This paper was delivered to great acclaim at the History Department Postgraduate Conference at the University of Sydney yesterday. Some found it very stimulating, others found it entertaining - so a success on both sides. (Mind you, if I could have only one I'd pick entertaining...)
The paper can be found here.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
They’re called ‘drafts’ because you can hear the wind whistling through the gaps…
At the suggestion of the lovely Hannah I have uploaded the first draft chapter of my thesis here, with the introduction below. All suggestions welcome.
Here is the blurb I gave the Gang of Four to explain the context of the chapter:
Audience attitudes towards returning singers were governed by the prevailing ethos surrounding opera. This chapter explains how opera became ‘high art’ but still retained a measure of popularity. This sets the scene for an examination of other values for which people looked to opera: social status, local and national identity, and the role of the singer in delivering these values.
‘A necessity of human nature’ – Opera as high art
On Wednesday 26th March 1924 Henry Russell, ‘artistic director’ of the Melba-Williamson Opera Company, was the guest speaker at a Rotary Club luncheon in Melbourne. According to the Age, Russell declared that he ‘would not like his daughters to be surrounded by the atmosphere of comic opera such as it was patronized in Australia’. The sight of ‘twenty girls, with short skirts and bare legs, running about the stage’ was not art but ‘a form of prostitution.’[1]
The public and the theatrical fraternity responded furiously, leading Russell to defend himself in a letter to the Age. Russell explained that he had meant ‘artistic’ prostitution. After defending the moral integrity of the ladies participating in musical comedy in Australia, he placed his comments within the highbrow/lowbrow discussion:
If the amount of money and trouble expended in England, United States of America, &c, were devoted to works of serious artistic import, the youth of to-day would not whistle tunes of jazz and other meaningless ditties, but would familiarize themselves with the melodies of the great composers. That is what I meant when I stated that the artistic atmosphere of comic opera should not be allowed to dominate the youth of this country.[2]
A moral attack was thus defused into a comment on artistic merit. This allowed all sides to withdraw with honour: the more serious charge, the allegation of loose morals, had been dismissed. No one commented on the denigration of musical comedy. Its status as a lesser art form was a self-evident truth.
In the early twentieth century the image of opera as ‘high art’ was firmly established. Russell was speaking to a milieu that accepted that cultural pursuits could be ‘low’ or ‘elevated’. This was not the case when opera seasons had become a regular part of the theatrical scene less than one hundred years earlier. In the mid-nineteenth century the process of cultural bifurcation started, a process that lasted well into the twentieth century but failed to achieve its ultimate ideal, the sacralisation of opera.
For the rest of the chapter, go here.
[1] Age, 28 March 1924, p. 10.
[2] Ibid.
Here is the blurb I gave the Gang of Four to explain the context of the chapter:
Audience attitudes towards returning singers were governed by the prevailing ethos surrounding opera. This chapter explains how opera became ‘high art’ but still retained a measure of popularity. This sets the scene for an examination of other values for which people looked to opera: social status, local and national identity, and the role of the singer in delivering these values.
‘A necessity of human nature’ – Opera as high art
On Wednesday 26th March 1924 Henry Russell, ‘artistic director’ of the Melba-Williamson Opera Company, was the guest speaker at a Rotary Club luncheon in Melbourne. According to the Age, Russell declared that he ‘would not like his daughters to be surrounded by the atmosphere of comic opera such as it was patronized in Australia’. The sight of ‘twenty girls, with short skirts and bare legs, running about the stage’ was not art but ‘a form of prostitution.’[1]
The public and the theatrical fraternity responded furiously, leading Russell to defend himself in a letter to the Age. Russell explained that he had meant ‘artistic’ prostitution. After defending the moral integrity of the ladies participating in musical comedy in Australia, he placed his comments within the highbrow/lowbrow discussion:
If the amount of money and trouble expended in England, United States of America, &c, were devoted to works of serious artistic import, the youth of to-day would not whistle tunes of jazz and other meaningless ditties, but would familiarize themselves with the melodies of the great composers. That is what I meant when I stated that the artistic atmosphere of comic opera should not be allowed to dominate the youth of this country.[2]
A moral attack was thus defused into a comment on artistic merit. This allowed all sides to withdraw with honour: the more serious charge, the allegation of loose morals, had been dismissed. No one commented on the denigration of musical comedy. Its status as a lesser art form was a self-evident truth.
