Generally, I would never advocate posting press releases as blog entries. In this case, however, I will make an exception. The July 29 release of Martha Argerich: Evening Talks was reason for great personal celebration for me. Yes, I’ve loved her playing for decades. And I just spent the better part of an hour trying to dig up an old Playbill from her last solo recital at Carnegie Hall. Much to my horror, it, along with my Horowitz programs, has gone missing. I do, however, have a whole bunch of eminently forgettable Metropolitan Opera programs from the early 1980s through the early 2000s. Don’t ask.
I’ve told the following story many times about Argerich’s recital. I remember expecting a formal affair, where the pianist would strut onstage in a suitably beautiful gown, bow gracefully, and then treat us to her great artistry. I got the last bit, which of course is all that mattered in the end. If memory serves, Argerich almost waddled onto the stage in a black leotard, long black stretchy skirt, and those hideous Mao shoes that were once “fashionable” (God knows why). She didn’t quite bow, but I do remember her head seemed to slope downward. But for anyone who has ever heard the great Ms. Argerich play, it made absolutely no difference. Of course she brought the house down … and seemed almost surprised by her feat. It was as if she thought that what she was doing was very simple: she was merely speaking for the composers, pure and simple. They, in fact, were the Gods and she was just the messenger.
Below is my love letter to the film and to Ms. Argerich:
“First of all, there was this interview-which is not an interview at all, as I do not believe I asked her a single question. Let us, rather, call it a conversation that took place at dead of night, without a spotlight or makeup- a single ‘night-time conversation’ recorded as if by miracle on the magnetic tape of a comer that would then become the very heart of this film.” -Georges Gachot
It took the French film director Georges Gachot 20 years to convince the very private and elusive Martha Argerich to agree to appear on camera for this intimate portrait. The resulting film, Martha Argerich: Evening Talks (Medici Arts 3073428), pays tribute to this great pianist’s 40-year career with a blend of informal conversations and superb performance footage. It also contains rare archival material from across the globe, including footage from her 1957 First Prize win at the Geneva Competition when she was just 16.
The film allows Argerich to express her feelings about music, composers, and musicians and to discuss her background and early career and how they shaped her as an artist. Argerich reminisces about her early studies with Austrian pianist Frederich Gulda, whom she credits with “[teaching] her how to listen.” She also recounts her yearlong stint with Michelangeli, during which time she received only four lessons. Moreover, she recalls the crisis she experienced in her early 20s, which spurred fellow Argentinean pianist (and conductor) Daniel Barenboim to once say, “Martha, you are like a very beautiful painting without the frame.” It becomes clear that her abandonment of solo performance so early in her career grew partly out of the intense loneliness she felt during this period.
However, through her commitment to concerto and chamber music repertoire, Martha Argerich developed into a deeply generous artist, never satisfied with herself and always looking for new meanings and approaches to her repertoire. “I find something new all the time,” she explains. “I hope I always will; I always doubt and I’m always groping.” She finds her deepest satisfaction in communicating with other musicians and communing with composers, whose music is inarguably part of her DNA. Gulda once told her “It’s not your fault that Schumann was not Argentinean.” As she plays Schumann’s Piano Concerto in A minor (effortlessly, it would seem), the listener notes that the music appears to be a natural extension of her being. “I hope I’m not bad for him,” Argerich remarks. “Schumann is very intimate for me, but I hope he likes me.” It is not surprising to hear this unique artist make such a humble comment about her work. Argerich appears utterly possessed by the composer’s essence each time she performs his music.
In a 2001 article about Martha Argerich for The New Yorker, critic Alex Ross wrote “Argerich brings to bear qualities that are seldom contained in one person: she is a pianist of brainteasing technical agility; she is a charismatic woman with an enigmatic reputation; she is an unaffected interpreter whose native language is music. This last may be the quality that sets her apart. A lot of pianists play huge double octaves; a lot of pianists photograph well. But few have the unerring naturalness of phrasing that allows them to embody the music rather than interpret it.” One listen to the Scarlatti encore from her performance in Zurich and the viewer will know exactly what Ross means.
