At one point in Paul Rudnick's play, Jeffrey, the title character, who claims to have slept with 5000 different men, speaks directly to the audience: ‘I know it's wrong to say that all gay men are obsessed with sex. Because that's not true. All human beings are obsessed with sex. All gay men are obsessed with opera.’

Recent research in French Revolutionary culture has revealed that women composers and librettists gained access to the opera stage in unprecedented numbers in late eighteenth-century France. Although the number of women constituted still only a fraction of the total number of composers and librettists, it was an explosion as compared with earlier periods. In the fifty years between 1770 and 1820, there were five times as many women writing opera as all the women combined in the 125 years since the beginning of opera in France in 1645. This increased number of female-authored operas constituted a sufficient critical mass for some of these works to be singled out as great successes; indeed two of them, Julie Candeille's (1767–1834) libretto and music for Catherine, ou la belle fermière, and Constance de Salm's (1767–1845) libretto for Sapho (with music by J.-P.-E. Martini), ranked among the ten most-performed dramatic works in Paris during and just after the Terror, in 1793 and 1795, respectively. This article examines the ideological context in which these works were received, and asks, why, despite (or because of) the success of their works, women composers and librettists were often perceived by critics and the public as radical and subversive, especially when the messages they chose to include in their operas could be interpreted as feminist. This attitude is not surprising when one considers that the period of greatest success of female-authored opera (and of women's public activism), 1793–95, coincided with the height of the Jacobin authorities' repression of women. Despite this climate, women composers and librettists of the 1790s were surprisingly vocal in protesting their continuing exclusion from the many advantages brought about by the democratization of the institution of opera and society. This article is part of a continuing investigation by feminist scholars into the controversial meaning of the Revolution for public women, bringing nuance to earlier conclusions that women were excluded from public life during the era of the Revolution.

Just as politics can be analysed as a cultural and symbolic enterprise (that is, as theatre in the broadest sense), so too can theatre or opera (in a narrower sense) be analysed as political. Jonathan Dollimore identifies various conflicting processes at work in Renaissance English theatre: the ‘consolidation’ of power by a dominant order; the ‘subversion of that order’ and the ‘containment of ostensibly subversive pressures’. We need not accept Dollimore's essentially Marxist analysis of these processes in order to recognise the validity of his assertion that ‘the theatre [is] a prime location for the representation and legitimation of power’. But the way such power is consolidated, subverted or contained depends on the political and social systems in which the theatre operates. The issues are complex enough when one focuses on plays produced in Elizabethan or Jacobean London. They become even more difficult to sort out when single works or groups of related works are performed over a period of time in various locations, each with its own societal configuration, as in the different political entities that comprised the Italian peninsula during the first half of the nineteenth century (to which might be added the other European and even American audiences to which they were played). Under such circumstances, how can we measure the political implications of these works? Where does their meaning reside? How does that meaning change as a function of time or geography?

Three thematic clusters can be inferred from the libretto of Billy Budd: the sexual, the spiritual and the social. Each exists dialectically with the other two, creating a characteristic apparent synthesis of their respective internal and relational contra-dictions. Indeed, Billy Budd's status as a masterpiece traditionally depends on an assumed successful and harmonious resolution of its thematic material within the overall musical context. However, this article will argue that no such resolution takes place and that this ‘failure’ is the opera's most striking and interesting characteristic. I do not wish to argue that exposing these contradictions, along with the failed strategies designed to effect customary artistic reconciliations, lessen the opera's status: they are better regarded as evidence of its most challenging and worthwhile aspects.

A natural starting point for a critical reading of Verdi's Rigoletto might be the protagonist's ‘Cortigiani, vil razza dannata’ in Act II: an utterance around which much of the emotional intensity of the opera is centred. Rigoletto's outburst can be discussed to great advantage in terms of current musicological fashion, as it alters conventional forms in fascinating and provocative ways, and to great dramatic effect. Yet such an approach presupposes that the key to understanding operas lies in their Great Moments – those passages of intense musical expression that tend to be quoted in movies and television commercials. Of course these moments are a crucial aspect of our delight, and can be a rich source for interpretative ventures. But there is more to opera: various levels of meaning invite our exploration and enjoyment; hermeneutic ‘secrets’ lurk behind seemingly ‘trivial or irrelevant’ passages, and can lead to new perspectives on familiar works.

It is sometimes remarked that Wagner's prose works would not be of much interest if their author had not also turned his creative energies in a very different direction. What is not often observed, however, is the influence this truism has exerted on critical approaches to the theoretical writings. A tacit consensus dictates that these texts be seen as marginalia, ancillary documents whose value lies in the light they shed on immeasurably more important achievements. We have inherited the prose works in the form of useful gnomic tags: Gesamtkunstwerk, ‘endless melody’, ‘deeds of music made visible’ – fragments of text extracted from their context and pressed into service as authoritative pronouncements about the operas. More extensive analysis has usually been concerned with the relation between the written theories and the works they are understood to describe. There is a powerful hierarchy implicidy at work: text (theory) is subservient to music (practice); the former is at best an interpretative tool.

David Rosen has written a detailed critique of my essay, ‘Opera Talk: A Philosophical “Phantasie”’, which appeared in a recent issue of this journal. I am grateful to him for his interest in what I had to say there. But at the same time I fear that he has misconstrued it. The result is that he has set up a parade of straw men which (not surprisingly) he has knocked – indeed bludgeoned – to the turf. There are a lot of straw men standing in for a lot of real ones, some of the real ones more important than others. It would be a bore for me as well as for my readers were I to run through them all (and if I tried, the vigilant editors of the journal would, quite rightly, put a stop to my profligacy). So I am going to concentrate on a very few of what I take to be the most important ones, and ones that cluster around the same basic issue. In the process, I hope not only to perform the negative task of refuting Rosen's ‘refutation’, but the positive one of pushing my project forward, at least to the extent of clarifying it.

‘If music is a language, who is speaking?’ asked Edward T. Cone on the first page of The Composer's Voice (1974), later turning to such questions as ‘does a vocal persona [whether protagonist of a song or character in an opera] know he is singing?’ And does that persona hear the accompaniment? Cone's answer then was that ‘Consciously, he neither knows that he is singing nor hears the accompaniment; but his subconscious both knows and hears’.

The policies of centralisation pursued by Louis XIV and his ministers affected most aspects of French life and culture. From 1645 opera had been imported from Italy by Louis' minister Cardinal Mazarin, originally out of political motives. When it had become ‘naturalised’, assuming its characteristic French guise under the despotic direction of Lully's Académie Royale de Musique, it continued to serve political purposes. In return for a monopoly on theatre music, Lully saw to it that opera served not only as entertainment for the nobility and bourgeoisie, but also as propaganda for the state and for the divine right of the King. An incidental effect of these policies was that the number of French operas produced was small compared to the number in Italy. This was due to the monopoly; to the centralisation, which meant that with few exceptions ‘French’ opera really meant ‘Parisian’ opera; and to the lavishness of the productions, which made frequent changes of repertory impractical even with subsidies. Each première was an event of note, chronicled in official and unofficial sources – the archival documents, mémoires, correspondence, periodicals, pamphlets and books of the day. This profusion of documentation frequently makes possible a degree of precision about the history of early French opera that can rarely be attained for other national schools.