In the early twentieth century the image of opera as ‘high art’ was firmly established. Russell was speaking to a milieu that accepted that cultural pursuits could be ‘low’ or ‘elevated’. This was not the case when opera seasons had become a regular part of the theatrical scene less than one hundred years earlier. In the mid-nineteenth century the process of cultural bifurcation started, a process that lasted well into the twentieth century but failed to achieve its ultimate ideal, the sacralisation of opera.
For the rest of the chapter, go here.
[1] Age, 28 March 1924, p. 10.
[2] Ibid.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
The Art of the Reviewer - Part 5: The Bulletin
Accounts from both the Melbourne and Sydney seasons were recorded in the Bulletin. Both Melbourne and Sydney reviewers were irreverent; however the Sydney reviewer seems to have been willing to spend time discussing the aspects of the production as well as taking the piss – he was concerned with quality of performance as much as the newspaper reviewers
The Melbourne performances were generally reported in “Melbourne Chatter”, a “social round-up” (or should that be wind-up?):
The Melbourne reviewer saved his sharpest barbs for the socialites. In his review of Andrea Chenier he complained about the lack of jewelry for the opening night of the return season. “Perhaps we may have a revival of glitter for the Limbless Soldiers’ night. Perish the thought that we should disgorge from ten pounds to two hundred a seat without offering outward evidence of being able to afford it!” (Bulletin 11/9/24, 27). It seems that Melbourne then suffered a similar complaint to one afflicting Sydney audiences today, that of voraciously applauding at any excuse. Reviewing The Tales of Hoffmann, he said, “As the Doll, Dal Monte gave a performance which justified the thunders of applause of a city which spoils the compliment by being prepared to thunder at everything that Toti does.” (Bulletin 18/9/24, 35)
The Sydney reviewer aimed his jokes at the performers. Of Phyllis Archibald’s Delilah he wrote, “She is further helped to her nefarious ends by an attractive personality, fine eyes and a seductive though somewhat overworked arm-action – it rather suggested a Lorelei in deep water during her invocation to the goddess of Vamps.” And discussing a performance of Carmen he said, “Edmondo Grandini sang well, but not enthrallingly, as the Toreador, and somehow managed to convey the impression of a respectable family butler disguised for the Artists’ Ball.” (Bulletin 3/7/24, 34). As for Dino Borgioli’s Faust, “the Devil may have given him back his youth, but he didn’t include the flower of his beauty in the transaction.” (Bulletin 24/7/24 34)
The Sydney reviewer could be respectful towards Melba (the “Indian-summer gold” of Melba’s voice - Bulletin 26/6/24 34) but was not beyond criticising her. In his review of Otello he thought she “presented a too-sophisticated Desdemona; and at times the music put a strain on her fading top notes...” But “the youthful purity of her tone was unimpeachable in the final ‘Ave Maria’, and her last dying notes turned the heart of her blackamoor husband to water; whereupon he committed suicide like a gentleman.” (Bulletin 7/8/24, 35) The intention was to amuse, but he never lost sight of the need to report accurately, without wearing his knowledge on his sleeve.
Sadly, the Bulletin reviewers eventually lost their talent to amuse, and started reporting on operas in much the same vein as the dailies – respectful and respectable. Would that today’s reviewers might serve up a little more sauce.