FEATURED MUSIC INCLUDES:
Beethoven: Piano Concerto No.4, Op.58; Claudio Arrau, Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra, Bernard Haitink (audio only).
Saint-Saens: Introduction & Rondo capriccioso, Op. 28 (arr. for violin and piano); Martha Argerich, piano, Géza Hosszu-Legocky, violin. Geneva, 2000
Dvorak: Slavonic Dance, Op.72 No. 2, Martha Argerich, piano, Géza Hosszu-Legocky, violin. Pescara, 2000 (arr. for violin and piano)
Lutosławski: Variations on a Theme by Paganini - Martha Argerich, Mauricio Vallina, pianos. Pescara,
2000
Ravel: Ma Mère l’oye: Laideronette, Impératrice des Pagodes; Martha Argerich & Nelson Freire, piano 4 hands. Buenos Aires, 1999
Schumann: Von fremden Ländern und Menschen, Op.15 No.1 - Martha Argerich, piano. Warsaw, 1980
Prokofiev: Toccata, Op.11 - Martha Argerich, piano (audio only)
EXTRAS (duration: 38 min.):
Witold Lutosławski, Variations on a Theme by Paganini; Martha Argerich & Mauricio Vallina, pianos. Recorded in Pescara, Italy, 2000
Robert Schumann, Piano Concerto in A minor, Op.54; Director’s cut of the rehearsals. Martha Argerich, Württembergisches Kammerorchester, conducted by Jörg Faerber. Recorded at Heilbronn, Germany, 2001
Astor Piazzolla, arr. Eduardo Hubert; Martha Argerich & Eduardo Hubert, pianos, Ricardo Rossi, percussion.
Recorded in Pescara, Italy, 2000. Libertango Tres minutos con la realidad
Encores by Martha Argerich Recorded in Zurich, Switzerland, 2001.
Domenico Scarlatti, Sonata in D minor, K141
Frederic Chopin, Mazurka in F minor, Op.63 No.2
Johann Sebastian Bach, Partita No. 2 in C minor, BWV826: Capriccio
NOTE:
The essay below was written by the award-winning filmmaker Tony Palmer, whose superb catalog is a legend (as is he). Naxos of America began distribution of his films in January; however, some of the films which he references in his essay are not–as yet–distributed by us (the Margot Fonteyn, Britten, Stravinsky, Richard Burton and Testimony–his film about Dmitri Shostakovich).
For those two people who may not know much about Tony Palmer, Palmer has made many iconic films including All You Need is Love (a 17-part series about the history of popular music), All My Loving, 200 Motels, the acclaimed Wagner film (with Burton/Redgrave, etc), Callas (portrait and tribute to the great singer), O Thou Transcendent: The Life of Ralph Vaughan Williams (his most recent film), several films about composer Benjamin Britten (including his production of Death in Venice), Puccini, The Salzburg Festival - A Brief History, Testimony (about composer Dmitri Shostakovich, starring Ben Kingsley), and Parsifal, which featured Placido Domingo. I’m including the link to his website here, as I’ve only listed a precious few of his cinematic accomplishments. His career spans over 40 years, during which time he has won 40 international prizes for his work, including 12 Gold Medals at the New York Film & Television Festival, as well as numerous BAFTA (British Academy of Film & Television) and EMMY nominations and awards. He is the only person to have won the Prix Italia twice.
As of this posting, Naxos of America distributes five of his classical titles: O Thou Transcendent: The Life of Ralph Vaughan Williams, Callas, Symphony of Sorrowful Songs: Symphony No. 3 (Gorecki), Puccini, and God Rot Tunbridge Wells(a film about Handel featuring renowned actor Trevor Howard).
I am fascinated by artists whose lives display phenomenal courage - physical, psychological and moral – the kind of courage that most of us are incapable of. To stand naked upon a stage, whether as an actor or a singer or a dancer, and have nothing but your skill and self-belief to protect you, is an experience that no-one who has not done so can begin to understand. Nor the incredible sacrifices that every performer is forced to make in order to achieve that moment of perfection and magic that we all demand and worship.
