato, come Monteverdi e Scarlatti, insieme a quelle di autori contemporanei, quali Dallapiccola, Hartmann, Webern. La proposta fu azzerata da un telegramma proveniente dal MinCulPop, che proibiva l'ingaggio sotto qualsiasi titolo di Scherchen, perché «noto comunista». Il progetto fu ripreso con esiti ottimi nell'estate del 1948, e portò a risultati insperati:
Il corso di direzione «quarantottana» di Scherchen è divenuto oggi un pic colo mito storico: in poco meno di un mese il Maestro tedesco richiamò a Venezia uno stuolo di gioventù musicale che non aveva vissuto appieno gli anni bui [...]. Quell'occasione [...] era simbolica ma anche reale; sembrava voler essere, e difatto forse lo fu, un atto di fondazione di una internazionale giovani per l'affermazione dei valori artistici già umiliati dai regimi nazifascistici, sperabilmente risorgenti a Venezia, presso il suo Festival e il suo Teatro [... Ebbene, in quell'estate del 1948, Malipiero chiamò Bruno Maderna e Luigi Nono, espose loro una certa sua rinuncia a poterli seguire personalmente nello sviluppo della loro già espressa vocazione avanguardi stica, e, autorevolmente, autoritariamente, li obbligò a iscriversi e a frequentare intensivamente il corso di Scherchen, a cercare li il loro radica mento formativo, ideologico, tecnico. E in effetti accadde che in quel brevissimo mese di apprendistato a contatto con il Maestro e con i giovani compagni venuti da quelle scuole decentrate nel mondo fondate ovunque dai musicisti emigrati, Luigi Nono e Bruno Maderna, per loro espressa testimonianza, trovarono tutti gli input elementari della loro imminente carrie ra artistica: idee e tecniche per la creazione delle loro prime opere originali (emblematicamente forse, in prima posizione, Il canto sospeso). Opere ori ginali e rinnovatamente veneziane.
STAGIONI D'ORO (1959-1979)
Nel 1959 Mario Labroca tornò alla Fenice come direttore artistico, affiancando il sovrintendente Floris Ammannati, per rimanervi, da vero "doge", sino alle soglie della morte che sopravvenne il 21 luglio 1973 (mentre Ammannati durò in carica fino al 1975, anno in cui rassegnò le dimissioni). Il suo regno, che comprendeva anche la direzione artistica del Festival dal 1959 al 1970, coincise quasi per intero con quello di un altro "doge", il democristiano Giovanni Favaretto Fisca, sindaco di Venezia dal 1960 al 1970.
Iniziò così un periodo d'oro per La Fenice, ancor più rilevante del quindicennio appena trascorso: la grande cultura di Labroca, unita alla competenza nelle scelte di programmazione sia delle stagioni tradizionali sia del Festival, la sua fantasia nell'impaginazione dei programmi, l'entusiasmo che lo spinse a moltiplicare le occasioni di riflessione anche grazie a nuovi cicli tematici - oltre a una disponibilità finanziaria, garantita da Ammannati, tanto generosa da permettere l'ingaggio degli artisti più prestigiosifurono un patrimonio tanto vasto quanto prezioso che venne messo a disposizione dei veneziani.
Si scorra la cronologia della prima stagione lirica invernale. In aper tura troviamo La battaglia di Legnano di Verdi con Leyla Gencer (26 Durante la gestione di Labroca i lavori di Gian Francesco Malipiero recitarono la parte del leone tra le prime assolute inserite nelle stagioni regolan, a cominciare da Mondi celesti e infernali nel 1961, anno in cui si videro anche le prime rappresentazioni moderne della Dama spagnola e il cavaliere romano di Alessandro Scarlatti, in una lussuosa edizione diretta da Antal Dorati (con Fiorenza Cossotto fra i cantanti, Maurice Béjart quale regista e coreografo, e le scene di Salvador Dali), e di Ercole amante di Francesco Cavalli, sfarzosa par. titura per la corte di Luigi xrv, rispolverata da Riccardo Nielsen che la rimodernò secondo le usanze che risalivano a quelle della "generazione dell'80". Mentre il rapporto tra Gian Carlo Menotti e La Fenice proseguiva con la prima assoluta della versione originale italiana dell'Ultimo selvaggio (1964), tre ulteriori novità di Malipiero, Don Tartufo Bacchettone (da Molière) e Rappresentazione e festa di carnasciale e della quaresima in prima assoluta, furono dirette da Ettore Gracis insieme alla prima lagunare del Capitan Spavento (20 gennaio 1970: nello stesso anno debuttò anche il profetico atto unico di Gino Negri Pubblicità ninfa gentile). Tra le prime veneziane di rilievo vanno segnalate quelle del Cordovano di Goffredo Petrassi (1963) e di Procedura penale di Luciano Chailly.
Proseguiva inoltre il viaggio tra i titoli meno frequentati del passato prossimo e remoto, propiziato anche dall'istituzione nel 1960 di un Centro di avviamento al teatro lirico, voluto da Ammannati e Labrocail quale aveva sperimentato la nuova formula negli anni passati al Maggio fiorentino. Dopo un Matrimonio segreto diretto da Rescigno nel 1961, il Centro offri nel 1962 una breve stagione con la prima veneziana della rossiniana Pietra del paragone. Nel 1968 l'Orfeo di Monteverdi tornò nella sua veste di opera di corte, poiché fu allestito nella sala dello Scrutinio di palazzo Ducale", mentre l'anno dopo venne prodotto il Didone e Enea di Purcell. Nel 1970 furono rappresentate alla Fenice per la prima volta Armida di Rossini con Cristina Deutekom e Pietro Bottazzo, e la strepitosa farsa Le conve nienze e inconvenienze teatrali di Donizetti, mentre risorse La straniera di Bellini con Renata Scotto nel ruolo della protagonista Alaida. L'attenzione crescente per i titoli belliniani è attestata dall'importante ripresa di un'opera di non facile ascolto composta espres samente per La Fenice, come Beatrice di Tenda, che ricomparve nel 1964, interpretata da Leyla Gencer e diretta da Vittorio Gui.