The Melbourne performances were generally reported in “Melbourne Chatter”, a “social round-up” (or should that be wind-up?):
Melba led off on the Monday night as Marguerite. The flaxen locks
were worn a-hanging down her back instead of in the conventional brace of side
plaits – possibly to dodge the risk of a middle parting. The Best Known
overflowed the house in their gladdest rags and thundered applause, and the diva
afterwards voiced her thanks from a garden of flowers. The Stradbrokes scampered
round from their circle pew to a side-pen to hurl laurel wreaths at Melba, who
promptly slung the biggest hoops round her middle, lifebelt fashion. (Bulletin
26/6/24, 28)
The Melbourne reviewer saved his sharpest barbs for the socialites. In his review of Andrea Chenier he complained about the lack of jewelry for the opening night of the return season. “Perhaps we may have a revival of glitter for the Limbless Soldiers’ night. Perish the thought that we should disgorge from ten pounds to two hundred a seat without offering outward evidence of being able to afford it!” (Bulletin 11/9/24, 27). It seems that Melbourne then suffered a similar complaint to one afflicting Sydney audiences today, that of voraciously applauding at any excuse. Reviewing The Tales of Hoffmann, he said, “As the Doll, Dal Monte gave a performance which justified the thunders of applause of a city which spoils the compliment by being prepared to thunder at everything that Toti does.” (Bulletin 18/9/24, 35)
The Sydney reviewer aimed his jokes at the performers. Of Phyllis Archibald’s Delilah he wrote, “She is further helped to her nefarious ends by an attractive personality, fine eyes and a seductive though somewhat overworked arm-action – it rather suggested a Lorelei in deep water during her invocation to the goddess of Vamps.” And discussing a performance of Carmen he said, “Edmondo Grandini sang well, but not enthrallingly, as the Toreador, and somehow managed to convey the impression of a respectable family butler disguised for the Artists’ Ball.” (Bulletin 3/7/24, 34). As for Dino Borgioli’s Faust, “the Devil may have given him back his youth, but he didn’t include the flower of his beauty in the transaction.” (Bulletin 24/7/24 34)
The Sydney reviewer could be respectful towards Melba (the “Indian-summer gold” of Melba’s voice - Bulletin 26/6/24 34) but was not beyond criticising her. In his review of Otello he thought she “presented a too-sophisticated Desdemona; and at times the music put a strain on her fading top notes...” But “the youthful purity of her tone was unimpeachable in the final ‘Ave Maria’, and her last dying notes turned the heart of her blackamoor husband to water; whereupon he committed suicide like a gentleman.” (Bulletin 7/8/24, 35) The intention was to amuse, but he never lost sight of the need to report accurately, without wearing his knowledge on his sleeve.
Sadly, the Bulletin reviewers eventually lost their talent to amuse, and started reporting on operas in much the same vein as the dailies – respectful and respectable. Would that today’s reviewers might serve up a little more sauce.
The Art of the Reviewer - Part 4: Noskowski, the citizen of the world
Ladislas de Noskowski (1892-1969) wrote reviews for the weekly Sydney Mail, but also contributed articles to the Sydney Morning Herald. Noskowski was born in Poland, educated in Poland and Switzerland, and first came to Sydney in 1911. After more travel, including a stint in Hollywood and a job as secretary to Paderewski, he settled in Sydney permanently, teaching and eventually working full-time as a journalist.
Writing for a weekly, Noskowski had more room to write in depth. Not only were his articles meant to be a different format, he also had the luxury of later deadlines than the journalists who after the performance had to go back to the office to dash off a quick review before the morning edition was put to bed. Where the Age, Argus and Herald reviewers recorded a great deal of facts, Noskowski was able to indulge in analysis, and approach the subject in a number of different ways.
Noskowski appears to have been an enthusiastic opera-goer since his teenage years; he mentions having seen “an interesting performance of Andrea Chenier in Warsaw in 1905” (Sydney Mail 13/8/24, 18), and often makes comparisons with Melba’s first touring company in 1911, among others.
His review of the first week of Sydney performances (Sydney Mail 2/7/24, 8-9) demonstrates his extensive knowledge of the field. This production of Tosca, he says, is superior to the Rigo (1919) and Quinlan (1912-13) productions, and “compares favourably with the great cast of 1911 (Mme. Wayda, McCormack, and Scandiani), but the staging is more lavish and imparts the correct atmosphere of the period.” He offers well-considered thoughts about staging. “It is generally not understood by the audience that Scarpia had no intention of arresting the painter, nor had Tosca any knowledge of his arrest, until she enters the room.” And, “the artist obviously shares the justifiable opinion of many prima donnas that Tosca would not have had time to change her dress before proceeding to her lover’s execution.” He suggests adopting the Act II finale staging of the Metropolitan Opera’s production, which he probably saw during 1915-17 (with possibly Geraldine Farrar, Claudia Muzio or Emmy Destinn).