Maria Callas, a broken woman, sings of her insecurities with a searing honesty that transcends mere singing. Shostakovich, who endured unimaginable horrors to tell us all, and for all time, what life was like under the monster Stalin. Richard Burton, the 12th of 13 children, determined to make it out of the coal mines to which his family seemed condemned, buying the biggest diamond in the world, an epileptic drinking himself and his talent to oblivion because the strain was so great. Puccini, whose life was torn apart by a scandal involving the suicide of his maid. Handel, blind, despairing, railing against all those who had stolen his copyrights. Margot Fonteyn, used and abused and betrayed from the age of 14 until almost the day she died, the greatest ballerina in the world, dying penniless in a tin shack and buried in a pauper’s grave. Scott Joplin, the son of slaves, struggling in a segregated and bigoted society, to write an opera! Bob Dylan, the greatest lyric poet of the second half of the 20th century, taking on almost single-handedly the mendacity of a militarised nation. Benjamin Britten, openly homosexual when it was illegal and punishable by imprisonment, driven by a terrible and haunting belief in his own worthlessness … the list is endless.
And these are the subjects of my films. And such subjects cannot be “encapsulated” in a television “slot.” I don’t care tuppence for the demands of cretinous and pompous “commissioning editors” of television companies whose attention spans are less than that of a flea. I refuse moreover to have any kind of commentary in my films. Unlike commissioning editors, the audience is not stupid. It resents being told what to think, especially by a whining (often female) voice uttering banalities. And as for the critics, many of them illiterate and ignorant, why should I care about such people?
The problem is, as Shostakovich memorably put it, “to reach the people. That is the question. But how is it done?” And without wishing to elevate the craft of making films beyond its ultimately menial level, it is perhaps worth pointing out that it is an essentially solitary occupation. As Orson Welles eloquently described it: it is “a collective endeavour, driven by a singular, blinding vision.” So to work occasionally in the theatre, especially the opera, is to be reminded of this collective endeavour and to hear, at first hand, an audience response. It can be exhilarating like no other sexual experience – I remember the first night of the Russian première of Parsifal, conducted by Gergiev. But it can also be humiliating – I remember a group of indolent, over-paid, English tubs of lard, thinking (it seemed to me) they were on holiday instead of performing, wrecking a production of Peter Grimes. Such experiences are necessary, however, because they are the closest one gets to the experiences that I have spent my life examining in my films.
Finally, I have never understood the difference between so-called “classical music” and “popular music.” Stravinsky once told me there were only three kinds of music, good music, bad music and non-music, and it doesn’t matter a damn if it’s a symphony, or jazz, or rock’n’roll. Later he refined this categorisation. “Only two musics,” he declared. And then he clenched his fist and said “That’s the first.” And then he opened the palm of his hand and stretched it towards me. “That’s the second,” he said.
I hope my films are the second.
–Tony Palmer
I’ve often debated the value of performance DVDs over recordings. Obviously, in many areas, especially opera, video recordings are invaluable documents. Since production values are intrinsic to so many operas today, unless you are lucky enough to be there, a DVD performance may be the only way to experience the entire production—not just the singing. However, pure performance DVDs can be a mixed bag. Unlike commercial films or opera productions (which require a massive film crew), a “straight” performance film director has to find interesting visuals to enhance what can be a fairly static format. Close-ups of hands, facial expressions, etc., are just the beginning. What do you do with a film that simply documents a performer sitting at his or her instrument in recital? Sometimes, there isn’t much that can be done. For a DVD to surpass an audio or live performance, I am looking for details beyond the playing–a visual clue that reveals something new about the artist. While I don’t think performance DVDs will ever completely replace recordings, I think that, more and more, they offer a unique perspective on the artist. And, sometimes, they are the only way to experience an artist in performance.
The Medici Arts label has just launched Classic Archive. The first offerings from this promising series feature DVD performances of two iconic Russian pianists, Sviatoslav Richter and Tatiana Nikolayeva, as well as the Bulgarian-born French pianist Alexis Weissenberg. Each of the documents provides lovers of these great artists with much to applaud and ideas to ponder.
