We publish here, in slightly altered versions, three lectures given by Pierluigi Petrobelli in Autumn 1988 as Chair of Italian Culture at the University of California, Berkeley. The terms of the Chair, established in 1928, state that the person entrusted with the post should ‘lecture in illustration and interpretation of Italian culture’.

All Puccini's biographers tell the story of how the eighteen-year-old composer, in the company of two friends, walked the nineteen miles from Lucca to Pisa to hear Verdi's latest opera, Aida; and how the impact of that opera – the first that he had ever seen performed – was such that he determined from that moment on to make a career as a composer for the theatre.

An assumption widespread in twentieth-century analyses of Mozart's operas is that ‘high-level tonal planning’ – that is, a network of relationships among the tonic keys of separate numbers of an opera – contributes significantly to structure and meaning. A relatively recent example can be found in writings by Daniel Heartz and Tim Carter on Act I of Le nozze di Figaro, which concludes in C major with Figaro's aria ‘Non più andrai’.

Donizetti's involvement with Paris has been understood to date from February 1834, when Rossini, acting as the Théâtre Italien's music director, commissioned Marino Faliero for performance the following winter. Though written in Italy, the work was substantially revised in Paris during the two months Donizetti spent there before the première on 12 March 1835, hence William Ashbrook's assertion that Donizetti ‘wrote for the first time for Paris, absorbing the musical tastes of that city, when he presented Marino Faliero at the Théâtre Italien’. While this opera unquestionably remains the one that officially launched the composer's Parisian career, new manuscript and printed musical sources reveal that Donizetti's ties to the city actually date back to 1833, when plans were laid for productions of two of his earlier operas: Gianni di Parigi (1831) and Gianni da Calais (1828). Like Marino Faliero, the first of these works was composed in Italy with a Paris (or a London) première in mind, Donizetti having hoped diat Giovanni Battista Rubini would introduce it at one of his benefit performances soon after rejoining the Italiens (part of the troupe spent spring and summer seasons at the King's Theatre). A close study of the work might shed light on the composer's understanding (or ignorance) of operatic practice in the city at this point in his career; indeed, it was precisely because Gianni di Parigi was so French at least in terms of its libretto (Felice Romani's adaptation of Claude Godard d'Aucour de Saint-Just's libretto for Boieldieu's classic and closely protected Jean de Paris, in the repertory of the Opéra-Comique since 1812) that the comic melodramma was never mounted in Paris. But it was the second work, composed for the Teatro del Fondo in Naples (where it was premièred on 2 August 1828), and performed at the Théâtre Italien twice, on 17 December 1833 and 4 January 1834, that Donizetti actually helped adapt to Parisian taste.

It is well known that mounting large-scale productions at the Paris Opéra during the 1830s and 1840s was a highly collaborative effort. The nature of so-called ‘grand opera’ demanded that composer, librettist and stage designer work closely together for the sake of a creation larger than the sum of its parts. Above them loomed the directeur, who laboured to ensure that his creative team had the means to produce their æuvres both in materials and human resources, and to guarantee that the Opéra made a profit from the finished products. A fifth collaborator, the singer, is not often cited as such in the literature, but in many ways wielded the greatest power in the creation of Parisian operatic works. By the 1830s, European singers had achieved professional status, and a singing artist of high calibre could find the Opéra a perfect venue in which to flex muscle. During the Opera's ‘golden age’, a bourgeois public, tired of political upheaval and economic uncertainty, found escape in the new ‘romanticè fare of the Opéra, and elevated the singers who strode its boards to what today is called ‘star status’. The Opéra became a temple and its singers, adored gods and goddesses. A beloved singer could – and did – ensure an opera's success simply by appearing in it, or doom it to failure by refusing to appear. With such power a singer could easily hold a new opera for ransom, forcing the composer and librettist to revise, excise or otherwise alter the work to some self-serving end. To secure a place for their stage works at the Opéra and to guarantee a public triumph, therefore, it is not surprising that composers such as Donizetti, and especially Meyerbeer, the leading composer of French grand opera, composed or revised their operas for particular singers.