When speaking of vocalism he describes impact rather than technique. Apollo Granforte’s enunciation is “most remarkably clear, and the great volume of his resonant voice carries well above the orchestra.” But he when he does mention technique, he does not try to impress with terminology. As Lucia, Toti dal Monte’s vocal technique is “flawless… We get an impression, not of vocal gymnastics, but of flowing notes, which seem to have been composed to suit her.”
Noskowski is well-informed concerning opera in other parts of the world. He notes that “out of the sixteen operas which he [Verdi] composed prior to Rigoletto only Ernani has been retained in the repertoire of most opera houses. A few others, such as Nabucco and Lombardi are very seldom performed, and then only in Italy.” He refers to all the arias by their Italian titles, which the others do only in the case of well-known numbers.
And he is not impressed by Phyllis Archibald’s arms: “This artist left a great deal to the imagination, artistically and histrionically.” She has uneven breath control and poor French enunciation, and her acting is conventional and without passion. “We have heard a much more satisfactory singing of Softly Awakes My Heart by our local artists.”
He also enjoys telling amusing incidents, such as this account of Butterfly’s suicide:
While other reviewers regard the audience etiquette as appropriate, Noskowski considers it “a peculiar phenomenon”, defying the logic of the works. “The audience seems to carry out a self-imposed regulation that no applause should interrupt the music. This is all very well when Tosca or some other modern opera is given, the continuity of which would be impaired if interrupted by hand-clapping. But in old operas the music lends itself to applause; in fact, each number presents an entity, so that even in the most correctly-behaved opera houses in Europe the audiences show their appreciation of the singer’s art.” (Sydney Mail 16/7/24, 10)
The Sydney Mail also published extended interviews by Noskowski with the principal singers of the company (with the exception of Melba). With these interviews, the regional readership of the Sydney Mail learned more about the opera season than the readers of the metropolitan press. Noskowski let his subjects speak for themselves; most of the articles are conversations or monologues, in which they described their technique and approach to singing, and their opinions of modern music (most of whom seemed to like it when it was not too extreme )
He let them describe their training and careers, and elicited many little word-pictures of famous identities. Several tell of encounters with Puccini; Dino Borgioli tells Noskowski, “He is at present composing a new opera, Turandot, of which he has played some excerpts, but I have not heard them” (Sydney Mail 30/7/24, 16-17), and Apollo Granforte describes how Puccini came to his dressing room after the second act of Tosca and said, ‘Good evening, Mr. Scarpia. I enjoyed tonight immensely, and of all the Scarpias I have heard I like yours best!” (Sydney Mail 27/8/24 10). The baritone Prince Alexis Obolensky, a white Russian who escaped from Russia after the Revolution, threw in this tasty little morsel: “Eventually the plan to assassinate him [Rasputin] was carried out by a friend of mine, Prince Yossoupoff” (Sydney Mail 6/8/24 16, 46).
The singers were comfortable with Noskowski. He spoke to them in their own tongues – French and Polish are explicitly mentioned, but he probably had Italian and Russian as well. He met them in their hotel rooms or in their dressing rooms. Toti dal Monte showed him her autograph album, signed by the composer Zandonai (Sydney Mail 9/7/24, 9). Nino Piccaluga and Augusta Concato bantered like the married couple they were, and told him how much they enjoyed driving around Sydney in their time off (Sydney Mail 13/8/24, 13). Lina Scavizzi revealed that she enjoyed the musical comedies Good Morning Dearie in Sydney (playing at the Theatre Royal) and Kissing Time in Melbourne (Sydney Mail 23/7/24). The singers seem to have spoken to Noskowski with an ease that doesn’t seem to have been accorded to other writers, probably because they perceived him to be of their world as well as an Australian.
This was probably his greatest strength. Of all the reviewers who tried to place Australian opera in an international context, Noskowski had the least self-consciousness about his position. Noskowski was a citizen of the world, and could accept the Australian experience of opera as part of that world, without compromise or special pleading.