Sviatoslav Richter (1915-1997) was, unquestionably, one of the greatest pianists of the 20th century (and one of my absolute personal favorites). A complicated and temperamental man, Richter hated being filmed. The performance documented on this DVD was from a Barbican recital in 1989. Richter, as many know, was known to cancel concerts at a moment’s notice. He also was unaware that this concert was to be filmed until just shortly before the performance. After a considerable and heated discussion, he agreed to the filming, on the condition that no camera would be in his field of vision. This challenge was overcome at the expense of the film crew, who were accustomed to expending thousands of watts of lighting power when televising such an event. Richter insisted on restricting the lighting to a single 40-watt bulb, focused not on him, but on his music. This eccentric lightening was unconventional even without cameras present, but it was his standard practice at concerts, as he wanted to focus maximum attention on the music and de-emphasize the importance of the performer. It also served to mask his use of a score, a practice he implemented in 1979 after a serious memory lapse at a concert.
In the film, it is clear that Richter is uncomfortable knowing cameras are present. On a number of occasions, he looks at the ceiling, presumably where one of the cameras was perched. What is perhaps most interesting about this film is watching a great artist clearly struggling with his demons and aging as he negotiates a solo recital. The Chopin portions of the recital are particularly interesting, as the selections from the Études, Op. 10 and Op. 25 shed light on Richter’s incredible genius and magnetism, and, at the same time, document the difficulties he faced in his later career. That said, Richter closes his Barbican recital with a towering performance of Chopin’s Étude, Op. 25/11 in A minor, which brings the house down, highlighting his legendary artistry. Richter enthusiasts also will enjoy comparing the Barbican performance of Chopin’s Étude, Op. 10, No. 4 to the one included in the bonus material, which features Richter at his peak in 1969.
This DVD includes performances of Mozart’s Piano Sonatas, K 282, K 545, and K 310; Chopin’s Études, Op. 10, No. 1 to No. 6 and No. 10 to No. 12, and Études, Op. 25, Nos. 5, 6, 8, and 11. Bonus material includes a BBC broadcast from 1969 with Richter performing Chopin’s Étude, Op. 10, Nos. 4 and 12; and Rachmaninoff’s Étude-Tableau, Op. 39, No. 3.
The distinguished pianist, composer, and teacher Tatiana Nikolayeva (1924-1993) represents the another example of the wealth of piano talent to flood from the former Soviet Union during the 20th century. Shostakovich’s cycle of 24 Preludes and Fugues always held a special place in her heart: she inspired and premiered it in Leningrad in 1952, and it was the piece she performed when she died in concert in San Francisco in 1993. She also made three recordings of the work. The lifelong friendship between Shostakovich and Nikolayeva began when the 26-year-old pianist won first prize at the 1950 Bach Piano competition, organized in Leipzig for the bicentennial of the German composer’s death. As a member of the jury, Shostakovich (1906-1975) was so impressed and inspired by her playing that he returned to Moscow to compose his own set of Preludes and Fugues in 1950-51. This DVD features a BBC broadcast recording from December 1992 of the complete cycle and includes more of Shostakovich’s music played by Tatiana Nikolayeva in a documentary bonus film. This document was perhaps the most straightforward of the three releases. Nikolayeva even at the end of her life was in complete command at the piano. Her technique and musicianship were flawless, and what came across so clearly in the film was that Shostakovich’s music was as much a part of her as breathing. After all, she had lived with it since the beginning, and it was written for her.
The final release was, in some ways, the most interesting of the three. I will go on record now as saying I never loved Weissenberg’s playing. I own some of his early Chopin recordings, which I never liked. And, after watching this DVD, I confess I still don’t like his Chopin. However, this DVD, which is taken from several sources, is perhaps the most rich of the three releases. Alexis Weissenberg, who was born in 1929 in Sofia, Bulgaria, studied both in Bulgaria and Jerusalem before attending The Juilliard School, where he studied with famed pedagogue Olga Samaroff (conductor Leopold Stokowki’s first wife).