Il massimo teatro veneziano continuò ad essere una meta prediletta per le tournées di importanti complessi artistici stranieri, che of frivano alla città, oltre ai pezzi migliori del repertorio, anche titoli assai meno frequentati. Il teatro nazionale dell'Opera di Belgrado tornò nel 1967 con Boris Godunov, La dama di picche di Čajkovskij e Romeo e Giulietta di Prokof'ev, e l'anno dopo fece conoscere un capolavoro "nazionale" cèco come La sposa venduta di Bředrich Smetana. La Komische Oper di Berlino, tra i massimi luoghi di sperimentazione nel teatro musicale di quegli anni, apri la stagione lirica di primavera del 1965 con una delle sue produzioni più famose, Les contes d'Hoffmann di Offenbach nella versione rivista dal grande regista Walter Felsenstein, e subito dopo dette L'opera del mendicante (The beggars opera) di John Gay, nell'adattamento di Britten. Nel 1971 il teatro nazionale croato ripropose all'attenzione del pub blico L'amore delle tre melarance di Prokof'ev e Il mandarino mera viglioso di Bartók.
La qualità degli interpreti negli anni di Labroca fu straordinaria in tutti i campi, e alla Fenice arrivava davvero il meglio del meglio, a cominciare dai cantanti. Il grande tenore canadese Jon Vickers, maestro d'interpretazione, fu il fulcro di un magnifico Fidelio diret to da Karl Böhm, con la regia di Rudolf Hartmann (10 maggio 1962), ma nello stesso anno Renata Scotto e Alfredo Kraus incendia rono (e, visti i fatti del 1996, è meglio precisare che si tratta di metafora) la platea con un Rigoletto diretto da Gavazzeni". Il baritono Piero Cappuccilli, vero mattatore nel repertorio lirico sciorinato dai teatri del dopoguerra, aveva esordito all'aperto, cantando la parte di Silvio nei Pagliacci accanto a Del Monaco, in uno spettacolo che comprendeva anche Cavalleria rusticana, in piazza San Marco nel 1957, ma arrivò al palcoscenico della Fenice solo nel 1972, in un Rigoletto diretto da Jesus Lopez Cobos, con il duca di Mantova di Jaime Aragall, una delle voci più straordinarie di quegli anni, e Sandro Bolchi che firmò la regia. Dal canto suo il baritono Renato Bru son, interprete quanto mai duttile ed elegante, debuttò nel ruolo di Creonte nell'Edipo re (Edipus Rex) di Stravinskij (1965) a fianco di Ruggero Raimondi (Tiresia), e subito dopo fu scritturato per la tournée dei complessi del teatro a Wiesbaden sempre nel 1965, per cantare nella Gerusalemme di Verdi con un cast stellare, diretto da Ettore Gracis, e completato da Ruggero Raimondi, attivissimo alla Fenice nelle stagioni di Labroca-Ammannati, Leyla Gencer e Jaime Aragall". Mario Del Monaco fu il bandito gentiluomo nell'Er mani che inaugurò la stagione 1966-1967, e tornò come Don José nella Carmen del 1971, contrastato dall'Escamillo di Bruson. E che dire del Roberto Devereux, capolavoro allora poco conosciuto di Doni. zetti, che fu diretto da Bruno Bartoletti (10 febbraio 1972), dove debuttò a Venezia Monserrat Caballé, al fianco del tenore Gianni Raimondi, che aveva incantato i veneziani sin dalla prima fugace comparsa nella Resurrezione e vita di Virgilio Mortari al teatro Ver de di San Giorgio (1954)? Se la Caballé torno a Venezia solo per un concerto, Raimondi, reduce dalle esperienze scaligere con Karajan, continuò a sedurre la platea lagunare sin dalla sua prima Bohème alla Fenice nel 1967. Passare in rassegna tutte le stelle che illuminarono il teatro del Selva in quelle stagioni felici richiederebbe un romanzo, ma va ricordato almeno Gastone Limarilli che, partito come doppio prima di Bergonzi, poi di Del Monaco in due edizioni successive di Aida (1961, 1962), si lanciò nelle temperie veriste con I pagliacci nel 1963, per poi apparire in alcuni tra i ruoli più ingrati, come Des Grieux in Manon Lescaut, Don Alvaro nella Forza del destino, e poi Andrea Chénier, fino a Calaf e oltre.
Ruolo di Michele (nel Tabarro) e di Gianni Schicchi, e Maria Chiara quale Suor Angelica. Salome ed Elektra di Richard Strauss vennero riprese in tedesco, la prima in coppia con Didone e Enea nel 1969 (con Paula Bukovac e René Kollo nella parte dell'infelice e innamorato Narraboth), mentre la seconda fu data nel 1961 insieme a Lucre zia di Respighi, e nuovamente replicata in un dittico, di cui faceva parte anche l'Edipo re (1971): si trattava di un'edizione di riferimen to diretta da Fritz Rieger, grazie alle voci celeberrime di Inge Borkh e Regina Resnik che, oltre a interpretare Clitennestra, curò anche la regia, mentre le scene furono ideate da Arbit Blatas, marito della Resnik. Nel frattempo, oltre a questi due titoli decisamente più noti, La Fenice produsse anche Arabella di Strauss nel 1966, diretta da Meinhard von Zallinger. Nel 1967 furono eseguiti per la prima volta a Venezia Il castello di Barbablù di Bartók (in italiano, con il regista Lamberto Pugelli a interpretare la voce recitante del bardo nel prologo), insieme a Il prigioniero di Dallapiccola. Rimase costante anche l'attenzione per il teatro di Wagner, di cui si vide, tra l'altro, un ter zo Ring des Nibelungen completo in lingua originale, diretto da Otmar Suitner (la regia era di Heinz Arnold) nel febbraio-marzo del 1968.
