mothra3's Full Review: Mascagni: Cavalleria Rusticana; Leoncavallo: Pagl...
Close your eyes and imagine, if you will, the main square of a tiny village in the mountains of Sicily. People begin to fill the square as we hear the distant echoing of the choir from inside the church, singing their Easter hymn. They take up the hymn as they prepare to enter the church for Mass. The music starts softly, like a prayer, like incense floating skyward. Slowly it grows in intensity, weaving together with the solo soprano, gradually building up to a glorious finish with the soprano voice soaring over the chorus and into goosebump territory…
It is a hymn of the Resurrection—something holy and not of this earth; but next we are plunged into the very earthy and tragic story of Santuzza, who cannot join her fellow villagers in the Church. She has been excommunicated for “giving in” to her lover, Turiddu, a man who is now having an affair with Lola, a married woman.
Santuzza pleads with Turiddu to return to her and make her an “honest woman”, but he repudiates her, calling her surety about his dalliances nothing more than jealous suspicion. She suffers his abuse until he throws her to the ground in a fit of rage. As he turns his back on her to enter the church, she hurls an insult after him, “May you have an evil Easter, you betrayer!” It is not the words, but the quivering emotion in her voice, echoed by the sense of foreboding in the explosive music that sends us back to goosebump land and sets the tone for the next scene, when Alfio, Lola’s husband enters, unaware of his wife’s adultery. She rashly informs him of the situation, provoked by Turiddu’s unjust treatment of her. Upon venting her fury, however, her rage turns to fear as she realizes what she has done: one of the two men will not live to see the sun set—even worse—either way, she loses. She flees as the famous Intermezzo fills the now empty stage with an ominously false sense of tranquility. It almost seems to say, “That’s life—in time, all pain is forgotten.”
As the villagers exit the church, a fight ensues between Turiddu and Alfio that sets the stage for the fatal conclusion. Our anticipation of this finale is again delayed as Turiddu begs for his mother’s final blessing while trying to conceal from her the duel about to take place. The strings flutter furiously as anguish and terror overcome him. He implores her to be a mother to Santuzza, whom he ought to have honored. Then he bids her a tearful farewell and dashes off. Before his confused mother has a chance to gather her senses, Santuzza runs in and embraces her just as a woman’s voice cries out, “They have killed Turiddu!” The music throbs and crashes wildly as the two women’s hearts break from grief. Ah! This is not the aid Santuzza had hoped for! But thus we leave her, crushed by misery.
An interesting and easy way to introduce yourself to this one-act opera, scarcely more than an hour in duration, is by watching The Godfather, part 3, in which it plays a prominent role (if you can bear to sit through Sofia Coppola’s acting…hope she sticks to directing). Cavalleria Rusticana is a very accessible and easy likable opera—the music is consummately written, the drama highly engrossing, together culminating in some incredibly spine-tingling moments. All in all, this is an opera for those who fear the bombastically boring Brunhilda.
This version itself is a true classic, with Franco Corelli singing the lead tenor role of Turiddu, and the less well-known (outside opera-loving circles) but ethereal voice of Soprano Victoria de los Angeles as Santuzza. Alfio is sung by Mario Sereni; his wife Lola by Adriana Lazzarini; and Turiddu’s mother, Mamma Lucia, by Corinna Vozza. It was recorded in 1962 at the Opera House in Rome, with Gabriele Santini conducting.
But wait, that’s not all! There’s another one-act opera in this 2CD set. Oops, I mean two-act opera…now there’s a story. Both Cavalleria Rusticana and I Pagliacci were entered into a competition for one-act operas. Pietro Mascagni won that competition with Cavalleria in 1890 to astounding acclaim. By 1892, it had been performed in venues covering 3 continents. That year, encouraged by the previously unknown Mascagni’s meteoric rise to fame, Ruggero Leoncavallo entered his opera I Pagliacci into the same competition but was disqualified when it was determined that his was actually two acts (based on the amount of time elapsed during the intermezzo). It was in 1893 that the Metropolitan Opera in New York City decided to pair the two for a performance, based on their relative brevity (each is little more than an hour), and the fact that both employed the newly popular style of Verismo, which presents everyday people confronting everyday life, rather than the glorious exploits of mythological heroes. They have continued to be “joined at the hip” ever since.