Writing for a weekly, Noskowski had more room to write in depth. Not only were his articles meant to be a different format, he also had the luxury of later deadlines than the journalists who after the performance had to go back to the office to dash off a quick review before the morning edition was put to bed. Where the Age, Argus and Herald reviewers recorded a great deal of facts, Noskowski was able to indulge in analysis, and approach the subject in a number of different ways.
Noskowski appears to have been an enthusiastic opera-goer since his teenage years; he mentions having seen “an interesting performance of Andrea Chenier in Warsaw in 1905” (Sydney Mail 13/8/24, 18), and often makes comparisons with Melba’s first touring company in 1911, among others.
His review of the first week of Sydney performances (Sydney Mail 2/7/24, 8-9) demonstrates his extensive knowledge of the field. This production of Tosca, he says, is superior to the Rigo (1919) and Quinlan (1912-13) productions, and “compares favourably with the great cast of 1911 (Mme. Wayda, McCormack, and Scandiani), but the staging is more lavish and imparts the correct atmosphere of the period.” He offers well-considered thoughts about staging. “It is generally not understood by the audience that Scarpia had no intention of arresting the painter, nor had Tosca any knowledge of his arrest, until she enters the room.” And, “the artist obviously shares the justifiable opinion of many prima donnas that Tosca would not have had time to change her dress before proceeding to her lover’s execution.” He suggests adopting the Act II finale staging of the Metropolitan Opera’s production, which he probably saw during 1915-17 (with possibly Geraldine Farrar, Claudia Muzio or Emmy Destinn).
When speaking of vocalism he describes impact rather than technique. Apollo Granforte’s enunciation is “most remarkably clear, and the great volume of his resonant voice carries well above the orchestra.” But he when he does mention technique, he does not try to impress with terminology. As Lucia, Toti dal Monte’s vocal technique is “flawless… We get an impression, not of vocal gymnastics, but of flowing notes, which seem to have been composed to suit her.”
Noskowski is well-informed concerning opera in other parts of the world. He notes that “out of the sixteen operas which he [Verdi] composed prior to Rigoletto only Ernani has been retained in the repertoire of most opera houses. A few others, such as Nabucco and Lombardi are very seldom performed, and then only in Italy.” He refers to all the arias by their Italian titles, which the others do only in the case of well-known numbers.
And he is not impressed by Phyllis Archibald’s arms: “This artist left a great deal to the imagination, artistically and histrionically.” She has uneven breath control and poor French enunciation, and her acting is conventional and without passion. “We have heard a much more satisfactory singing of Softly Awakes My Heart by our local artists.”
He also enjoys telling amusing incidents, such as this account of Butterfly’s suicide:
Little “Trouble” seemed very perturbed at her stage mother’sUnlike some of his colleagues, he is not an elitist: “…there is no reason why grand opera should not be popular with all classes of people who look for entertainment, for it contains the elements and phases of stage art: music, drama, tragedy, comedy, and production” (Sydney Mail 18/6/24 8-9). He appears to be a fan of popular theatre; he found many of the scenes of Aida “eclipsing in splendour some of Oscar Asche’s most ambitious productions” (Sydney Mail 30/7/24, 17). And he slyly notes the renewed demand for opera hats and full dress suits in Melbourne since the beginning of the season (Sydney Mail 18/6/24 8-9).
