Opera: Battleground of the Arts

your In the year 1678, St. Evrimon said, opera is a bizarre affair of poetry and music, in which the poets and the musician each equally obstructed by the other, give themselves no end of trouble to produce a wretched result. On the other hand, a hundred years later, Mozart said, the best thing of all is when a good composer who understands the stage meets an able poet. In that case, no fears need be entertained as to the applause even of the ignorant. Riverside Radio, WRVR in New York City, presents opera, the battleground of the arts.

In this series of half-hour programs, Boris Goldovsky discusses some of the problems that beset operas and those who create and produce them. The programs are produced in association with the Goldovsky Opera Institute for National Educational Radio, under a grant from the National Home Library Foundation. Boris Goldovsky is nationally known as an intermission commentator for broadcasts of the Metropolitan Opera and as an opera producer, specifically through the productions of the Goldovsky Opera Theatre, which have been presented in about 400 communities from coast to coast. And now, here is Mr. Goldovsky. Opera, as we have noted before on these programs, is a somewhat uneasy partnership of the two arts of music and stage drama. Very probably, you would hardly hesitate putting the orchestra exclusively on the musical side of the partnership. The singer, you would say, must try at least to be an actor, but the man in the orchestra pit has only to sit there and play his notes from a written part, and it is certainly the orchestra's function to supply harmonic accompaniment to the voices on stage, assuring musical continuity for the whole performance.

There are indeed many musicians working in opera, even Beat Whisperer, some conductors working in opera, who have no doubt at all that the orchestra is in the pit only to fill this essential musical role. On this program, I hope to show you, however, that the orchestra also plays an essential dramatic role, a role that everybody responsible for interpreting the work in the theatre must appreciate and used to his advantage if the total significance of the work is ever to reach the public. We all know that music can express an infinity of moods and emotions, to connect the music we hear with precise circumstances, however, we need words or the description afforded by a visible scene. But once the intended association has been set up in our minds, then music has unlimited power to define the quality or show us the intensity of whatever is being expressed. No one hearing this music from the closing scene of the Valkyrie out of its context, would, without some knowledge of the opera, associated with fire, yet when we have the scene before us, and the singer's words to help us, this music speaks to us with overwhelming force, and we feel all the emotion aroused by the fire in that situation to a degree that words alone could not possibly attain.

This power of the orchestra in the opera house is not limited to such obvious descriptions. The opera score is packed with dramatic meanings and indications that a composer has consciously or unconsciously enshrined in it. No representation in the theatre can be wholly satisfactory unless those who have to interpret the score have known how to make it yield up its secrets and given them a counterpart on the stage. Singers and directors who understand the information provided by orchestral music will find that in the pages of a score, the composer has given them precise and precious suggestions as to how each character should utter words, behave, move, laugh, cry, show unhappiness or despair, make love, and even kill or be killed. It is true that musical tones cannot express everything, but fortunately words and music complement each other, music being strong as to where words are weakest.

It is extremely difficult to describe in words, for example, the gradations of a given emotion, such as the difference between the tenderness, the child feels for his grandfather or for his pet dog. But the musical description can convey instantly the most subtle nuances of emotion, and of course music provides the exact timing and intensity of every move and action. It would be impossible to duplicate in words the exactness of Mozart's stage directions for amorous gestures. For example, if Daponte, the libretist of John Giovanni, had wanted to show Serlina how to console her bridegroom Mazetto as he lies on the ground moaning and complaining of having been beaten up by La Porello, he would have had to write a stage direction something like this. Serlina caresses Mazetto twice in quick succession. Her behavior is flirtatious, without being too provocatively sensuous. Her first caress begins about two-thirds of a second after the last note of her first phrase. Each caress lasts about four-thirds of a second, and the interval between the two is two-thirds of a second.

But there is no need for such clumsy and verbose instructions. Since Mozart's music conveys all this and much more in a stage direction, which is concise, elegant, and completely lucid. Mozart's operas are filled with such orchestral acting instructions. In Cosifan Tutte, for instance, when Guglielmo sings of his moustache, the violins tell him exactly when and how long to twirl it. There are many ways in which music can stimulate the ethical thinking and serve as a point of departure for staging ideas. Some musical passages have a very distinctive character and stand out from the surrounding musical landscape. Whether these musical events occur in the orchestra or in the voice part, whether they consist of a melodic phrase, a short motif, or even a single note, they inevitably seem to illustrate specific dramatic ideas. Some composers, like Wagner and Strauss, indicate clearly the dramatic meaning of these significant musical passages, and others, like Mozart, Rossini, and Verdi, leave the interpretation of musical events to individual choice. But in every case, these unusual passages need to be reflected on stage by some appropriate theatrical business.