In much nineteenth-century European art ‘The Woman’ appears as an essentially symbolic figure saturated with ‘higher’ significance. Perhaps only in those literary forms that depend heavily on narrative does ‘she’ have any real chance of escaping a passive role. Otherwise, the female figure was used by male artists in an almost de-personalised manner that invariably emphasised abstract characteristics. At times The Woman is ‘elevated’ – so it would have appeared – to the highest symbolic level: to Liberty, Virtue, Humanity, Science, Art, Europa, etc. ‘She’ is, in aesthetic production, frequently a normative and seldom a narrative figure. Indeed her status as the former helps preclude her from active participation in the latter, so that even in narratives she often appears merely to observe the stories in which she is nominally involved. In artistic discourse, her best chance of liberation from an essentially symbolic identity and of breaking into the realm of active ‘life’ is to assume those qualities that lie most at odds with her conventional, morally uplifting status. The ‘bad’ woman – whore, temptress, manipulator of men – has a better chance than her ‘good’ Doppelgänger of playing a role rather than of merely assuming an ideological part.

In the age of AIDS, few would be surprised to find sexuality connected to suffering and disease; in the age of syphilis – from its arrival in Europe in 1492 to today, when it is on the rise once again – the connection is equally strong, though many of us have forgotten this. The brief respite offered by the discovery of a cure for syphilis (through the use of penicillin) in the 1940s ended with the appearance of AIDS. Over the last five hundred years, the Christian reading of syphilis as the scourge of God directed against the sexually sinful has merged with societal sexual anxieties about the effects of syphilis on the general social fabric and, in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, on the family in particular. The perhaps surprising focus of this discussion (by a literary theorist and a physician) of suffering and social decline in the context of sexually transmitted disease is Richard Wagner's last music drama, Parsifal, finally completed in 1882 and called a Bühnenweihfestspiel (a stage consecration festival play) for his Bayreuth theatre.

Siena 1880. During his penultimate trip to Italy, Richard Wagner stayed for nearly two months in the neighbourhood of Siena. He was completing the orchestration of Parsifal, and went one day to visit the cathedral. Hardly had he got inside when he dissolved into tears, exclaiming ‘this the Temple of the Grail’. And indeed, if you look at the stage designs for the third act of Parsifal as they were prepared for the first performance at Bayreuth in 1882, you will find that the Temple of the Grail does in fact open on to a fairly faithful reconstruction of the interior of this city's exceptionally beautiful cathedral.

One of the central events of the film Moonstruck (1987) takes place in a performance of La bohéme at the Metropolitan Opera. Loretta (Cher) is puzzled by what seems to be Mimì's unexpected death, which takes her by surprise, even though the explanation by her friend Ronny (Nicholas Cage) reveals that she suspects its cause. Most of us will smile indulgently at a first-time opera-goer's ingenuous conflation of character (‘coughing her brains out’) and voice (‘keep singing’). But we might pause for a moment on a more intriguing twist in Loretta's surprise at Mimì's death – the fact that our antibiotic age has largely forgotten the devastating epidemic formerly known as phthisis or consumption.

How can Wagner simultaneously herald modernism, express the quintessence of romanticism and evoke primeval experience? This question is illuminated by the constellation of advanced production and desire that Walter Benjamin finds in the process of commodity manufacture, dwelling on the tendency for new technologies to create repetitive conformity while recognising their capacity to trigger unfulfilled prospects in older forms of knowledge. When, however, Adorno frames the dilemma posed by Wagner he finds mythic deception, not a release of archaic subjectivity. These two currents in modernity cannot be easily segregated, but reading Adorno's Wagner through Benjamin's appraisal of modernity facilitates a more sanguine interpretation of Wagner's evocation of ur-forms through advanced compositional technology. The rigidity of Adorno's interpretation is further softened by Jacques Derrida's reading of Karl Marx's distinction between use-value and exchange-value, while, on a broader front, Derrida's attention to the reader also suggests that commodity production need not dominate reception strategies. Indeed, Adorno, in an essay on film first published in 1966, acknowledges that intention and effect frequently do not coincide.