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a. the standard dramatis personae of Italian Romantic opera: heroic tenor, yearning soprano, unpleasant and unsuccessful baritone, wronged and vengeful mezzo-soprano, loyal bass, plus these people's various attendants.
b. the Romantic Middle Ages.
c. the Middle Ages as romanticized in the later novels of Sir Walter Scott.
d. the Middle Ages as further romanticized by Scott's followers, above all, in the dramas of Victor Hugo and his followers – most notably for Il trovatore, in the play El Trovador by Antonio García Gutiérrez.
e. the characteristic structure of arias and duets of its time: recitative leading into the cantabile, then the tempo di mezzo, and, finally, the cabaletta.
f. the dangers posed by gypsies (though gypsies did not yet reside in Aragon at the time the play was set).
g. the gypsy's revenge, revenge becoming an emotion the audience can identify with since it is mediated by a romantically distant setting and by music that seeks to overwhelm any moral compunctions we may have (see violence).
h. very little in the present and a lot in the past (see narrating).
The affinities between opera and lyric are longstanding. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in France, non-comic opera was distinguished from spoken drama by the term tragédie-lyrique. In Italian the word lirico is appended as an adjective to opera to form the generic term opera lirica, for the word opera can refer to a variety of things such as work or action. The term lyric has been preserved in the names of opera houses such as the Théâtre-Lyrique, which functioned in mid-nineteenth-century Paris, and in such present-day institutions as the Boston Lyric Opera and the Chicago Lyric Opera.
The word lyric derives from that ancient instrument, the lyre, which accompanied the recitation of poems. During the early modern period the word was revived to define shorter poems accompanied by plucked instruments supposedly descending from the lyre. In its early manifestations, opera demonstrated its affinity to lyric through the dominant role that these instruments – baroque harp, chitarrone, theorbo, and lute – played in the small chamber ensembles accompanying the singers. When we hear a performance of, say, Il ritorno d'Ulisse in patria or La Calisto, we are constantly aware of how conspicuously the various plucked instruments define the rhythms and the harmonies of the declamations uttered by the characters.
Consider the following statements, written within less than a decade of one another:
I believe it may be considered as a general rule, that no Art can be engrafted with success on another art. For though they all profess the same origin, and to proceed from the same stock, yet each has its own peculiar modes both of imitating nature, and of deviating from it, each for the accomplishment of its own particular purpose. These deviations, more especially, will not bear transplantation to another soil.
It is a necessary and natural consequence of their perfection that, without any shifting of their objective boundaries, the different art forms are becoming increasingly similar to one another in their effect on the mind [Gemüt]. Music in its highest ennoblement must become form and move us with the quiet power of antiquity; plastic art in its highest perfection must become music and move us by means of its direct sensuous presence; poetry in its most perfect development must, like music, grip us powerfully but at the same time, like sculpture, surround us with quiet clarity. The perfect style belonging to each of the various art forms is shown in its ability to eliminate their specific limits without giving up their specific advantages.
Why should we even speak of opera and society in the same breath? Is there, for instance, a special affinity between these two terms, and if so, is it different from or more intense than the relationships we seek to establish between other artistic forms and society – between, for instance, painting and society, comedy and society, or, to cite the title of a famous essay by Theodor Adorno, lyric and society?
As we listen to these various combinations, the phrase “opera and society” seems particularly amenable to discussion. With painting, for example, one is faced with a multitude of forms, each rooted in a particular social context, from the animals depicted on the caves of Lascaux to the political messages drawn by muralists on barrio walls. Opera, by contrast, seems comfortably circumscribed. It encompasses an easily definable history extending back four hundred years in Europe and the Americas. It has flourished continuously within a discernible institution, the opera house, though also, at least in its earlier years, within aristocratic courts. And despite the substantial differences in national traditions of opera, the particular roles assigned to those who create and sustain it – impresario, singers, librettist, composer – have maintained a degree of constancy over these four centuries rarely to be found in other art forms.
The terms we use to periodize opera are not necessarily the terms we use to characterize other forms of music. “Baroque opera,” a label attached to well over a century of works from Monteverdi through the early Gluck, belongs to the same category we apply to all the arts. But although the music of Mozart and Haydn is classified as marking the so-called Classical style, we do not readily speak of Don Giovanni or Die Zauberflöte as Classical operas. Yet we do speak of Romantic opera, but this, as mentioned earlier, is a relatively narrow term that suggests Weber and his successors up to early Wagner, and it is most often applied to German examples. Yet how do we bring the Germans together with their contemporaries Rossini, Bellini, and Donizetti? Better perhaps to keep the Italians by themselves and speak of the Age of Bel Canto, a period concept intrinsic to opera and not transferable to other music, let alone the other arts.