The duet between Donanna and Donotavio, in the opening scene of Don Giovanni, contains a significant orchestral passage, just before Donanna's words tell us that her thoughts have turned suddenly from grief to vengeance. If the Commendatore's sword, which had been knocked out of his hand earlier by Don Giovanni, is left lying on the stage for Donanna Anna to find, just as this passage is being played, her discovery at that moment that her father had been killed in cold blood, will give new strength to her cry for vengeance that she then utters. These examples touch upon only a few of the ways in which music imparts dramatic information.

From a theatrical point of view, the most important musical values are, first, energy and mood, second, informative devices, and third, form and timing. All music consists of a succession of episodes that vary in mood and in the degree of energy they express. Generally speaking, loud sounds are more energetic than soft ones. Accented passages more energetic than smooth ones. This in unharmonies and all startling combinations of sounds also create a rise in energy values. These musical energies take hold of both the performer and the listener and affect his entire body. They make him want to move around, to march, to dance, to shout or clap his hands. What is generally referred to as tempo in music is also an element of energy, the faster and louder the music, the more energetic it is. When it becomes softer and slower, the energy values subside. Matching the rise in fall of these musical energies with stage activities is one of the most fundamental rules of operatic later.

One should not even contemplate the atrical possibilities that contradict or do not fit with the changes of energy in the score. In opera, one must see what one hears and hear what one sees. It is not enough for music to be played in the pit while the drama is acted on stage. There must be a recognizable relationship between these two activities. The orchestra does not merely accompany and support the characters on stage. It also reflects their thoughts, feelings and actions. Consequently, singers must behave so as to justify the music, as if they themselves were causing the music to be what it is. And the director on his part must consider only those possibilities of staging that will justify the mood and energy dictated by the score. Certain types of short and energetic orchestral passages are so reminiscent of muscular movements that they can be set to belong to the special category of gesture music.

The main advantage of these instrumental gestures lies in the fact that they give the singer a precise blueprint of just how an action is to be performed. On occasion, however, music can also help to determine what gesture or other action is supposed to take place at a given moment. Such help can be very welcome, especially with composers of the 18th and early 19th centuries whose scores often lack even the most essential stage directions. An interesting case in point occurs in the third act of Verdi's Mask Ball, where Renato informs Samuel and Tom, who are involved in a plot to assassinate Ricardo, that the letters which he has in his possession contain proofs of their complicity and guilt. Renato, however, is not planning to turn these papers over to Ricardo on the contrary. He wants to join the plotters, and in reply to their doubting words and looks, he assures them that he will prove his change of heart and dispel their suspicions not with words but with deeds.

What deeds? Neither the full score, nor any of the Italian or American editions of piano vocal scores that I have consulted contain any clarifying remarks on this subject. Verdi and his publishers must have felt that the three short passages played here by the orchestral strings were such obvious examples of paper tearing music that it would have been redundant to add any verbal instructions. I regret to say that I have seen performances of this opera where instead of destroying the evidence, the baritone shook hands with the conspirators. Renato's act of tearing up the incriminating documents is obviously a must in this situation. Without it, his reference to deeds simply does not make sufficient sense.

Gesture music, however, does not always have to refer to an action which has this degree of compelling necessity. As a rule, music offers many dramatic alternatives and lets the stage director use his imagination much more freely. There is, for instance, a passage in the second act of Tosca that I like to treat in a rather unconventional manner, although I'm not at all certain that other directors or for that matter, the composer would necessarily agree with my interpretation. The passage follows Scarpia's monologue in which the all-powerful chief of the Roman police reveals his craving for every form of enjoyment, for varieties of lovely women, as well as varieties of fine wines. When Charone announces the arrival of Spoletta, Scarpia shouts splendid, bring him in, and the stage direction forms as Scarpia is etchittatissimo, most excited. The orchestral phrase that is played on the heels of Scarpia's shout is marked stringendo e crescendo, becoming soon rapidamente.

The stage direction for Scarpia, at this point, says Siciede, sits down, but it seems ashamed to waste this agitated music solely on the entrance of the relatively unimportant Spoletta. In my staging of this passage, Scarpia remains standing. He lifts the bottle to which he referred earlier and pours into his glass a stream of a red liquid that seems to converge with a sparkling stream of 16th notes that cascade down from the violins in the two last measures of this exciting passage. Of course, such orchestral passages can be acted out in many different ways, but the music invariably tells us at least four things that must be closely reflected in any satisfactory staging. First, something must happen here. Second, this is where it begins. Third, this is how long it lasts. And fourth, this is the mood and the amount of energy with which it must be performed. The second theatrical value to be found in the score is informative devices. As we noted in the beginning of this broadcast, instrumental music has no direct means of conveying specific information.