This archival DVD includes a 1965 film by Swedish filmmaker and former assistant to Ingmar Bergman, Åke Falck, which shows Mr. Weissenberg performing Stravinsky’s Petrushka Suite. The shooting took 10 days and required a special “silent” piano be built; Weissenberg performed in sync with a playback of his actual performance, while he listened through loudspeakers set at a distance from him (the viewer learns much more about the making of the film in the bonus material). The result is an amazing feat of both pianism and filmmaking, which brings the complexity of Stravinsky’s fiendishly difficult piano score into sharp focus (the composer transcribed the Petrushka Suite note-for-note from the orchestral version). It is, in some ways, very much a music video. There are wild shots of Weissenberg’s massively powerful hands as they negotiate the length and breadth of the instrument. From registral leaps to huge chords, nothing is too difficult for Mr. Weissenberg’s prodigious technique. He is perfect for this music, and Falck’s film really shows an artist who is one with his craft in a visually arresting way. Another highlight of this DVD is Weissenberg’s performance of Dame Myra Hess’ arrangement of Bach’s Jesus, Joy of Man’s Desiring (taken from a September 25, 1969 Broadcast). He delivers the Bach in a wonderfully Lisztian manner, giving an immense power and majesty to this often understated work.
In addition to Stravinsky’s Three Movements from Petrushka, the film includes other archival performances taken from various broadcast sources from the 1960s, featuring repertoire including Prokofiev’s Piano Sonata No. 3; Scriabin’s Nocturne for the Left Hand, Op. 9, No. 2; Rachmaninoff’s Prelude, Op. 23, No. 6; Chopin’s Piano Sonata No. 3 - Largo, Nocturne Op. Posth. in C minor, Étude, Op. 25, No. 7; J.S. Bach’s Chromatic Fantasy, BWV 903, Partita No. 6 – Courante; and the Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat, Op. 83, with the Orchestre National de l’ORTF, Georges Prêtre, conductor – 8/31/69.
I recently wrote a blog entry about a new release on Arthaus Musik, The Opera Fanatic. It couldn’t be more timely. La Cieca reported today that one of the divas profiled in the film, Turkish soprano Leyla Gencer has died.
In The Opera Fanatic, Gencer commented, “When you sing, you have to feel what you are saying…I actually cried on stage. Once in a while [it was more than once in a while, but who cares], a note would issue forth which was not orthodox. That’s why the American critics don’t like me. But I don’t care. They want music with water and soap.” Yes, this was the woman who years after her career had ended could still demand she be interviewed at La Scala.
Born in 1928, Gencer premiered the role of Madame Lidoine in Poulenc’s Dialogues des Carmelites at La Scala in 1957. However, she was best known for her dramatic coloratura roles in operas of Donizetti and Verdi. Rest in peace—and with Callas, Madame Gencer.
To some, Frederic Rzewski might seem like a composer full of contradictions. His music, after all, includes minimalist and quasi-serialist works as well as collage-type pieces. For example, we all discovered during the pre-concert chat with series producer Ara Guzelimian that Elliott Carter has been a long time friend and mentor to Rzewski. I was surprised. But Kyle Gann, in his essay to the program “Never Second-Guessing Rzewski,” notes “It is typical of Rzewski that he has refused to be limited by even the humanist realist aesthetic that he created. Like Stravinsky, he has shown contrarian fearlessness about walking away from styles his music has made popular. ”
When asked about music and politics, Rzewski stated “Music really can’t be political … theater, perhaps, can be.” And in works like Attica (1972), Spots (1986), and the newer Natural Things (2007) you can see how he brings music and theater together–beautifully. Attica, the earliest work performed, consists of a repetitive tonal sequence set against the intoned narration “Attica is in front of me” (a quote, according to the liner notes, taken from the statement of Richard X. Clark, one of the prison uprising’s organizers). While an extremely moving and beautiful work, I’m afraid that unlike most of the audience–and Times reporter Allan Kozinn–I was not as impressed by Stephen ben Israel’s narration (he was the work’s original narrator). I would be curious to hear of other reactions to ben Israel’s performance, as it was abundantly clear to me that I was absolutely in the minority on this.
