Opera
Triumphant Scala
Rodney Milnes
La Cenerentola and Simon Boccanegra La Scala at Covent Garden When the company from La Scala Milan came to London twenty-five years ago, the then Covent Garden Opera was a muting and occasionally puking infant. That the two companies are now in the midst of a Straight exchange visit is indication enough of the amazing strides forward that the now Royal Opera has taken in every department. The Scala is magnificent, but in saluting them we have little cause to blush. How odd that the two European countries with the most scarifying economic problems should also be the most competent purveyors of this most extravagant art form; we must leave social historians to mull that over, though I fear they will reach few useful conclusions.
The visit provides a convenient occasion to examine the differences in set-up and general standards. The major overall difference lies in the way opera has become Politicised in Italy. The appointment of an opera house administrator depends not only Upon qualifications but upon whether or not a candidate enjoys the support of the right (or more usually left) political party. A new production of Carmen will be staged in the light of the current political climate in Spain, which will distress those who, like Coward, feel that 'Carmen by Bizet is no more Spanish than the Champs Elysees'. A new opera about Robespierre and the perils of revolution is currently doing the rounds. La Scala's own production of Nono's determinedly progressive (and wildly expensive) Al gran sole last year caused a juicy scandal that kept the press busy for many a Month. La Scala may get a subsidy of £5 million, but the politicking involved before they get it in their hot little bank account (if ever) has to be heard to be disbelieved. Some people got worked up about the vaguely leftish Covent Garden Ring; Luca Ronconi's Scala production Makes Gotz Friedrich sound like Zeffirelli. I got frightfully worked up about ENO'S socialist-realist Salome; if I worked in Italy I would be dead of multiple apoplexy by now (one-way air tickets to Milan will be graciously declined). I have not the faintest idea about the political affiliations of those Who run opera in this country, nor do I Wish to be told: long may this situation last.
There were no facile political points in La Scala's Simon Boccanegra, understandably since the villain is the leader of the Plebeians; yet there was an awareness, no More, of the political background to the Meat of the opera, one of those strangely Intense father/daughter relationships that give amateur psychologists so many hours of innocent fun. But Giorgio Strehler's production will surprise those Londoners used to taking their Verdi as straight operatic naturalism. Black-outs, shock lighting effects and unexpected drop curtains emphasised points in the action—especially in the dream-like prologue—yet in no way detracted from the soberly directed and most carefully designed production. Just how carefully may be judged from the fact that although stage pictures were mostly in shades of grey and beige, they remained consistently beautiful to look at.
Those who imagine that Italian singers line up at the footlights and let the audience have it will be in for further shocks; with one, sometimes two gauzes and no flicker of light from front of house, any singer who ventured within six feet of the floats found himself in pitch darkness, which might be judged the greater of two evils. No, this was Verdi for grown-ups: a problem piece unrelievedly sombre, innocent of obvious hit numbers, almost mid-Wagnerian in its spareness of orchestration and concentration on textual values, here realised with high seriousness and complete success. The last act was played by the Genoese docks rather than in the Doge's palace; as the ship's sails, which had been raised for the dying Boccanegra to greet his beloved sea, were lowered once more as if to enshroud his corpse and the last chords faded into nothingness, the house was held in breathless silence. Then some damned fool had to clap. He should be banned from the opera house for life.
As antipasto to this memorable main course, Jean-Pierre Ponnelle's La Cenerentola had been on the trolley too long and was beginning to curl at the edges. With its chamber-pot gag, bust-ogling, silly walks in time to the music and people sitting in plates of food, it could transfer to the Golders Green Hippodrome without anyone noticing. Slick, neat, perfectly timed, yes, but no trace of the warmth and humanity that Rossini breathed into his work. Save, of course, from Teresa Berganza who, if you popped her into a deep-freeze for a year, would emerge no cooler than a sunspot. In marvellous voice, neither she nor the happily indestructible Luigi Alva could quite rescue the evening.
In these international-airline-schedule operatic days, the singers brought few surprises. Those who remember Mirella Freni as the perfect Susanna and Zerlina will be surprised to see her cast as Amelia in Boccanegra. Her voice has grown spectacularly in weight and colour, though it is not quite settled yet. She retains her musician
ship and lissom appearance. Piero Cappuccilli (Boccanegra) seems incapable of emitting an ugly sound; his acting, effective if slightly externalised, has moments of almost bank-managerly impassivity. Veriano Luchetti we know, reliable and with good legs. Ruggero Raimondi sounded better as Fiesco then he ever has as a guest with the home company. In the Rossini, Enzo Dara (Dandini) seemed ill at ease with a characterisation built round another singer, while Claudio Desderi coped brilliantly with the recently restored, fiendishly difficult aria for Alidoro.
Some generalised comparisons: we have become very proud of our opera orchestras in London, and justly so, but the Scala band will place our pride in perspective. Their ensemble, internal balance and control of dynamic are simply breath-taking. Claudio Abbado, the musical director, is a fine conductor, but if you start listening in terms of Toscanini/Gui/Serafin—which he deserves—then for all the crispness of his Rossini there is a certain lack of humour and love, and for all its great power, his Verdi could use a little extra expansion and passion. The Scala chorus sounds wonderful, but is less disciplined than ours: I caught someone fidgeting during a freeze on each evening. Many of the Scala wigs, costumes and props would not be allowed on stage in London; they are well enough designed, but poorly executed and often ill-fitting. We certainly lead the world in the making of costumes and building of sets. This may be nothing to be proud of—after all, that's where the money goes.
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