Opera folk love to tell stories. I think this is true of most folk involved in the performing arts. There are true stories, there are fantasies and there are stories that fall somewhere in between. Some of these stories have been around so long that I don’t recall which artists were allegedly involved. Some of the stories require a working knowledge of the show in question. Others are generic enough that all you need is a bit of imagination to picture the tale. Some of these stories are my first-hand recollections, or a retelling of friends’ recollections. Others fall more in the vein of urban legend — with an operatic twist.
Some people call opera the bastard art, the illegitimate progeny of musical concert and legitimate theater. When you consider all that has to be coordinated to produce an opera, it might seem a small miracle that the show does indeed go on. There is the orchestra, the singers (who, we hope, can also act), the sets, lights, curtain. The performance is usually controlled primarily by the conductor. There is little room for error. If a singer forgets a line, the show goes on without him. If a singer gets off somehow, skips a line, a measure, doesn’t hold a note long enough or holds it too long, the show rolls inexorably on. Singers may find themselves without light, scenery may fall, entrances may be missed, but the show rolls on. And all this is a formula for disaster. Which just adds to the entertainment value.
Following are some of the stories I have heard over the years or read somewhere or other. As new stories come my way, I’ll add them at the top, so the older entries will be toward the bottom, making it easy for visitors to spot new entries. If you have a story you would like to post, please e-mail it to me.
While looking up some information on the grand diva Frances Alda, soprano and wife of Giulio Gatti-Casazza, I came across this little tidbit:
One night, while watching from the wings as Olive Fremstad sang the seductive courtesan Giulietta in a performance of Offenbach’s Les Contes d’Hoffmann, Alda snatched the diva’s ubiquitous little dog Mimi from Tinka’s arms, set the animal on the floor, gave her a shove, and said, “Go on, go find your mistress.” Mimi needed no further coaxing as she delightedly scampered across the stage and bounded into the lap of an astonished and monumentally outraged Fremstad. (told by Peter G. Davis)
Here’s a little something that recently came my way:
The Met is scheduled to produce an opera on Bill Clinton next year.
Composed by Giuliani Veritas (in Italian).
Act I.
The Situation: Bill Clinton has been elected President of the United States by an overwhelming margin. The Republicans are devastated, angry and are trying to find their way back to power.
As the curtain rises on the opera, the House Republicans are meeting with Ken Starr with the object of trying to find a way to remove Bill Clinton from the Presidency.
The opening chorale “We Must Find a Way” (Creato grandissimo floozi scandala) is sung as a sextet. In an impressive recitative, Tom Delay sings “Where Will We Find a Helper?” (Dredgi uppulia una Granda Bimba). The House Republicans exit.
Paula Jones enters stage right with a mirror, singing her plaintive “Why Can’t I find a Man?” (Mia schnozola es humongo). Tom Delay and Newt Gingrich enter from the other wing. They spot Paula and sing the duet “Why Not Her?” (La flooza perfecta). They meet and take Paula to a small cafe where they hatch their plot in hushed tones.
Paula tells them of her meeting in a hotel with Clinton years earlier and how her fortunes have collapsed since then. Delay and Gingrich offer to help. They sing the aria, “Your Luck has Changed” (Nozjobbo e' rewardo).
Act II.
The House Republicans reconvene with the news of Paula’s revelations. They sing in jubilation “We must Tell the World” (Fono tabloido). The rear curtain raises to reveal the Chorus of Media who sing the chorale, “Tell Us More, But Only the Truth” (Sexio scandala hypo sweepi).
Gingrich enters with Pat Robertson. They sing the duet “He Must Go” (Hypocriti pious crappola). Robertson offers to make time on his television program to expose the charges. At the House Republicans’ suggestion, Paula initiates a lawsuit. The Paula Jones scandal becomes the topic of conversation throughout the country. The Chorus of Lawyers enters from the right to sing the jubilant grand chorale “We Must do Our Duty” (Multi, multi grande moola).
Ken Starr meets with the House Republicans to plan the next steps. They sing the aria “We Will Save the Country” (Sleezi connivo, la media soccittuppo). Starr promises to convene a grand jury which will send charges to the Congress. He sings “The Truth Will be Known” (Whitewater non starto, il probo la flooza epidemio). The Chorus of Lawyers sings a reprise of “We Must Do Our Duty” as the act ends.
Act III.
Linda Tripp enters the stage arm in arm with Ken Starr. She is wearing a headset. She is singing “Monica is My Dearest Friend” (Io sono la wiccida witchi occidenta). She tells Starr about the secret tapes that she has made of conversations with Monica Lewinsky. Starr takes them from her and sings “We’ve Got Him Now” (Presidente droppo pantaloni). Starr hurries off to the Grand Jury to call Monica as a witness.