I was only acquainted with Rzewski’s piano works before this concert, and it was wonderful to see he treats other instruments. I absolutely loved how he uses the human body as an instrument. For example, in Natural Things (commissioned by Opus 21), Rzewski has the string players breathe and/or sigh as they play glissandi. He also has the performers clap and stamp, creating a choreography, which then becomes part of the music, and use their voices creatively–talking, whispering, layering dialogue contrapuntally. I found his use of non-musical objects refreshing and fun: cans, a megaphone, and even a basketball in Spots. (Does anyone know if both Spots and Natural Things were both orchestrated by Richard Adams, composer and founder of Opus 21? I know they mentioned he had arranged one of the pieces.)
For my taste, I did not care for the 2008 piano work War Songs. It seemed more like a work-in-progress to me, and one which didn’t yet have an emotional center.
Finally, I was somewhat baffled by the instrument set up for a work I dearly love, Winnsboro Cotton Mill Blues, which Rzewski and Stephen Drury performed in a two-piano arrangement from 1980. I asked Jed Distler about this in an e-mail, and he assured me that it was “arbitrary.” If that is the case, and the set-up was meant to cut down on the time moving other instruments out of the way, I think it didn’t serve this arrangement well. Usually with two-piano works, pianos are arranged closer together so that both artists can communicate in some fashion. Clearly, the sonorities called for in Winnsboro Cotton Mill Blues would make a very close arrangement of the instruments impractical. However, the pianos were so far apart, it seemed as if both players had to guess at each other’s breathing. I’m also not sure the arrangement gave them the sonic quality they sought. Any thoughts from others who attended the performance would be welcome here.
On a different, but related note: We’ve gotten a lot of wonderful comments about pianist Ralph van Raat’s recent Naxos recording of The People United Will Never Be Defeated! (Naxos 8559360). However, many people have requested the timings for all of the variations. Ralph sent them to me in an e-mail last week, and they are pasted below:
Timelist Rzewski’s People United… Theme (0.00-1′35″)
Little did I know that I had the makings of an Opera Fanatic — well, I’ve discovered that I do. I found myself watching the DVD version of The Opera Fanatic(the VHS version of this film has been available on Zucker’s Bel Canto Society website for some time; the DVD version is being released on Arthaus Musik at the end of May) with absolute fascination (twice now, probably a third time by the time I’ve finished this blog entry), despite the fact that Stefan Zucker (purportedly the highest tenor according to the Guinness World Book of Records and generally an annoying enfant terrible) is thoroughly outrageous and, in some cases, shockingly rude to an absolutely extraordinary grouping of true Divas. The chutzpah (not to mention bad taste) of asking legendary mezzo-soprano Fedora Barbieri about the sexual proclivities of mezzos boggles the mind, but then again, she offered—or threatened—to spank him for his naughty question. (Maybe there IS some truth to this rumor she so passionately denied?)
The Opera Fanaticis partly about Zucker’s quest for the answers to a question which cannot really be answered or quantified: what makes a singer thrilling and a performance moving? But it also is, in part, a memorial of his late mother, a soprano named Rosina Wolf, whose memory he evokes several times during the film. Most of all, however, it is about a group of great singers, many of whom have been forgotten (a few probably don’t even hit the radar for some younger opera-goers), and some whose careers were eclipsed by La Callas and Renata Tebaldi. However, one thing these larger-than-life women have in common can be put very simply: Star Power.
And that Star Power is wonderfully present in this film. Years after her career had ended, soprano Leyla Gencer still could demand that she be interviewed at La Scala (they acquiesced); Marcella Pobbe, a wonderful soprano from the 1950s, was suspiciously difficult to pin down for an interview time; yet another Diva was concerned that her maid would need to come twice (before and after the interview).