evolutions with the faithful knife, and, suddenly, making up her mind that it
was too dangerous to risk her life any longer, she ran off the stage calling
out, “I want my mummy.” Signora Concato, however admirably grasped the
situation, and stretched out her hands towards the door as if giving her a last
farewell. (Sydney Mail 16/7/24 10)
While other reviewers regard the audience etiquette as appropriate, Noskowski considers it “a peculiar phenomenon”, defying the logic of the works. “The audience seems to carry out a self-imposed regulation that no applause should interrupt the music. This is all very well when Tosca or some other modern opera is given, the continuity of which would be impaired if interrupted by hand-clapping. But in old operas the music lends itself to applause; in fact, each number presents an entity, so that even in the most correctly-behaved opera houses in Europe the audiences show their appreciation of the singer’s art.” (Sydney Mail 16/7/24, 10)
The Sydney Mail also published extended interviews by Noskowski with the principal singers of the company (with the exception of Melba). With these interviews, the regional readership of the Sydney Mail learned more about the opera season than the readers of the metropolitan press. Noskowski let his subjects speak for themselves; most of the articles are conversations or monologues, in which they described their technique and approach to singing, and their opinions of modern music (most of whom seemed to like it when it was not too extreme )
He let them describe their training and careers, and elicited many little word-pictures of famous identities. Several tell of encounters with Puccini; Dino Borgioli tells Noskowski, “He is at present composing a new opera, Turandot, of which he has played some excerpts, but I have not heard them” (Sydney Mail 30/7/24, 16-17), and Apollo Granforte describes how Puccini came to his dressing room after the second act of Tosca and said, ‘Good evening, Mr. Scarpia. I enjoyed tonight immensely, and of all the Scarpias I have heard I like yours best!” (Sydney Mail 27/8/24 10). The baritone Prince Alexis Obolensky, a white Russian who escaped from Russia after the Revolution, threw in this tasty little morsel: “Eventually the plan to assassinate him [Rasputin] was carried out by a friend of mine, Prince Yossoupoff” (Sydney Mail 6/8/24 16, 46).
The singers were comfortable with Noskowski. He spoke to them in their own tongues – French and Polish are explicitly mentioned, but he probably had Italian and Russian as well. He met them in their hotel rooms or in their dressing rooms. Toti dal Monte showed him her autograph album, signed by the composer Zandonai (Sydney Mail 9/7/24, 9). Nino Piccaluga and Augusta Concato bantered like the married couple they were, and told him how much they enjoyed driving around Sydney in their time off (Sydney Mail 13/8/24, 13). Lina Scavizzi revealed that she enjoyed the musical comedies Good Morning Dearie in Sydney (playing at the Theatre Royal) and Kissing Time in Melbourne (Sydney Mail 23/7/24). The singers seem to have spoken to Noskowski with an ease that doesn’t seem to have been accorded to other writers, probably because they perceived him to be of their world as well as an Australian.
This was probably his greatest strength. Of all the reviewers who tried to place Australian opera in an international context, Noskowski had the least self-consciousness about his position. Noskowski was a citizen of the world, and could accept the Australian experience of opera as part of that world, without compromise or special pleading.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Art of the Reviewer - Part 3: The Sydney Morning Herald
At the end of June 1924 the Melba-Williamson circus moved to Sydney. There a similar set of standards and sacred cows prevailed, but the reviewers showed different idiosyncrasies.
The reviewer for the Sydney Morning Herald is an old hand - he quotes his own review of Musgrove’s production of Faust in Sydney in Dec 1900-Jan 1901 (SMH 17/7/24, 10). His knowledge of opera is deep and wide, and he has similar biases to those we have seen. His articles are marked by a conscious effort to place the Melba season in the context of Australian and world opera, but he never makes excuses about production standards.