Il Festival di musica contemporanea prosegui con rassegne d'enor me
prestigio, animate da programmi fantasiosi e stimolanti, e intessute di un
numero traboccante di prime assolute di autori come Ysang Yun, Bruno Maderna
(Aulodia, 1965; concerto n. 2 per oboe e orchestra, 1968; concerto per violino,
1969), Gian Francesco Malipiero (l'opera in tre atti Le metamorfosi di
Bonaventura, diretta da Gracis nel 1966), Clementi, Pennisi, Luigi Nono (A
floresta é jovem Europa sa/80. Generazioni a confronto, dove composizioni
oramai divenute dei "classici", come Punkte di Stockhausen ed
Epifanie di Berio (orbata, quest'ultima, dell'interprete ideale tanto spesso
accla mata alla Fenice, Cathy Berberian, morta il 6 marzo del 1983) trovarono
immediato paragone con quelle di autori come Marco Stroppa, nato nel 1954, di
cui si udi la prima assoluta di un lavoro fondamentale come Traiettoria per
pianoforte ed elaboratore, seguita da Kontakte di Stockhausen (21 settembre). I
veneziano Claudio Ambrosini (classe 1948), con l'Ex Novo ensemble, fece
ascoltare la prima assoluta del suo Trobar clus e di Spazio inverso di Sciarrino
(23 settembre), mentre Pierre Boulez (nato nel 1925), alla testa dell'Ensemble
intercontemporain, rinfrescò splendidamente la memoria dei tempi d'oro con
Circles di Berio (del 1960) e il suo capolavoro Le marteau sans maître (1955).
Tra i meriti del duo Trezzini-Gomez vi fu quello di aver regalato agli
appassionati di teatro musicale una vita intensissima, in particolare nei
variopinti carnevali a soggetto, dove si sperimentarono nuove formule di
collaborazione tra gli enti, come nel primo, organizzato insieme al settore
teatro e al settore musica della Biennale (si riservarono ad esso le recite dei
Quattro rusteghi di Wolf Ferrani). Più profilato il secondo, La Fenice per il
carnevale (1981), con una manciata di concerti, fra cui due del coro The
Western Wind di New York. Ma con il successivo il teatro esplose in una giran.
dola di fuochi d'artificio: Mozart e le turcherie (1982) fu l'occasione per
incontri di mezzogiorno nel foyer, per spettacolini a ogni ora e in ogni dove,
per concerti a tema (Leyla [Gencer] la Turca), per mostre, conferenze,
dibattiti con interpreti e critici; inoltre si ebbe l'opportunità di assistere
ad opere di Mozart, come Zaide ovvero Il Serraglio, un singspiel lasciato
incompiuto e provvisto di un nuovo testo da Italo Calvino (lo spettacolo, preso
da Batignano, fu firmato da Graham Vick), o ad opere a lui collegate, come Le
cinesi, di Gluck, e la commedia musicale Mozart di Reynaldo Hahn. L'acme fu
però raggiunta con La Fenice per il carnevale 1983 - Liebestod forever, che
ruotava intorno a un titolo buono anche per la quaresima come Parsifal di
Richard Wagner, diretto da Gabriele Ferro, con la messa in scena interamente
firmata da Pier Luigi Pizzi. Oltre alla riesumazione di un'opera vitale come
Crispino e la comare dei fratelli Ricci e al pastiche di Francesco Gnecco La
prova dell'opera seria Gli Orazi e i Curiazi, allietarono lo spirito dei
veneziani, in quei giorni, concerti lagunari con titoli estrosi quali Go cantà
masa co i polmoni suti, spettacoli di mezzogiorno come Trasformazione e morte
di un grande editore: la tragica fine di Giulio Ricordi alias Burgmein, col
pianista Giancarlo Cardini, e tanti altri, che qui è impossibile citare. Il
Carnevale di Venezia 1985. Parigi a Venezia fu l'occasione di assistere a una
spiritosa ripresa di Orphée aux enfers di Offenbach nella versione ritmica
italiana di Gino Negri, diretto da Gianluigi Gelmetti, con l'indiavolata regia
TORINO SETTE
2003
LA STAMPA
2003.02.01
OPERA NEWS
2003 November
PIRATE
QUEEN
For many, Leyla Gencer is the undisputed
Donizetti soprano of the two decades from the 1960s to the '80s, yet the
vast majority of those who hold her in such high esteem never actually managed
- for reasons geographical or chronological - to see her perform onstage. The
title "Queen of the Pirates" is one that Gencer does not love, but
she realizes that, without having made a single complete commercial opera
recording, she is one of the best-represented sopranos on CD EMI had today.
Despite the neglect of recording companies Callas, Decca had Tebaldi and
Nilsson, RCA had Moffo, Price, then Caballé - Gencer's career was a major one.
Her opera performances spanned thirty-three years (1950-83, with recitals until
1992) and seventy-two roles, sung in virtually all the great houses (save the
Met), encompassing everything from Verdi (almost the entire soprano canon) to
Wagner, Mozart, Gluck, Mayr, Massenet, Tchaikovsky, Pacini, Ponchielli, Bellini,
her beloved Donizetti, and two major world premieres, Pizzetti's Assassinio
nella Cattedrale and Poulenc's Dialoghi delle Carmelitane (in which she created
the role of Mme. Lidoine), both at La Scala. It was the superhuman intensity of
their portrayals, so widely lamented as the missing ingredient in today's
reigning sopranos, that brought artists such as Gencer and Magda Olivero to
prominence when the pirate-record boom began, in the '60s.