And some of the meetings went less than swimmingly. Poor Madame Pobbe, when the interview finally took place, fumed at Zucker’s questions (she called him “stupid”). He prodded her with queries like “What was the highest note you ever sang?” Her disdain was palpable, but not for reasons one might think. She wanted Zucker to properly introduce her and to explain her place in opera history first (DIVA). She did, eventually, answer the question about the note (in case anyone cares, it was a high “D” in Carmina Burana, with Zubin Mehta conducting). She was equally ticked off when questioned about canceling her 1959 MET engagement to sing Elisabetta. The cancellation was due to a quarrel with her then lover the great tenor Nicolai Gedda. She blamed Rudolf Bing for the incident. Heard that story before…
But despite occasional fits of pique due to scheduling mishaps and other issues, many of these singers offered fascinating insights into opera, character, and the art of singing. The luminous mezzo-soprano Guilietta Simionato, known for her riveting vocal portrayals of characters like Carmen, Azucena, and Eboli, among many others, spoke almost poetically about proper breath control: “… the cavity [mask] projects upwards or sound doesn’t rise. With the breath you have to make a circle. It’s not that the high note is a point of arrival. The breath has to raise it up and then bring it down again, that way the notes come down like pearls.” A clip from a 1961 Cavalleria Rusticana[OA0983D] showed her in absolutely gorgeous voice. But perhaps the most telling moment from her interview was her confession when asked what she would have done differently with her career: she said, almost without hesitation, that she would not have become a singer. She suffered greatly, and it took almost two decades for her to get her due as an artist. I, for one, am glad she was not given that opportunity.
Another legendary soprano Magda Olivero commented that “you must find the character inside. Every word, every note has to rise from the inside and go forward to the audience.” She clearly understood what that meant, as evidenced by a superb 1960 Tosca excerpt. She also talked about the difficulties for sopranos in Act II of Tosca, which she described as a soprano-killer.
Anita Cerquetti (a personal favorite) — who is a longtime cult figure among vocal folks for her astonishing voice, very short career, and yes, the funniest record covers in just about all opera history (except for the late British Wagnerian Rita Hunter) — had some interesting comments about opera performance: ” A singer cannot be compared to an actor. The singer has to sing. He has to stay motionless. When he sings a romance, he cannot walk up and down the stage, otherwise the voice shifts. A singer has to be an actor through his gestures, through his face, through his arms and hands, through his voice.” Now, I won’t mince words here, Anita is and was a very large lady (NO comments here, she was) and probably didn’t or couldn’t take a lot of stage direction (just a guess). Motionless is a bit, well, odd even for me. And, let’s face it, much has changed in opera productions since these women graced the stage. There is far more emphasis on physical acting now for example. But some of what she says makes sense: a singer is not an actor in the traditional sense. If anyone watched the MET broadcast of Il Trittico last season, the most moving aspect of Barbara Frittoli’s performance was her portrayal of the character of Suor Angelica, which she achieved almost entirely through her facial expressions and simple physical gestures. In my opinion, her singing was nothing special. And had I been in the opera house instead of at the movies, where I could really see what she was doing with the role, I’m not so sure I would have been so moved.
For me, there is something special about this entire era of singing which quite frankly, harkens back to a time when the voice reigned supreme and when singing conveyed such emotion that even on a bad day, it had, well, “soul.” (Just to clarify: there are many, many current singers I absolutely adore and couldn’t do without. But I must confess to a certain love of singers from the 1930s, 1940s, 1950s and 1960s.)
In addition to the great singers of the 1950s and 1960s, the film also goes a further back into opera history and devotes some time to the great Gina Cigna, who actually was French and born in Paris in 1900 (she died in 2001). Cigna came from a much earlier era than the other singers portrayed in the film and was 96 when Zucker went to visit her. She said, “If you don’t know how to breathe, you don’t know how to sing….Opera has lost spontaneity, beauty and freedom.” Her interview was very short as she was so very frail, but just her presence and the excerpts of her glorious voice were enough for me.
I’ve left off quite a few singers profiled in the film, for which I apologize. But if my word count is correct, I’m over 1000 words. Watch the film instead. It is really a film about soul, something which these Divas all have in abundance. (The Opera Fanatic, a film by Jan Schmidt-Garre, Arthaus Musik, 101813.)
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