But its suggestive power is so great that the nearest hint of a word or a picture is often sufficient to give it precise meaning. The various devices composers have used to give specific theatrical meaning to their instrumental music can be put into three categories, which I call imitations, analogies, and associations. The device of imitations is almost self-explanatory. From Monteverdi to Albanberg, there is hardly an opera composer who has not imitated man-made and natural sounds in his music, who has not succumbed to the temptation of composing orchestral heartbeats, bird calls, storms, or the wearing of a spinning wheel. Posing as imitations may be, they are not apparent to the listener unless a clue to their identity is given by words, a title, or a scenic picture. For example, the sound of thunder can be quite perfectly imitated by the role of the cattle drums. But if a scenic picture or a title does not suggest that a storm is taking place, the cattle drum role is nothing more than a musical effect.

Compulsors have zealously explored the possibilities of such musical imitations, which have ranged from locomotives and nightingales to telephone dials. It is virtually impossible to think of a noise, which has not been orchestrated by such rabid imitationists, as Musorsky, Richard Strauss, and Ravel. These instrumental imitations are often immensely effective, but when overdone, they can become ludicrous, like a singer who illustrates every word with a gesture. With Richard Strauss, this device was occasionally a real obsession. For example, when Elektra tells her mother that she will be at her heels, like a dog, it hardly seems appropriate to emphasize the sentence by sounds of barking in the orchestra. Unlike imitations, which are restricted to actual resemblances in sound, analogies can convert into tunnel counterparts ideas or happenings that are not related to sound.

This method of giving precise meaning to various tone combinations is rooted in our habit of discussing music in terms borrowed from other fields. We speak of related and remote tonalities, white and dark voices, harsh and heavy chords, brilliant and mysterious passages, smooth melodies, high and low pitches, rising and descending scales, and sharp and flat keys. In purely instrumental music, these terms are not taken literally. No one hearing a deceptive cadence imagines that some mischief is being perpetrated, or suspects that every descending scale leads down a staircase. In opera, however, these descriptions are often taken seriously, and used for a variety of dramatic purposes. In the second act of Gunoz Faust, one of the students, Wagner, climbs onto a footstool before singing the song of the rat, and descends from it again after he is interrupted by Mephisto. The orchestra describes both the up and the down of his actions by corresponding passages, first toward the treble.

And then toward the bass. For some unknown reason, these two stage directions referring to these climbing activities have been omitted from all scores of this opera. They are found only in the original French libretto, and even there, the position of the second action is slightly misplaced. But even if these verbal remarks had been accurately inserted into the scores, they could not begin to be as graphic and informative as Gunoz purely orchestral descriptions. Listening to this upward and downward-going music, we can clearly visualize the loud and domineering Wagner as he picks up the stool, places it in a favorable position, and then climbs upon it with a self assurance of a peacock. And then later we can see him descend meekly from his perch, all the starch taken out of him by Mephisto's commanding personality.

For a dramatic point of view, the analogies found in opera which seem to be most useful are those based on melodic contour, harmonic progressions, and instrumental timbers. Analogies based on melodic contour have their origin and vocal music, where words and moods are intimately connected with characteristic melodic lines. When typically vocal effects are imitated in the orchestra, they not only create an emotional effect but also convey actual information. Minions crying spell in the instrumental interlude of her second act area could not be more explicit in this respect. These are certainly musical sobs and tears, and Minions actions must justify them. Analogies based on harmonic progressions are more subtle than those which use melodic contour.

To understand the principle behind them, we must bear in mind that for the greater part of the last 300 years, a certain order of court successions was regarded as mandatory and constituted the backbone of all harmonic movement. Progressions of the type, tonic dominant tonic or tonic sub-dominant tonic were the rule within a given tonality, and modulations to other keys were similarly standardized. These procedures change somewhat which each generation of composers, but if we know the style of a given composition, we can usually predict the direction in which the harmony is going to move. Any deviation from the expected harmonic sequence can highlight a sudden interruption of activity or an unexpected change of mood. An orchestral passage from the opening scene of Don Giovanni will serve to illustrate how analogies of harmonic progression can affect the execution and timing of a fairly extended stage action.

As the Commendatore dies at the end of the trio, there is an orchestral postlude of five measures. The key of F minor is firmly established, and during the first two measures, the oboe plays a sorrowful descending chromatic scale. This phrase is picked up by flute and a bassoon, and is repeated in the third and fourth measures. Then, at the end of the fourth measure, something strange takes place. The last G of the flute and a bassoon remain stationary, and the leading tone in the other flute and the second violin fails to resolve into the tonic. The whole harmonic structure slides down, hovers on the brink of a mysterious new tonality, and then evaporates into thin air. The orchestra is silent, the Commendatore's soul has left his body. The metaphysical mystery of death could not be presented with greater musical clarity.