I reached Gencer last summer by phone at her apartment in Milan; the interview was conducted in Italian. Speaking with Gencer provides a surprise; it is not often that one so emotional and abandoned in performance, so shrouded in mystique, turns out to be so succinct, articulate, clear and direct in conversation. And there is not the slightest sense of a diva living in the past; on the contrary, Gencer runs the Young Artists program at La Scala, and while she hopes to impart the best values of her era, she feels strongly that one must move with the times.
Gencer was born on October 10, 1924, or 1928, depending upon which believe near Istanbul, to a Polish Catholic mother and a wealthy Turkish Muslim father. "I had, as a child, a French governess. I spoke French before my native tongue, Turkish. She was a countess who was very poor and had lost her child, and she remained with us for years. Perhaps this passion of mine for theater was inculcated in me by her. For example, she was Catholic and took me to church every Sunday. I saw this as a performance. She accustomed me to reciting poetry and singing songs in French. And then, I read a lot. I devoured French literature, Italian literature - because I entered an Italian school - American, English, German literature, and thought of becoming a woman of letters, or an historian, or even an archaeologist. Everything but singing!"
Gencer enrolled at the conservatory at Istanbul several years before meeting the great Italian soprano Giannina Arangi-Lombardi, who was teaching in Ankara and had come to Istanbul on summer vacation. "I wanted her to hear me, but at that time I wasn't remotely thinking of making an operatic career. I thought of being a concert artist. From the first day she heard me, a wonderful thing happened. If you want, I'll tell you. I didn't know she was the most famous Aida of her era, so I dared to sing 'O cieli azzurri,' with a pianissimo high C. She looked at me, very interested, made me sing it again, and then said, 'May I come to your house for fifteen days, because here I am bored with this lady' - in front of the lady hosting her! I was rather amazed, and I said, 'Signora ... I... gladly. I have just an old building, a family villa, very run-down. I don't know if you will be comfortable. But it is on the Bosphorus. It's run-down but beautiful.' She said, 'Yes, you will host me for fifteen days, and I will teach you to sing.
Every morning at ten, she put on her most elegant dress, with pearls, and her diamonds on her fingers, sat at the piano, and we studied. I learned my first opera arias, from Ballo, Aida, Forza del Destino, and when I sang them my whole life, I sang them just as she had taught them to me. In September, I went to Ankara and did a year with her, sang vocalizes, did her technique. She told me I was a lirico-spinto, tending toward the dramatic. I believed myself to be a coloratura. In fact, it came to be that I was a dramatic coloratura the rest of my life. Thus, in 1950-51 I studied with her. Then suddenly she went to Italy on vacation and died of a heart attack, and I was left without her, without anyone. But I had the good fortune of having the great Italian baritone Apollo Granforte, who had come to teach at the theater [in Ankara], and it was the same technique - to sing all'italiana, on the breath, which is the most correct."
Gencer's opera debut, in 1950 at the State Theater in Ankara, was as Santuzza in Cavalleria Rusticana, in Turkish. After an invitation to sing a recital for RAI in Rome, Gencer secured an audition for the Teatro San Carlo in Naples. "At this time there was Tebaldi, there was Callas, there were all these great singers, and I thought, 'I'm not ... I don't think I...."" But the audition yielded an offer for Cavalleria, this time in Italian, in the outdoor Arena Flegrea - the following week! Those performances, themselves a sort of audition, were heard by Tullio Serafin, and the young soprano made her official Italian debut in Naples in 1954, as Cio-Cio-San in Madama Butterfly under Gabriele Santini. A month later, she appeared with Serafin as Tatyana in Eugenio Onegin. The career was launched, and a number of performances ensued many Butterflys and many Traviatas, as well as a U.S. debut in the title role of Francesca da Rimini, in San Francisco in 1956 (and the distinction of singing Liù there opposite Leonie Rysanek during her brief flirtation with the role of Turandot). Then, in 1957, came two major turns when her La Scala debut (as Lidoine), the beginning of a long association with the house, which raised her to the next level, and a curious shift in repertoire. Suddenly, Lucia, Sonnambula, Puritani, Gilda, Anna Bolena and Poliuto began to appear on her schedule, along with the lesser- known Verdi operas La Battaglia di Legnano, Gerusalemme, I Due Foscari, and then that defining role, Norma. But the pivotal moment, in 1964, was the assumption of Queen Elisabetta in Donizetti's Roberto Devereux, a year before Montserrat Caballé achieved her breakthrough in Lucrezia Borgia and followed it with Devereux. Gencer, with her abundant use of disembodied pianissimos and explosive glottal attacks, employed a vocal approach in these roles very similar to that of her Spanish colleague, but with far more abandon. And, in spite of the fact that Gencer came first, and Caballé and others cashed in on the resurgence of these operas, Gencer has only kind words for the competition.
"Caballé heard me first in 1965 in Anna Bolena at Glyndebourne, and she said, 'This is also my repertoire. I will sing only this.' She had beautiful piani. I made Maestro Gavazzeni listen to her. 'Come, listen to this girl, maestro, who has a beautiful voice and very beautiful pianissimi!" And he said, 'Yes, but it's a small voice.' He had not understood it, not even he!"
What Gencer's career, and image, had previously lacked was a vocal identity. She sang very well, she was extremely musical, and although the middle voice was not distinctive, she had a ravishing pianissimo, good agility and a solid top.