While I findCavalleria Rusticana to be extremely accessible to the non-opera lover, I Pagliacci is considered to be more “refined.” [Read: somewhat esoteric, not quite as accessible musically.] That’s not to say that it’s not enjoyable—quite the contrary—but while someone could ostensibly enjoy Cavalleria even without the libretto in hand, due to the extensive word-painting of the music, the intricacies and especially the humour of the plot will be missed in Pagliacci without a translation.
All that having been said, the music is exceptional and the story compelling. This opera is set in Calabria (not far from Sicily…) on the Feast of the Assumption (rather than Easter Sunday) and focuses on a traveling Commedia dell’Arte troupe in the 1870s. There is great excitement as they arrive in town, announcing a performance for that evening. As our main character Canio heads to the tavern with fellow performer Beppe, Canio’s wife, Nedda, remains behind and sings of her desire for freedom like the Bohemian birds. [This is perhaps the best example of word-painting in the opera, her voice twittering like the birds.] Tonio, the deformed clown, hears her enchanting song and dares to declare his love for her. She ridicules his amorous advances and drives him away with a whip. Soon after, her lover, Silvio, arrives and tries to convince her to finally run away with him. Tonio sees them together and rushes off, returning with Canio in tow. Silvio escapes just in time, but Canio threatens Nedda with a stiletto, demanding the name of her lover. Beppe interferes and sends him off to prepare for the evening’s performance.
In utter anguish, Canio sings one of the most famous arias in the Tenor repertoire, Vesti la Giubba, made popular again recently by everyone’s favorite (now retired) Tenor, Luciano Pavarotti. Though it has become somewhat ubiquitous lately, heard in concerts and pasta commercials alike, performed well it can be one of the most moving pieces of music:
Put on your costume and paint your face,
The people have paid and want to be entertained.
And if Harlequin steals away your Columbine,
You must laugh, Pagliaccio, so that all may applaud.
Transform your tears and despair into jokes;
Hide your pain in a smiling face!
Laugh, Pagliaccio, at your broken love!
Laugh at the anguish that stings your heart like poison!
[Translation/paraphrasing by yours truly]
Act II begins as the villagers arrive and take their seats. The show must go on, and it does…until Canio begins to crack under the strain of playing a scene too eerily similar to his own life—the “play within the play,” if you will. As Pagliaccio, he returns home to find his wife, Columbine (played, of course, by Nedda) trying to cover the hasty disappearance of her lover, Harlequin (Beppe). She assures him he is mistaken, and that she had merely been dining with the hapless servant Taddeo (Tonio). His jealous protestations grow in intensity until again he threatens her, once more demanding the name of her lover. Amidst murmurings from the audience, she tries to defuse his anger and lighten the mood, but when he persists, she becomes defiant. In a blind fury, he stabs her. Dying, she calls out to her lover, who rushes to the stage only to meet the same fate. Dropping the dagger in a daze, he turns to his horrified audience and exclaims, “The comedy…is finished!” And…it is.
Again, Franco Corelli sings the lead tenor role of Canio/Pagliaccio, this time to Lucine Amara (who is also known for her portrayal of Tatiana in Eugene Onegin) as Nedda/Columbine. The incomparable Tito Gobbi stars as the deformed Tonio/Taddeo. Beppe/Harlequin is sung by Mario Spina; Silvio by Mario Zanasi, and two peasants by Franco Piva and Angelo Mercuriali. This production, rather than being recorded at the same time and place as Cavalleria Rusticana, was from Milan’s La Scala, conducted by Lovro von Matačić.
Though Pavarotti has made many enormously popular recordings of I Pagliacci in particular, I find this version to be somewhat less overwrought and much more classic, without losing any of the drama to its popularity. Especially in some of his later recordings, Pavarotti sometimes eschewed technique for stylization—not to impugn his exceptional talent—but I find Corelli’s voice to be more constant and very pleasant to listen to. I highly recommend this collection to the opera novice and enthusiast alike.
At last, my long-awaited entry into my own fabulous write-off!!! OK, I know, you don’t care, didn’t know about the Springtime in Paris Write-Off, and are disgusted by my shameless self-promotion. After all, I broke one of the biggest rules of Write-offs by not submitting my own entry upon launching it…(Naughty, bad Zoot!) But I’ve already been chastised and flogged with a wet noodle, so come on, forgive me, and while you’re at it, take a gander at my mysterious write-off here.
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