Modernist opera, however, is a concept that seems to have caught on, if only because the operas we see as “modernist” emanate from composers whom we have already classified with this term. Unlike their nineteenth-century predecessors, the modernist composers of opera were not primarily “opera composers.” Very few of the great nineteenth-century opera composers created significant oeuvres outside the opera house – the most notable exceptions being Beethoven, Berlioz, and Tchaikovsky.
Drawing on a wealth of new historical and musical documentation as well as the patriotic hymns of 1848, this essay places the Roman premiere of Attila at the forefront of revolutionary unrest. It also responds seriously to the claim that Verdi's Risorgimento agenda in his operas was not recognised in its own time.
This article examines the first opera of Prokofiev's Soviet period, Semyon Kotko (1939), in light of the disparity between two forms of melodrama, one affecting the opera's composition, the other its reception. The first is the classic melodrama, which offered the composer the foundation for a vivid, intense work that would also be suitable for a mass audience; the second is the melodrama reflecting the aesthetic norms and moral framework of socialist realism and High Stalinism. The simplicity and immediacy of Kotko avoided the directed emotionalism of the officially favoured model of Romantic opera, and the Ukrainian setting prompted references to the tradition of Gogolian comedy rather than an elevation of folk content to an epic dimension. Characters conform to archetypes of classic melodrama, and together with the opera's comic elements and the unique gestural idiom of its music and manner of performance, this detracted from the required effects of sublime heroism and nationalism. While the outlines of a socialist realist plot remain in Kotko, Prokofiev's commitment to what he considered timeless values of music and drama led to a failure, in socialist realist terms, to achieve an appropriate amplification of its moral essence.
This is a study of the primo ottocento Italian literary and historical vogue for conquerors and conquered peoples, and in particular how the fifth-century Attila became a paradigmatic figure to those involved with the Risorgimento, including Verdi and Solera.
This article clarifies the relationship between Verdi and Solera, shows why it broke down in 1846 and discusses Solera's idiosyncratic verses. It also rereads a widely misunderstood letter that Verdi sent to Solera, which contains not only Piave's emendations to the final act of Attila but also Solera's response to them, angrily scribbled over Piave's work.
This essay discusses the famous sunrise in the prologue of Attila in the context of early nineteenth-century theatrical lighting and musical conventions, and relates it to Félicien David's Le Désert, Haydn's The Creation and Rossini's Guillaume Tell, as well as Verdi's Alzira and Jérusalem.
This study untangles the complex literary, historical, political and theatrical web of Verdi, Solera, Zacharias Werner, Madame De Staël and Giuseppe Mazzini, and relates it to Verdi's use of light and dark imagery in Werner's play.
Opera can reveal something fundamental about a film, and film can do the same for an opera, argues Marcia J. Citron. Structured by the categories of Style, Subjectivity, and Desire, this volume advances our understanding of the aesthetics of the opera/film encounter. Case studies of a diverse array of important repertoire including mainstream film, opera-film, and postmodernist pastiche are presented. Citron uses Werner Wolf's theory of intermediality to probe the roles of opera and film when they combine. The book also refines and expands film-music functions, and details the impact of an opera's musical style on the meaning of a film. Drawing on cinematic traditions of Hollywood, France, and Britain, the study explores Coppola's Godfather trilogy, Jewison's Moonstruck, Nichols's Closer, Chabrol's La Cérémonie, Schlesinger's Sunday, Bloody Sunday, Boyd's Aria, and Ponnelle's opera-films.
This book is intended primarily as a guide for the opera goer. It includes a synopsis of the plot, with indications of the themes and motifs used in it, and discusses the style of the opera, Tosca being a typical example of Italian naturalism in operas, verismo. It compares Puccini's libretto with Sardou's play La Tosca, analyses the close-knit structure of the work and examines salient points in the music. It also describes the genesis of the work (quoting wherever appropriate, Puccini's own remarks about it), its first production and early reception. A subsidiary aim of the book is to present the opinions, positive and negative, that have been expressed by various critics about the opera since its first production in 1900. There are contributions from the celebrated singer and producer of Tosca Tito Gobbi, and two other musicologists, Roger Parker and William Ashbrook. Malcolm Walker has provided a discography.