But within the musical language of the bel canto roles, particularly those of Donizetti, her voice and approach to phrasing found a "face." The combination of solid technique and blazing intensity suited perfectly the heroines of the dramatic soprano d'agilità repertoire and created an imperious image that fascinated a public that had previously admired but not adored her.
Gencer first experienced Maria Callas onstage at the Met, as Norma in 1956, and was deeply affected by what she saw and heard. Speaking on the radio in 1979 about the role of Norma, she said, "It is useless to talk of my Norma, when we have the unattainable one of Maria Callas. So, let's listen to hers." For a short time, Gencer was compared, not always favorably, to her Greek-American col league. She would be the first to admit that her physical acting style was more generalized, her voice less distinctive (but also less flawed). But she is clearly her own artist, and the comparison is pointless. While Callas's success in New York impressed Gencer, she felt there were levels of interpretive understanding on Callas's part that escaped the American public and press. Likewise, Gencer felt, after singing Caterina Cornaro at Carnegie Hall, that New York Times critic Harold Schonberg failed to appreciate her achievement fully.
Perhaps the ferocity with which Gencer attacked her roles is part of what kept her from a big career in the U.S., where, she maintains, the critics were mainly interested in "voce pura." For example, in Roberto Devereux, compared with Caballé's majestic, haunting approach to Elisabetta, or even with the dramatic potency Beverly Sills applied to her lyric instrument in this role, Gencer's final scene made the others seem virtually tame. One had the feeling she was on the very edge of what is possible, giving more than she should. And yet, during her prime, the voice carried her through. As the more plaintive Maria Stuarda, in a 1967 outing opposite Shirley Verrett's searing Elisabetta, Gencer springs to life in the confrontation scene, denouncing Elisabetta with terrifying vehemence, then, after some rigorous ensemble singing, demolishes her rival with a perfectly placed interpolated high E-flat.
Of this canny use of voice coupled with emotion, the soprano says simply, "But this was my strength. It was a force of nature. What I try to impart to my kids at La Scala is that it's necessary to have a technique, to know how to use the voice without becoming fatigued. If one has a solid technique and this is also somewhat a gift of nature - one will last long, like me. Nowadays young people are more intelligent, but they do not have the voice. That is, they have the wrong techniques, because there are no great teachers of singing. I believe there are voices, but they do not arrive at the mastery of their instruments. The voice is the most beautiful, most marvelous gift of nature, but also the most delicate. If it is used badly, it becomes a common instrument and finishes quickly. Unfortunately, today this happens very often also because of the incompetence of those who run the theaters, and because of the agents. When there are beautiful voices that start well, they make them work, because now only money counts. In order to earn, the agents ... well, without an agent you cannot even get an audition, my kids tell me. This is not right. I had no agent. The theaters phoned me. I did everything myself, because I did not sing for the money."
Between 1957 and 1979, Gencer portrayed eight of Donizetti's most demanding heroines (nine, if you count both Paolina in Poliuto and Pauline in the French version, Les Martyrs), while still singing everything from Manon to La Gioconda. She essayed the dizzying heights of Lucia's mad scene and hurled herself into the heavier music of Anna Bolena, Maria Stuarda, Roberto Devereux, Caterina Cornaro, Belisario and Lucrezia Borgia, always singing fearlessly, but with delicacy and style where called for. "For me, Donizetti is a very great composer of the nineteenth century, who has never been understood, never had his proper value. Donizetti can be very interesting if it has great interpreters, because he is a true man of the theater. When we arrive at Donizetti, there is no longer the bel canto of the Baroque era. Now, the melodrama becomes sung theater, really.
In my era I understood it the way one taught me. This was my truth. feel it was truth also because, if has remained true to you all, it means that which I did was true.
"In Donizetti, even a rest has a meaning, a fermata has a meaning, onstage and musically. One must fill these pauses. They are not empty, they are full of significance, dense with meaning. When I study a score, I study it historically, within its historical framework. All the events, for example, of Donizetti's queens. I have read everything on them. I didn't just read the notes, just seek beautiful sounds, but go to the depth of the interpretation. I saw music not just as notes but sang within the notes. It's not just the purity of sound that is important for me. What is important is the interpretation of the character."
One of the prime weapons in Gencer's arsenal of vocal effects is her chest voice, a register that, in her instrument, sometimes sounds as if created out of sheer will for the service of expression. "Some great singers I will not say their have said they did not use chest tones." [She laughs.] "They were chest tones! But they were perhaps what we call mixed. Technically we say, 'a mixed voice.' They should be mixed. But sometimes in the passion of singing, an unmixed one escaped me. But it was effective, yes? Because it was sincere - it was real!"
And what does this commercially unrecorded, yet heavily documented diva think of pirate records? "I'm told there are some seventy operas. I never made a lira off them. But this doesn't interest me. I am interested that they know me, that I still give emotion. It's a sin there are no studio discs, because I had a very phonogenic voice. But one can say this - live recordings are much more sincere and true in execution than those made in the studio. I consider myself a woman truly, greatly, strongly fortunate. try to transmit what I have had from life as an artist, and above all the continuity I have had in my career. Tradition is necessary, the basis of everything roots. But it is necessary to unite roots and tradition, to the demands of the times in which we live, to the taste. Taste has changed. Taste is more rigorous, less decadent, meaning the tradition of long notes, added high notes, this is no longer acceptable." (Gencer is an enthusiastic fan of Riccardo Muti.) "When I sang Roberto Devereux, I sang it as written, and still I had a triumph. Today, we are not in the nineteenth century but the twenty-first. One cannot put one's hand to one's heart and sing bel canto from morning to night. No one will come they'll be bored. Today, theater is more modern, more alive, more demanding, more pure.