In Scene 2 Monica enters the grand jury room where the Chorus of Lawyers asks her questions. They sing the recitative “How Did It Happen?” (Panti thongo, la flashi). Monica sings the long passionate aria “We Were Meant for Each Other” (Nonsmoko El Pruducto, Phalli symboglio).
In the third scene, Hilary and Bill are sitting in the Lincoln Bedroom talking about the revelations about Monica. Hillary sings “I Will Stand By You” (Tu jercho estupido, io removo tu equippamento). Bill replies with “She Was the Only One” (Non conto Gennifer, Paula, piu multi bimba forgetta). They embrace.
Act IV.
Sam Donaldson is interviewing Henry Hyde in the Capitol Building. The chorus of Lawyers hums in the background. Hyde sings the aria “We Believe in Something” (Impeaccho hippi bastardo). Donaldson sings a recitative in answer, “We Only Want the Truth” (Toupee eslippo). The great trial begins in the Senate. Trent Lott reacts to public opinion polls showing that the President has a 76% approval rating with the public with the poignant aria, “What is Right is Not Popular” (Partia Repubblico Commitini Suicido). The Chorus of Lawyers sings the chorale “Principles Come First” (Mi adultero non conto).
With great flourish, Henry Hyde, Bill McCullom and Tom Delay stand before the Senate to present their case. They sing the somber trio “How Can you Not Convict?” (Evidenso multi flimsioso). Finally in a moving chorale, the Chorus of Lawyers sings “For the Good of the Nation, We Must Acquit” (Senatorios non stupido). After the vote is announced, Henry Hyde, Tom Delay, Trent Lott and Bill McCollum leave the Senate Chamber singing the grand quartet “We Still Know the Truth” (Wasto multi millioni) as the act ends.
Epilogue.
The President sings the contrite aria “I am Very Sorry” (Revengo futuro furioso) as the Chorus of Media circles him, shouting their questions. They sing “Who will now Believe us?” (Publicca desgustanta es in media). Monica Lewinsky crosses the stage with her new literary agent, Ken Starr. They sing “It is Still Not Over” (Publishi grande bucchi, dollare millioni), as the curtain falls.
“Of that there is no manner of doubt,
No probable, possible shadow of doubt,
No possible doubt whatever.”Gilbert & Sullivan, Gondoliers
Schuyler Chapin, formerly general manager of the Metropolitan Opera, recalls an encounter with Maria Callas. Aside from being a wonderful tale, it is an excellent example of using diplomacy to avert disaster.
This particular adventure began in the winter of 1974, when George Moore, then president of the Met’s board of directors, gave birth to the idea that Callas should become the company’s artistic director. He called me from his home in Sotogrande, Spain, and in his usual unsubtle way ordered me to launch this project.Chapin finishes the story byA few days after Moore’s call, Callas arrived in New York. I invited her to lunch, taking care to send a car to fetch her, and we met at the Oak Room in the Plaza Hotel. Dressed in a matching strawberry-colored skirt and jacket, her black hair pulled into a neat bun, she wore a large ruby ring on the ring finger of her right hand, simple but elegant gold earrings, and businesslike discreet makeup. She was playing the executive and had the trappings just right.
She started our conversation by telling me that everything about the Metropolitan was wrong; the casting, conductors, stage directors, designers, chorus, dancers, public relations—all this had to be changed. She went on talking as she squinted at the menu, held close to her face because, as I soon discovered, she was maddeningly farsighted. Finally she rummaged in her purse for glasses, which at once gave her face an extraordinarily schoolmarmish look. She soon polished off a good lunch and agreed that she would come to that night’s performance of Otello, with James Levine conducting James McCracken, Pilar Lorengar, and Sherrill Milnes in the beautiful Franco Zefirelli production.
She arrived at the opera house just as the first act was ending, making a whispered-apology entrance into my box. She was, of course, instantly recognized by the people sitting in the two adjoining boxes, causing quite a stir. She listened to Otello’s impassioned “E tu m’avi mie sventure . . . ”—a melody quickly taken up by Desdemona as it develops into one of Verdi’s great love duets. McCracken and Lorengar were in splendid voice, and Levine’s support from the pit was sensuous.
When the curtain fell, we adjourned to my office. Once seated, champagne glass in hand, she made it clear she thought the production appalling, McCracken impossible, Lorengar hopeless, and Levine inadequate but at least promising. She then announced she wasn’t staying for the second act because of a birthday party, but we should plan to meet the next day to start our work. Then she swept out. I looked at my wife, shrugged my shoulders, and began organizing for that next day.