He can be flowery: Madama Butterfly has “wonderfully dramatic passages that spring upward like a pyramid of fire, and expire again like a flash of summer lightning” (SMH 10/7/24). At his worst he breaks into poetry but without the fulsomeness of the Argus reviewer. Of Toti dal Monte’s Lucia he writes, “To the apothegm ‘Old wood to burn! Old wine to drink! Old friends to trust! Old authors to read!’ must now be added, at any rate when a Dal Monte warbles, ‘Old operas to draw!’” (SMH 24/6/24, 9)
But his feet are well-planted on the ground, in his knowledge of the works, the singers and performance practices. Rather than using his knowledge to show off he uses it to contextualize the performance. A good example of his approach is review of the Tosca of 24th June 1924. He opens by applauding Tosca as an example of “the realistic music drama of the present day”. He makes a detailed comparison of the libretto with the play by Sardou, and quotes (in French) critics of the original play. He also makes connections between this performance and the 1911 Melba tour, Mary Garden’s portrayal in Chicago, and Sarah Bernhardt’s 1891 Sydney performances of the play. In his description of the performance he pays close attention to the score and libretto: “A swift change in the music to an ‘alegretto grazioso’ of rare and vivacious sweetness then ushers in the stout and bustling Sacristan, a comically, because unconsciously, irreverent piece of commonplace humanity presented with a wonderful multiplicity of perfectly natural but intensely funny detail by Gaetano Azzolini.” (SMH 25/6/24, 13-14)
The Herald reviewer has his biases but is not as sniffy as the Argus writer. Like the latter, he does not like Donizetti, but concedes that his music may give pleasure “provided that the critical is suspended as to its style as a whole for tragic purposes.” (He then bolsters this by quoting Percy Grainger on the need to accept the style of a work’s period.) (SMH 24/6/24, 9) And his opinions can be a little out of date: he refers to La Boheme as “still intensely modern”, in an era which saw Elektra and Wozzeck (SMH 27/6/24, 16). He has little time for one particular segment of the audience: “The audience was composed of the usual ‘first-nighters…” (SMH 10/7/24) is a regular comment. “Numbers of the regular ‘first-nighters’ forsook the opera last night for the polo ball, but this apparently did not affect the attendance…” (SMH 4/7/24, 10)
He holds a high view of opera. In the Tosca review discussed earlier he notes the difficulty in horrifying audiences with scenes of torture: “Music seemingly refuses to lend itself either to the impure or the horrible, whilst readily embodying the aesthetically passionate, the majestic, the pathetic, and the sentimental emotions” (SMH 25/6/24, 13-14). But comments like this are rare. Rather than eulogizing high art, he focuses on practical matters. He takes a shot at the caricature of the average theatergoer, wanting realistic representation and not willing to accept, or unaccustomed to, the compromises inherent in operatic production “The average theatergoer is so unreasonable in his expectations that he may be warned that the Melba Opera Company, not being a circus, does not carry about with it a giant. If such a person were found for the role of Samson the same class of every-day critic would surely remark, 'But he can’t sing!'” (SMH 27/6/24, 16)
He often comments on audience behaviour, revealing something of the audience etiquette of the time. He refers to “the modern code of ‘good form’ which rejects the display of emotion” (SMH 10/7/24). Of a performance of Samson and Delilah he notes “Perfect silence was preserved throughout the opera…”[1] (SMH 30/6/24, 12), and on Carmen wrote “Although a grand opera audience is expected to preserve perfect silence during the action of the work, many of those present on Saturday were unable to control their feelings, and they vigorously applauded at the conclusion of several of the better-known airs.” (SMH 7/7/24, 10)
Like all good journos, he can’t resist a good story. Here he describes Australian tenor Alfred O’Shea’s performance of ‘Che gelida manina’ in La Boheme:
[1] Which IMO is the best way to perform that particular work.
The reviewer for the Sydney Morning Herald is an old hand - he quotes his own review of Musgrove’s production of Faust in Sydney in Dec 1900-Jan 1901 (SMH 17/7/24, 10). His knowledge of opera is deep and wide, and he has similar biases to those we have seen. His articles are marked by a conscious effort to place the Melba season in the context of Australian and world opera, but he never makes excuses about production standards.