"Even if I made no recordings, with live discs, all the young people know me. They write me long letters. They tell me, 'It's as if we were in the theater. We see you. We hear you through your discs as if we were there.' This is a great miracle!"
I reached Gencer last summer by phone at her apartment in Milan; the interview was conducted in Italian. Speaking with Gencer provides a surprise; it is not often that one so emotional and abandoned in performance, so shrouded in mystique, turns out to be so succinct, articulate, clear and direct in conversation. And there is not the slightest sense of a diva living in the past; on the contrary, Gencer runs the Young Artists program at La Scala, and while she hopes to impart the best values of her era, she feels strongly that one must move with the times.
Gencer was born on October 10, 1924, or 1928, depending upon which believe near Istanbul, to a Polish Catholic mother and a wealthy Turkish Muslim father. "I had, as a child, a French governess. I spoke French before my native tongue, Turkish. She was a countess who was very poor and had lost her child, and she remained with us for years. Perhaps this passion of mine for theater was inculcated in me by her. For example, she was Catholic and took me to church every Sunday. I saw this as a performance. She accustomed me to reciting poetry and singing songs in French. And then, I read a lot. I devoured French literature, Italian literature - because I entered an Italian school - American, English, German literature, and thought of becoming a woman of letters, or an historian, or even an archaeologist. Everything but singing!"
Gencer enrolled at the conservatory at Istanbul several years before meeting the great Italian soprano Giannina Arangi-Lombardi, who was teaching in Ankara and had come to Istanbul on summer vacation. "I wanted her to hear me, but at that time I wasn't remotely thinking of making an operatic career. I thought of being a concert artist. From the first day she heard me, a wonderful thing happened. If you want, I'll tell you. I didn't know she was the most famous Aida of her era, so I dared to sing 'O cieli azzurri,' with a pianissimo high C. She looked at me, very interested, made me sing it again, and then said, 'May I come to your house for fifteen days, because here I am bored with this lady' - in front of the lady hosting her! I was rather amazed, and I said, 'Signora ... I... gladly. I have just an old building, a family villa, very run-down. I don't know if you will be comfortable. But it is on the Bosphorus. It's run-down but beautiful.' She said, 'Yes, you will host me for fifteen days, and I will teach you to sing.
Every morning at ten, she put on her most elegant dress, with pearls, and her diamonds on her fingers, sat at the piano, and we studied. I learned my first opera arias, from Ballo, Aida, Forza del Destino, and when I sang them my whole life, I sang them just as she had taught them to me. In September, I went to Ankara and did a year with her, sang vocalizes, did her technique. She told me I was a lirico-spinto, tending toward the dramatic. I believed myself to be a coloratura. In fact, it came to be that I was a dramatic coloratura the rest of my life. Thus, in 1950-51 I studied with her. Then suddenly she went to Italy on vacation and died of a heart attack, and I was left without her, without anyone. But I had the good fortune of having the great Italian baritone Apollo Granforte, who had come to teach at the theater [in Ankara], and it was the same technique - to sing all'italiana, on the breath, which is the most correct."
Gencer's opera debut, in 1950 at the State Theater in Ankara, was as Santuzza in Cavalleria Rusticana, in Turkish. After an invitation to sing a recital for RAI in Rome, Gencer secured an audition for the Teatro San Carlo in Naples. "At this time there was Tebaldi, there was Callas, there were all these great singers, and I thought, 'I'm not ... I don't think I...."" But the audition yielded an offer for Cavalleria, this time in Italian, in the outdoor Arena Flegrea - the following week! Those performances, themselves a sort of audition, were heard by Tullio Serafin, and the young soprano made her official Italian debut in Naples in 1954, as Cio-Cio-San in Madama Butterfly under Gabriele Santini. A month later, she appeared with Serafin as Tatyana in Eugenio Onegin. The career was launched, and a number of performances ensued many Butterflys and many Traviatas, as well as a U.S. debut in the title role of Francesca da Rimini, in San Francisco in 1956 (and the distinction of singing Liù there opposite Leonie Rysanek during her brief flirtation with the role of Turandot). Then, in 1957, came two major turns when her La Scala debut (as Lidoine), the beginning of a long association with the house, which raised her to the next level, and a curious shift in repertoire. Suddenly, Lucia, Sonnambula, Puritani, Gilda, Anna Bolena and Poliuto began to appear on her schedule, along with the lesser- known Verdi operas La Battaglia di Legnano, Gerusalemme, I Due Foscari, and then that defining role, Norma. But the pivotal moment, in 1964, was the assumption of Queen Elisabetta in Donizetti's Roberto Devereux, a year before Montserrat Caballé achieved her breakthrough in Lucrezia Borgia and followed it with Devereux. Gencer, with her abundant use of disembodied pianissimos and explosive glottal attacks, employed a vocal approach in these roles very similar to that of her Spanish colleague, but with far more abandon. And, in spite of the fact that Gencer came first, and Caballé and others cashed in on the resurgence of these operas, Gencer has only kind words for the competition.
"Caballé heard me first in 1965 in Anna Bolena at Glyndebourne, and she said, 'This is also my repertoire. I will sing only this.' She had beautiful piani. I made Maestro Gavazzeni listen to her. 'Come, listen to this girl, maestro, who has a beautiful voice and very beautiful pianissimi!" And he said, 'Yes, but it's a small voice.' He had not understood it, not even he!"
What Gencer's career, and image, had previously lacked was a vocal identity. She sang very well, she was extremely musical, and although the middle voice was not distinctive, she had a ravishing pianissimo, good agility and a solid top.
But within the musical language of the bel canto roles, particularly those of Donizetti, her voice and approach to phrasing found a "face." The combination of solid technique and blazing intensity suited perfectly the heroines of the dramatic soprano d'agilità repertoire and created an imperious image that fascinated a public that had previously admired but not adored her.