I’d realized from Moore’s first call that this was an unworkable idea, but now having met the lady I knew the matter had to handled very carefully. I therefore asked each of the department heads to come to my office the next afternoon at fifteen-minute intervals, starting with the artistic administration and working though the entire company, including business affairs, subscription, touring, legal, rehearsal planning, costumes, scenery, stagehands, public relations, box office, and front-of-the-house personnel (ushers, guides, etc.).
When she arrived I explained that we were a repertory house, playing five different operas seven times a week; that we had an orchestra of over 110 with “steady extras” on call as needed, a large chorus, a sizable company of dancers, and a considerable roster of comprimàrios (artists under contract who sing the supporting roles); and that the coordination of this effort was what made it possible to bring the curtain up every weeknight and twice on Saturdays. She looked startled; by the time she’d seen five department heads, her eyes glazed over. I then told her the financial facts of life and that we should begin right away to redo the next three seasons if we were going to carry out the changes she would undoubtedly want to make. At this point she smiled wanly and, rising from her chair, said she was flying back to Spain that evening and would report everything to George Moore.
I walked her to her car (which I’d provided every day of her visit) and kissed her on both cheeks. The car drove off, and I never heard another word on this subject.
. . . reminding everyone that with all her quirks, demons, and phobias, when Maria Callas was on the stage she dominated her audience, commanding it with the power of her overwhelming personality. She was always a star, the Judy Garland of serious music, whom the general and artistic public watched with fascination.
A certain comprimario at the Met was notorious for memory slips. On one occasion when he was cast as Shaunard, he had such a lapse at the end of Boheme. When, upon seeing Mimi “die”, he went over to tell Marcello, the hapless baritone could not remember the words, so he gave the line in his best Italian accent, “Marcello... she’s-a dead.”
At Teatro Regio in Parma: Gilda was interpreted by Lina Pagliughi, a singer whose weight was more than 230 pounds. When Gilda was stabbed and put in the sack, the poor baritone had to carry the sack to the river bank. But the sack was so heavy that the hunchbacked jester could hardly move it. From the famous loggione came the voice of an opera enthusiast speaking in the local dialect: “Mo fa ben do’ viaz!” (It’s better if you make two trips!).
Tito Gobbi was fascinated since childhood by the dramatic power of Rigoletto’s first act ending, and he wanted to accentuate it with a spectacular fall from the steps. At the last rehearsal of the production conducted by Tullio Serafin, Gobbi yelled his “Ah, la maledizione” rolling down the entire set of stairs and falling heavily on the floor among his astonished colleagues. Maestro Serafin remained perfectly calm, and said: “Va benissimo per il circo Barnum, ma per Verdi è troppo” (It’s very good for Barnum Circus, but for Verdi it’s too much).
Animals in opera are often the cause of unintentional hilarity. I still recall an Opéra Comique performance of Carmen in which one of the male principals (a baritone) was almost thrown from his spooked horse (horseplay crossed with stage fright, I suppose). A New York City Opera performance of Aida featured a pair of real howlers. In the beginning of Act 2, Amneris, surrounded by her slaves, prepares for the triumphal feast. As the female slaves sang their bit along with Amneris, a pair of Afghan hounds flanking Amneris howled along. At the end of the choral section following the dance, Amneris declaimed “Silenzio,” and the dogs immediately clammed up.
Giuseppe Verdi recalled the early rehearsals of Nabucco:
It was a group of carpenters that gave me my first assurance of success. The artists were singing as badly as they knew how and the orchestra seemed bent only on drowning out the noise made by workmen who were doing some alterations in the building. Presently, the chorus began to sing, as carelessly as before, the “Va, pensiero”, but before they had got through half a dozen bars, the theater was as still as a church. The men had left off their work one by one and there they were sitting about on the ladders and scaffolding, listening. When the number was finished, they broke out into the noisiest applause I ever heard.
The perennial Verdi favorite, La Traviata, got off to a rocky start. In the last act, the consumptive heroine is on her death bed. The opera’s premiere was a fiasco, in part because the soprano playing Violetta was quite hefty, and the death scene brought snickers and outright guffaws from the audience.
Traviata was the first opera I saw (and yes, the heroine was rather large). In the second act, after Germont has persuaded Violetta to leave his son, she writes Alfredo a farewell note, planning to leave before he returns. But he returns as she is sealing the letter. In this production, in trying to hide the letter from Alfredo, Violetta dropped the letter. When she bent to pick it up before Alfredo could get hold of it, the air rushing out from under her hooped skirt blew the letter across the stage. The soprano kept right on singing, chasing the letter across the stage.
