AND ANOTHER THING
Why do Italian opera-goers behave like beasts?
PAUL JOHNSON
Recently I attended the last perfor- mance of four of Verdi's Otello at Covent Garden. I felt privileged. It was without doubt the finest operatic production I have ever seen or heard in my life. Singing, orchestral playing, conducting, sets, were all superb. Sir Georg Solti, by careful coaching, at which he is so gifted, managed to get from the young man who played Iago a performance of astonishing mastery. Placido Domingo was in fine voice, as was Kin Te Kanawa. There were magnificent sets, based I think on Veronese; and the costumes of the men bore a marked resem- blance to those worn in Velazquez's Surren- der of Breda, an inspired idea. The end of the first part, in which Otello surrenders to Iago's insinuations, resolved for me a prob- lem which has worried me all my life: was Verdi a greater composer than Wagner? The answer is yes, because Wagner, with all his gifts, did not write music of this quality. I want to pay tribute to Jeremy Isaacs, who is head of Covent Garden, for giving music- lovers such a treat, which I at least will remember all my life. I do not know to what degree Isaacs was responsible for this production, but as he always gets blamed when things go wrong, it is only fair that he should get the credit when things go supremely right, as on this occasion. What made me angry was that a week or so later Pavarotti, an even greater artist than Domingo, was booed by the thugs who sit in the upper circles of La Scala in Milan. He was singing Don Carlos, a role he had never played before; a severe trial. He sang a wrong note because he made a mistake in breathing. This is very easy to do, as I learned at the age of 13, when I was singing the treble solo in Hummel's wonderful Benedictus. Father Rogers, our choirmas- ter, was angry with me, but he was gener- ous enough to admit that we can all make such mistakes. The claque at La Scala, some of the most villainous persons who have ever been permitted to enter an opera house, continued to barrack and abuse Pavarotti, who is a man — considering his genius — of astounding modesty, for the rest of the performance. Instead of resent- ing this, he said, 'I did make a mistake, and will try to do better next time.' There spoke the true artist, humble and contrite in his willingness to admit he sometimes falls short of the standards he sets himself.
It is not the first time that the public at La Scala has insulted great musicians.
Indeed, considering that the Milanese on the whole are civilised people — they buy, for instance, in great numbers, the best newspaper in Italy, II Giornale — it is amazing how badly they behave then when they get into their magnificent opera house. Consider, for instance, the case of Puccini's Madama Butterfly, which had its premiere at La Scala on 17 February 1904, with the wonderful soprano Rosina Storchio in the title role. Puccini had worked on this opera for nearly four years and had taken immense pains to combine all that was best in Orientalism with the highest standards of Italian lyric writing of his day. The result has been loved by millions of opera-goers ever since. The sense of drama, the pathos and tragedy, the musical line, the orches- tration and the sheer beauty of this won- derful opera have seldom been equalled. Mozart himself would have been proud to have written it. Puccini, his librettist Gia- cosa and Illica, the producer, as well as a superb cast, went to enormous trouble to ensure that the premiere was as perfect as it could be.
'We had something a tad more intricate in mind, Michelangelo But what happened? The work was booed from start to finish. Puccini himself called it 'a lynching'. Puccini was ill, the result of an early car crash, which he had experienced a year before. Even this was turned against him by a hostile newspaper, which ran a headline the following day: 'Butterfly, a Diabetic Opera, Result of an Automobile Accident.'
The first night itself was pandemonium. Much of La Scala was packed with anti- Puccini fanatics. As Puccini put it, 'Those cannibals did not listen to a single note — it was a terrible orgy of madmen drunk with hatred!' Another eye-witness wrote: 'Little could be heard above the devil's cho- rus of growls, shouts, groans, laughter and giggling.' When Butterfly endured her all- night vigil, waiting for Pinkerton, and Puc- cini had bird noises put into the orchestral sound to mark the dawn, they were greeted by men making noises like the braying of asses, the mewing of cats and the barking of dogs.
Why do the Italians do these things? As a rule, they are polite and civilised people. I have painted all over the world, setting up stool and easel, with my box of water- colours and brushes in Venice and Brescia, in Padua and Naples, in Rome and Genoa. In France and Germany I have often been met by rudeness, hostile comments, and the most annoying thing of all — young men deliberately standing between me and the subject I am plainly painting.
Such behaviour is, in my experience, totally unknown in Italy. Quite the con- trary. Ordinary Italians, whatever their class or income or profession, make sympa- thetic noises, encouraging comments — often well-informed ones, too — and gen- erally give good, positive advice. And, when they like what I have done, they are warm and generous in their praise. I have found this in every part of Italy. The Italians love art, even amateur stuff of my quality — one reason why they are so good at it them- selves.
So why do they boo a superb artist like Pavarotti? Why, when they enter an opera house, do these sensitive and civilised peo- ple become fiends in human form? It is an extraordinary mystery to which I do not know the answer. Moreover, the disease is catching. I understand that last Friday some people at Covent Garden booed a woman conductor. What a disgrace to a great opera house.
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