Gencer first experienced Maria Callas onstage at the Met, as Norma in 1956, and was deeply affected by what she saw and heard. Speaking on the radio in 1979 about the role of Norma, she said, "It is useless to talk of my Norma, when we have the unattainable one of Maria Callas. So, let's listen to hers." For a short time, Gencer was compared, not always favorably, to her Greek-American col league. She would be the first to admit that her physical acting style was more generalized, her voice less distinctive (but also less flawed). But she is clearly her own artist, and the comparison is pointless. While Callas's success in New York impressed Gencer, she felt there were levels of interpretive understanding on Callas's part that escaped the American public and press. Likewise, Gencer felt, after singing Caterina Cornaro at Carnegie Hall, that New York Times critic Harold Schonberg failed to appreciate her achievement fully.
Perhaps the ferocity with which Gencer attacked her roles is part of what kept her from a big career in the U.S., where, she maintains, the critics were mainly interested in "voce pura." For example, in Roberto Devereux, compared with Caballé's majestic, haunting approach to Elisabetta, or even with the dramatic potency Beverly Sills applied to her lyric instrument in this role, Gencer's final scene made the others seem virtually tame. One had the feeling she was on the very edge of what is possible, giving more than she should. And yet, during her prime, the voice carried her through. As the more plaintive Maria Stuarda, in a 1967 outing opposite Shirley Verrett's searing Elisabetta, Gencer springs to life in the confrontation scene, denouncing Elisabetta with terrifying vehemence, then, after some rigorous ensemble singing, demolishes her rival with a perfectly placed interpolated high E-flat.
Of this canny use of voice coupled with emotion, the soprano says simply, "But this was my strength. It was a force of nature. What I try to impart to my kids at La Scala is that it's necessary to have a technique, to know how to use the voice without becoming fatigued. If one has a solid technique and this is also somewhat a gift of nature - one will last long, like me. Nowadays young people are more intelligent, but they do not have the voice. That is, they have the wrong techniques, because there are no great teachers of singing. I believe there are voices, but they do not arrive at the mastery of their instruments. The voice is the most beautiful, most marvelous gift of nature, but also the most delicate. If it is used badly, it becomes a common instrument and finishes quickly. Unfortunately, today this happens very often also because of the incompetence of those who run the theaters, and because of the agents. When there are beautiful voices that start well, they make them work, because now only money counts. In order to earn, the agents ... well, without an agent you cannot even get an audition, my kids tell me. This is not right. I had no agent. The theaters phoned me. I did everything myself, because I did not sing for the money."
Between 1957 and 1979, Gencer portrayed eight of Donizetti's most demanding heroines (nine, if you count both Paolina in Poliuto and Pauline in the French version, Les Martyrs), while still singing everything from Manon to La Gioconda. She essayed the dizzying heights of Lucia's mad scene and hurled herself into the heavier music of Anna Bolena, Maria Stuarda, Roberto Devereux, Caterina Cornaro, Belisario and Lucrezia Borgia, always singing fearlessly, but with delicacy and style where called for. "For me, Donizetti is a very great composer of the nineteenth century, who has never been understood, never had his proper value. Donizetti can be very interesting if it has great interpreters, because he is a true man of the theater. When we arrive at Donizetti, there is no longer the bel canto of the Baroque era. Now, the melodrama becomes sung theater, really.
In my era I understood it the way one taught me. This was my truth. feel it was truth also because, if has remained true to you all, it means that which I did was true.
"In Donizetti, even a rest has a meaning, a fermata has a meaning, onstage and musically. One must fill these pauses. They are not empty, they are full of significance, dense with meaning. When I study a score, I study it historically, within its historical framework. All the events, for example, of Donizetti's queens. I have read everything on them. I didn't just read the notes, just seek beautiful sounds, but go to the depth of the interpretation. I saw music not just as notes but sang within the notes. It's not just the purity of sound that is important for me. What is important is the interpretation of the character."
One of the prime weapons in Gencer's arsenal of vocal effects is her chest voice, a register that, in her instrument, sometimes sounds as if created out of sheer will for the service of expression. "Some great singers I will not say their have said they did not use chest tones." [She laughs.] "They were chest tones! But they were perhaps what we call mixed. Technically we say, 'a mixed voice.' They should be mixed. But sometimes in the passion of singing, an unmixed one escaped me. But it was effective, yes? Because it was sincere - it was real!"
And what does this commercially unrecorded, yet heavily documented diva think of pirate records? "I'm told there are some seventy operas. I never made a lira off them. But this doesn't interest me. I am interested that they know me, that I still give emotion. It's a sin there are no studio discs, because I had a very phonogenic voice. But one can say this - live recordings are much more sincere and true in execution than those made in the studio. I consider myself a woman truly, greatly, strongly fortunate. try to transmit what I have had from life as an artist, and above all the continuity I have had in my career. Tradition is necessary, the basis of everything roots. But it is necessary to unite roots and tradition, to the demands of the times in which we live, to the taste. Taste has changed. Taste is more rigorous, less decadent, meaning the tradition of long notes, added high notes, this is no longer acceptable." (Gencer is an enthusiastic fan of Riccardo Muti.) "When I sang Roberto Devereux, I sang it as written, and still I had a triumph. Today, we are not in the nineteenth century but the twenty-first. One cannot put one's hand to one's heart and sing bel canto from morning to night. No one will come they'll be bored. Today, theater is more modern, more alive, more demanding, more pure.
"Even if I made no recordings, with live discs, all the young people know me. They write me long letters. They tell me, 'It's as if we were in the theater. We see you. We hear you through your discs as if we were there.' This is a great miracle!"