Analogies based on instrumental timbers relate the characteristic sound of certain instruments to the special activities for which they are used. Composes have long used the French horn to suggest the idea of a hunt or a forest. And the oboe, clarinet and English horn, with their resemblance to the shepherd's pipe, have all been used to evoke pastoral life. Another obvious connection is that of the pipe organ with the idea of a church or with religious sentiments. The meaning of these analogies, based on timbers, varies from generation to generation. The sound of trumpets was once associated exclusively with royalty, and used, as in lawingering, to announce the arrival of kings and queens.

Later, this association with nobility ceased to exist, and today the trumpet, along with the snare drum, has become the war instrument Par excellence. Or take trombones, which no longer carry any special associations, but were once considered to have a very mysterious tone, particularly suited to portraying supernatural events. Mozart used trombones for this purpose in both Idomineo and Don Giovanni. Now we come to associations. Without any reference to the world of common experience, composers often set up purely musical associations. These are based upon our ability to recognize and remember short musical phrases, provided they are repeated as sufficient number of times. If, let us say, a musical phrase recurs often enough during a love scene, an association is created, and the phrase then stands for the idea of love. If it is constantly used to elude to this emotion, it becomes the love motif.

By creating such artificial associations, a composer can attach a specific musical phrase to almost any conceivable object, personal idea. These associations are often combined with imitations, or with analogies of instrumental timers. In Wagner's Ring, for instance, the motif of the Valkyries imitates the galloping of horses, and the motif of the sword is entrusted to the warlike trumpet. The different melodic rhythmic and harmonic shapes assumed by a motif can be very useful in indicating characteristic behavior or even suggesting specific gestures. Here, for instance, is the majestic theme of Electra the Princess in Strauss's opera. And here is the same theme showing her when she first appears on stage as a frightening demon, deformed by suffering and devoured by hatred. This sudden snake-like striking and spitting, which is so clearly audible in this phrase, should be at least suggested in Electra's movements.

Once a leading motif has been well established, it can be used not only to support the ideas expressed on stage, but also to clarify change or even contradict the words of the text. When he's all the addresses Tristan in the first act and speaks of having reached the goal, she ostensibly means the shores of Cornwall. But the orchestra makes it absolutely clear that she's really referring to the impending death of Tristan and herself. Associations can also be used for comic purposes, as in the Rosenkawalier, when the Marshallian apologizes to Baron Ox for having kept him waiting. The orchestra, by playing the same music that accompanied her passion in braces with Octavian, gives the lie to her words that she had a headache that morning. Composers have used the technique of associations in many different ways.

Often an operatic character is given his own tune by which he can always be recognized. In a major figure or both figure on Carobino announced themselves to the audience from offstage with strains from their songs. Associations can be very effective too when they occur in change dramatic circumstances, as they inevitably do in operatic mad scenes. When a heroine whose mind has become deranged by some tragic development relives scenes of former happiness, the return of one's joyous music always produces the point and effect of irreparable loss. All of the informative devices found in the orchestral portions of a score have a significant bearing, direct or indirect, on the dramatic values of opera. The music can provide us with new information, or it can simply reinforce the words, emphasizing them in much the same way that the gesture heightens the effect of a line in a spoken play. Consequently, musical duplications can often be effectively synchronized with appropriate gestures and actions. Even when the instrumental portions of a score do not add any new information, they still offer valuable clues for the characterization of a role.

Baronox's vulgar elegance or Bartolo's crotchety craftiness can of course be deduced from the text, but their orchestral music adds another dimension which sharpens and clarifies these characteristics as words alone never could. You've been listening to Opera, the Battleground of the Arts, with Boris Goldowski, nationally known operatic commentator, producer and scholar. Opera, the Battleground of the Arts, is produced in association with the Goldowski Opera Institute by WRVR, the non-commercial, cultural and information station of the Riverside Church in New York City. Producer Walter Sheppard, production assistants and technical operations, Matthew Bieber Feld and Peter Feldman. The Daponte Stage Direction was read by Donald Pace of the Barnard College Theatre Company. Portions of the script for this week's program were drawn from Mr. Goldowski's book, Bringing Opera to Life, published by Appleton Century Crops.

On next week's program, Mr. Goldowski's topic is The Art of Operatic Production. Two weeks from now, he'll discuss the validity of operatic stories. A grant from the National Home Library Foundation has made possible the production of this program for National Educational Radio. This is the National Educational Radio Network. You You

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