Years ago I was in several productions directed by Hans Busch (son of the famed conductor Fritz), who was known for his dated ideas on staging. In some cases, this “tradition” served the opera well, lending an aura of historical authenticity. During rehearsals, Busch spoke in a rather strained high-pitched voice with an unusual German accent. If he liked some spontaneous bit of stage business, he would call out, “Very good, keep it in.” This became a sort of running joke. During one rehearsal (I think it was Il Tabarro), a stray cat got into the auditorium and strolled across the stage. “Very good, keep it in.” One of my favorite Busch-bits was his direction to Margaret Harshaw in Butterfly (as I recall - or maybe Turandot): “Margaret, slant your eyes.” And you have to hear it with the accent to get the full effect. Sounds something like “Margaret, slent you ice.”
Opera singers often enjoy little jokes on stage. Sometimes they are played in fun, other times they are used to harass another singer. There was a soprano who despised her leading man, a hairy-chested tenor. During their love duet, she appeared to be lightly stroking his chest. In reality, she was plucking his chest hairs. The tenor, of course, was not happy with this painful practice and decided to remedy the situation. The next performance, the soprano plucked at the hairs sticking out from the tenor’s costume... and was left standing on stage with a full wig in her hand.
This one is told about Nellie Melba and Enrico Caruso: During a performance of Bohème, as Caruso took Melba’s hand under the table while singing “Che gelida manina... se la lasci riscaldar” (“What a cold little hand... let me warm it up”), he put a hot sausage in the diva’s hand. No doubt startled, she jerked her hand away, flinging Caruso’s sausage across the stage!
A friend of mine, a tenor, was on tour with a production of Bohème. Often, the show played on improvised stage areas, and the company had a protective surface to lay over gym floors. At the end of the opera, Mimi dies, and when Rodolfo (the tenor) realizes she is dead, he runs to the bed a cries out her name. One evening, playing on the portable floor, the tenor ran to Mimi’s bedside, but when he tried to stop, his feet slid out from under him and he went right under the bed, wailing “Mimi, Mimi”.
In the days before contact lenses, a very nearsighted soprano was singing the title role in Tosca. For the second act, where she stabs Scarpia, the diva instructed the prop master to place a knife at a specific spot on the table so she could pick it up at the right moment to attack the baritone. Either the knife was not placed according to her instructions, or she forgot where it was supposed to be. At any rate, as the tension grew, and she needed to grab the knife, she could not find it, and in desperation grabbed the nearest long, narrow object on the table — a banana — and lunged at Scarpia, stabbing him with the fruit. After he died, she intoned “E avanti a lui tremava tutta Roma,” and threw the squashed banana down.
Tosca’s leap from the parapet at the end of the opera makes for some harrowing moments. The soprano should really jump off the battlements and disappear from view. To create the illusion, there is usually a platform behind the parapet for the soprano to land on; sometimes a mat or mattress is used to make for a softer landing and to muffle the sound. Some friends of mine attended a performance given by a touring company. In a stroke of genius, the stage manager decided to put one of those little trampoline things under the parapet so the soprano could jump and land without hurting herself. The moment came, she jumped off the parapet, disappeared.... then reappeared as she bounced back up into full view.
Here’s another Tosca “jump” story I came across:
Modern medicine’s most dramatic contribution to opera was surely that made in 1961 by a party of local medical students recruited to play the walk-on firing squad in the last act of Tosca at the San Francisco opera house....The students, chosen for height rather than stage experience, knew nothing of the opera or its plot, and the producer had little time to brief them. He wasn’t worried because they didn’t have to sing. Five minutes before the start of the dress rehearsal, he told them: “You’re a firing squad. Just follow the officer. Slow march on in time to the music, line up, and when the officer lowers his sword, shoot.”
“And how do we get off?”
“Just wait on stage and, at the end, exit with the principals.”
The dress rehearsal ran out of time and never reached the final scene, so, on the first night, the San Francisco audience saw Tosca end in an unusual way.
When, at the tragic denouement, the firing squad marched slowly on, its members were momentarily confused by the fact that that there were both a man and a woman on stage. However, when Cavaradossi stepped bravely in front of them they decided he was the one they had to shoot. Yet as they lined up their sights they noticed he kept nodding in a conspiratorial way towards the woman. So, as the officer dropped his sword, they swung their rifles through 180 degrees and shot Tosca. They were clearly discomforted when she remained standing and they heard Cavaradossi, now directly behind them, hit the stage as he dropped. They gawped nervously as Tosca rushed to him as if he were still alive, and then screamed. And they began to grow panicky when they heard the shouts off-stage and saw Tosca mount the battlements.Then, as she flung herself off, they remembered their final instruction. As the curtain slowly descended, they rushed upstage and threw themselves after her.