IRA SIFF teaches
voice and interpretation and directs opera; stages Werther for Sarasota Opera
in February. As La Gran Scena Opera Company's Madame Vera, he stars in a new
VAI DVD, The Annual Farewell Recital, set for release next month.
2 0 0 4
INNER VOICE Renée Fleming on her La Scala Borgia
2004
IL PICCOLO
2004.01.10
Omaggio al principe Cappuccilli
Milano. A quarant'anni esatti dal suo debutto scaligero, avvenuto il 12 giugno 1964 in un memorabile allestimento di Lucia di Lammermoor, Piero Cappuccilli torna a Milano per ricevere l'omaggio dei suoi amici e colleghi più cari: sabato 19 giugno, alle 21, una grande festa vedrà radunati all'Auditorium di via Mahler alcuni protagonisti del melodramma internazionale. L'Orchestra Sinfonica di Milano Giuseppe Verdi sarà diretta da Romano Gandolfi. La serata, condotta da Antonio Lubrano, sarà trasmessa in differita da Rai Uno. La regia è affidata a Giovanni Cappuccilli.
Voluto e organizzato da Patrizia e Giovanni Cappuccilli,
il gala-concerto «Il Principe dei Baritoni» vuole essere soprattutto una festa
dedicata a tutti gli appassionati del grande melodramma. Il tutto animato anche
da proiezioni di rari documenti video sul baritono triestino, provenienti dagli
archivi Rai e di famiglia.
Il concerto, diretto dal maestro Romano Gandolfi, propone una carrellata di
voci prestigiose. Saranno inoltre presenti, impegni permettendo, Placido
Domingo, Mirella Freni, Leyla Gencer, Luciana Serra, Rita Orlandi Malaspina,
Vilma Vernocchi, il maestro Bruno Bartoletti e tanti altri. Josè Carreras,
impossibilitato a partecipare di persona, saluterà Cappuccilli e il pubblico in
sala con un video inviato da New York. Momento centrale sarà l'intervista di
Antonio Lubrano a Piero Cappuccilli. In teatro sarà possibile ammirare alcuni
costumi indossati dal baritono negli allestimenti scaligeri di Simon
Boccanegra, Il trovatore, Tosca e I due Foscari.
LA REPUBBLICA
2004.04.21
Riccardo Muti e il suo teatro
è un legame intenso, ricco di eventi che restano segnati
nella storia musicale di Firenze (e non solo), quello che unisce Riccardo Muti
al Maggio. Prevedibile quindi una grande attesa per il suo concerto fiorentino
di quest' anno, fissato il 30 maggio al Comunale, con la Filarmonica della
Scala e un programma di due sinfonie di Schubert, la Quarta, detta «la
Tragica», e la Nona, detta «la Grande». Direttore stabile dell' orchestra del
Maggio dal '69 fino all' 81, Muti fece della città, per un tratto importante
della sua carriera, il luogo dove costruire la sua fisionomia di interprete
capace di letture rigorose e approfondite, basate sul rispetto dell'
autenticità delle partiture, e sempre molto esigente nella scelta dei registi.
Proprio a Firenze, che si può forse considerare il suo «teatro del cuore»
(perché fu il primo, quello degli entusiasmi e delle scoperte giovanili), si
sviluppò la sua fama internazionale di direttore tra i più brillanti del nostro
tempo, in particolare per l' opera italiana e francese (ma anche sul versante
sinfonico le esplorazioni di Muti a Firenze furono imponenti). L' elenco delle
sue produzioni fiorentine è generoso e molto eterogeneo. Si va dai Puritani con
la regia di Sequi a un Guillaume Tell nel bellissimo allestimento di Pizzi e
nella versione integrale, dai titoli dell' amato e continuamente interrogato
Verdi (Un ballo in maschera, La forza del destino, un Macbeth con una mitica
Lady interpretata da Leyla Gencer, Il Trovatore nello spettacolo magico di
Ronconi, l' Otello con l' inedito finale del terzo atto e innovativo nella
rilettura drammaturgica dei personaggi, e ancora I Masnadieri, Attila, Nabucco,
I Vespri Siciliani), fino alle raffinate esecuzioni di Gluck (Orfeo ed
Euridice, Iphigénie en Tauride), ai viaggi sempre rivelatori nell' universo
mozartiano (Le Nozze di Figaro con la regia di Antoine Vitez), alle rarità
preziose di Spontini (Agnese di Hohenstaufen). Quando, nell' 82, Muti diresse
il Concerto per violino e orchestra di Beethoven con una giovanissima e
fascinosa Anne-Sophie Mutter, il suo addio a Firenze era già deciso. Poi il
maestro tornò, nell' 83, per una trionfale Messa da Requiem di Verdi. E negli
anni successivi, catturato dall' impegno con la Scala, diresse a Firenze solo
sul podio di grandi formazioni sinfoniche ospiti, come la Philadelphia
Orchestra (nell' 84 e nel '91) e i Wiener Philharmoniker (nel ' 90). Nell'
estate del ' 93, Muti rinnovò la collaborazione col Maggio per un impressionante
Requiem verdiano ospitato dalla Basilica di San Lorenzo, e due anni dopo
diresse ancora l' orchestra fiorentina al Comunale. La sua ultima apparizione a
Firenze risale al ' 96, sempre sul podio del Comunale, per un applauditissimo
"Concerto per l' Europa" con l' Orchestra Giovanile Italiana, formata
dagli allievi della Scuola di Fiesole, una realtà a cui Muti ha sempre offerto
con passione il suo sostegno. Nuovi appuntamenti «mutiani» s' annunciano per l'
anno prossimo, nel segno di un rapporto con Firenze che non si estingue: in
febbraio il maestro dirigerà l' Orchestra del Maggio, probabilmente nel Requiem
di Cherubini.
