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The latest books by Martha Nussbaum and Peter Franklin, on the music and life of Benjamin Britten, both come from positions notionally outside music studies. Nussbaum – the liberal philosopher, as close to an academic celebrity as one can find nowadays – writes about the War Requiem (1962) as a (mostly) appreciative visitor to the discipline. Franklin, by contrast, is well known in nineteenth- and twentieth-century music studies. Britten Experienced nevertheless adopts the institutionally detached, less inhibited perspective of the emeritus. It would not be too far from the truth to call Franklin’s book a career retrospective. Crucially, though, it takes in not only the things that he has taught and published over the years, but also the personal encounters and enthusiasms that have (often invisibly) shaped this teaching and scholarship – the very things, in other words, that typically lie outside the professional purview of music studies.
Geopolitical tensions escalated between the USSR and the Republic of China over control of the Chinese Eastern Railway during the late 1920s, resulting in a brief war in which several thousand people were killed. Given the violence in Manchuria in the months preceding direct military engagement, it is surprising that Soviet authorities sent an opera tour to the zone of conflict. This article examines the two seasons spent by visiting Soviet opera vocalists at the Railway Assembly Hall (Zhelsob) from September 1927 to February 1929, attending to the staging, reception and political goals of the tour. I argue that the opera stage in the city of Harbin transformed into a temporary zone of informal extraterritoriality, where unpredictable collaborations transpired between ideological enemies on either side of the military clash. The Soviet opera tour to Manchuria prompts us to reconsider the agency and intentionality of musicians in armed conflict.
Donizetti's opera, based on Walter Scott's novel, is a staple of the bel canto operatic repertoire and famed above all for its vocally challenging and frequently reinterpreted 'mad scene' that precedes the lead character's death. This handbook examines the impact Lucia has had on opera and investigates why, of all of Donizetti's seventy operas, this particular work has inspired so much enthusiastic interest among scholars, directors and singers. A key feature is the sheer mutability of the character Lucia as she transforms from a lyric bel canto figure to a highly charged coloratura femme fatale, fascinating not just to opera historians but also to those working on sound studies, literary theories of horror and the gothic, the science of the mind, gender theory and feminist thought. The book places Lucia within the larger contexts of its time, while underlining the opera's central dramatic elements that resonate in the repertoire today.
Recently, over the course of a month in Taipei, I took in twenty-five opera performances, each opening a window onto the vast and varied world of Chinese opera.1 The performances were drawn from different genres: Peking opera (both canonical repertoire and new works), Taiwanese opera (kua-á-hì, or gezaixi), Hakka opera, Beiguan opera, Kunqu opera, Yu opera (Henan opera) and glove puppet opera (pòo-tē-hì). Although I was well aware of Taiwan’s vibrant operatic and theatrical scene – indeed, it was the very reason I pursued this residency – I was nonetheless surprised by the volume, variety and vitality of the performances I experienced. My visit coincided with one of the peak periods in the ritual calendar (the third lunar month), during which one could easily choose from more than ten outdoor opera performances each day, held at various temples throughout the greater Taipei area. In addition, meticulously crafted and lavishly mounted productions were featured at formal venues such as the Taiwan Traditional Theatre Center and Dadaocheng Theater. The performing culture of Chinese opera in Taiwan nowadays remains vibrant, imaginative, colourful and remarkably robust.
The final chapter discusses the opera’s initial reception by nineteenth-century audiences and its future legacy. As many scholars have shown, regardless of its popularity today, the ‘mad scene’ in Act III was not popular in the years following the premiere in 1835. In fact, it was the character Edgardo and his music that received the most praise from audiences and critics alike. Chapter 7 sets out to answer why this was the case by presenting key critical reviews of the work, including those in Naples and Paris. Paris is a rather telling example, for Lucia appeared in three different versions: the original Italian work at the Théâtre-Italien (1837), a French-language version at the Théâtre de la Renaissance (1839) and a French grand opéra version with ballet at the Paris Opéra (1846). In addition to its reception in the press, Chapter 7 also discusses Lucia’s popularity with publishers of opera selections for the salon and the opera’s auspicious appearance in Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary (1857). Such reception points to the extent of the opera’s success outside the opera hall and serves as further evidence of Lucia in the everyday consciousness of European audiences.
In Act III, Lucia, who throughout the opera is increasingly showing signs of mental derangement, murders Arturo, the man who her brother arranged for her to marry. To highlight Lucia’s confused mental state, Donizetti composes a multi-sectional aria interspersed with choruses that begins with Lucia’s memory of Edgardo’s voice (‘The sweet sound’), and ends with a show-stopping cadenza (‘Shed bitter tears’). The orchestral accompaniment to this long multi-part aria (over 20 minutes in length) recalls the music found earlier in the opera, including Lucia’s cavatina, the love duet from Act I and the nuptial agreement music of Act II. In no other bel canto opera does female madness reveal itself to such a degree that we hear in the orchestra the inner thoughts of a madwoman on stage. Lucia’s madness is thus rationalised for the listener as we hear what Lucia hears and yet, it remains a complete mystery for the other characters on stage. In addition, no other bel canto opera in the first half of the nineteenth century that contains female madness has the woman woman commit murder. This plot twist therefore connects with more naturalistic tales of domestic violence made popular in the second half of the nineteenth century, such as in the operas of Verdi, Bizet and Puccini.
Chapter 3 reflects upon the sonic landscape within the opera. In a romantic opera, the orchestra is the cementing agent between the separate dramatic forces of the text and the voice as it often serves as an omniscient narrator, detailing to the listener not only the actions of the characters on stage and the external environment but also the unspoken and unseen world of internal thoughts and desires. By listening to the orchestra, the audience can interpret the sounds they hear as reflective of the overall goals of the principal characters on stage. For example, the ominous use of pianissimo timpani paired with bass drum at the start of the orchestral prelude foreshadows for the listener the death of Lucia, as this is the same music heard in the opera’s final scene. The opening sounds of the prelude remind us that this work is indeed a tragedy where death is the prescribed outcome not only for Lucia but also for her lover, Edgardo. Of particular interest in this chapter is the glass harmonica, originally planned by Donizetti to be used in the ‘mad scene’ of Act III but later replaced with the flute. Donizetti’s original intent of using this high-pitched resonant instrument to depict female madness has come back into practice in modern productions of the work. This presents audiences with contemporaneous sounds of horror, violence and mystery commonly found in fantasy and sci-fi films today.
Chapter 4 discusses Act I, where the action occurs outside the walls of Ravenswood Castle. Early in the act, Enrico Ashton tells us of his hatred for the Ravenswood family. And when he finds out that his sister Lucia has fallen in love with Edgardo, the last surviving Ravenswood, Enrico is doubly enraged, for not only is Lucia in love with a mortal enemy but she is also destroying his plans to marry her off to a wealthy benefactor. We also learn in Act I that a ghost appeared to Lucia at the mouth of a fountain. Although we never see or hear the ghost, only what Lucia sings of it in her gothic-tinged cavatina ‘Regnava nel silenzio’ [‘At dead of night’], the ghost nonetheless haunts Lucia to such a degree that the aria’s melody returns in Act III. In addition to Lucia’s cavatina, Chapter 4 also discusses the famous love duet, ‘Verranno a te sull’aure’ [‘On the breeze will come to you my ardent sighs’]. The dramatic potency of this duet is quite profound as it parallels the betrayal of the ghost by her Ravenswood lover to Lucia’s betrayal in Act II. In short, the opening scenes of Act I reveal the power of vengeance and death that will engulf Lucia.