He can be flowery: Madama Butterfly has “wonderfully dramatic passages that spring upward like a pyramid of fire, and expire again like a flash of summer lightning” (SMH 10/7/24). At his worst he breaks into poetry but without the fulsomeness of the Argus reviewer. Of Toti dal Monte’s Lucia he writes, “To the apothegm ‘Old wood to burn! Old wine to drink! Old friends to trust! Old authors to read!’ must now be added, at any rate when a Dal Monte warbles, ‘Old operas to draw!’” (SMH 24/6/24, 9)
But his feet are well-planted on the ground, in his knowledge of the works, the singers and performance practices. Rather than using his knowledge to show off he uses it to contextualize the performance. A good example of his approach is review of the Tosca of 24th June 1924. He opens by applauding Tosca as an example of “the realistic music drama of the present day”. He makes a detailed comparison of the libretto with the play by Sardou, and quotes (in French) critics of the original play. He also makes connections between this performance and the 1911 Melba tour, Mary Garden’s portrayal in Chicago, and Sarah Bernhardt’s 1891 Sydney performances of the play. In his description of the performance he pays close attention to the score and libretto: “A swift change in the music to an ‘alegretto grazioso’ of rare and vivacious sweetness then ushers in the stout and bustling Sacristan, a comically, because unconsciously, irreverent piece of commonplace humanity presented with a wonderful multiplicity of perfectly natural but intensely funny detail by Gaetano Azzolini.” (SMH 25/6/24, 13-14)
The Herald reviewer has his biases but is not as sniffy as the Argus writer. Like the latter, he does not like Donizetti, but concedes that his music may give pleasure “provided that the critical is suspended as to its style as a whole for tragic purposes.” (He then bolsters this by quoting Percy Grainger on the need to accept the style of a work’s period.) (SMH 24/6/24, 9) And his opinions can be a little out of date: he refers to La Boheme as “still intensely modern”, in an era which saw Elektra and Wozzeck (SMH 27/6/24, 16). He has little time for one particular segment of the audience: “The audience was composed of the usual ‘first-nighters…” (SMH 10/7/24) is a regular comment. “Numbers of the regular ‘first-nighters’ forsook the opera last night for the polo ball, but this apparently did not affect the attendance…” (SMH 4/7/24, 10)
He holds a high view of opera. In the Tosca review discussed earlier he notes the difficulty in horrifying audiences with scenes of torture: “Music seemingly refuses to lend itself either to the impure or the horrible, whilst readily embodying the aesthetically passionate, the majestic, the pathetic, and the sentimental emotions” (SMH 25/6/24, 13-14). But comments like this are rare. Rather than eulogizing high art, he focuses on practical matters. He takes a shot at the caricature of the average theatergoer, wanting realistic representation and not willing to accept, or unaccustomed to, the compromises inherent in operatic production “The average theatergoer is so unreasonable in his expectations that he may be warned that the Melba Opera Company, not being a circus, does not carry about with it a giant. If such a person were found for the role of Samson the same class of every-day critic would surely remark, 'But he can’t sing!'” (SMH 27/6/24, 16)
He often comments on audience behaviour, revealing something of the audience etiquette of the time. He refers to “the modern code of ‘good form’ which rejects the display of emotion” (SMH 10/7/24). Of a performance of Samson and Delilah he notes “Perfect silence was preserved throughout the opera…”[1] (SMH 30/6/24, 12), and on Carmen wrote “Although a grand opera audience is expected to preserve perfect silence during the action of the work, many of those present on Saturday were unable to control their feelings, and they vigorously applauded at the conclusion of several of the better-known airs.” (SMH 7/7/24, 10)
Like all good journos, he can’t resist a good story. Here he describes Australian tenor Alfred O’Shea’s performance of ‘Che gelida manina’ in La Boheme:
There was, however, a mild outbreak of clapping when Rodolfo
reached the close of the “raccanto,” and someone called “Good shot!” in
penetrating tones from the back of the circle. Both the applause and the vocal
appreciation were immediately hushed down by the more cultivated section of the
audience, but the atmosphere of the audience had been shattered, and not until
Melba launched into “Mi chiamano Mimi” was it recreated. (SMH 27/6/24, 16)
[1] Which IMO is the best way to perform that particular work.
Monday, July 7, 2008
The Art of the Reviewer - Part 2: Melbourne
When reading the Argus reviewer nothing comes to mind as strongly as Mr Collins of Pride and Prejudice expounding on the excellences and graces of Lady Catherine de Burgh: “Melba’s Desdemona, standing upon a level of uncommon beauty...” He uses sentence construction that was archaic even in 1924: “Surpassing fair and stately is Dame Nellie Melba’s Desdemona.” No encomium is too much: “It matters not to what age or to what country or to what peculiar dramatic quality song belongs; Melba is so great that she can entirely enfold it and make it her own, so that when she comes to express it, it loses nothing of its inherent nature and receives, in addition, the beauty of her vocal utterance and the extreme sensibility of her musical intelligence” (Argus 14/4/24, 10). Describing Rigoletto he achieves vapidity: “The famous quartet came out splendidly and finished thrillingly” (Argus 4/4/24, 12).The Argus reviewer is in no doubt as to the high virtue of the artform. The opening night of the season proved that “there is a wide and discerning public for the things that really matter” (Argus 31/3/24 9-10). In Tosca, Puccini’s handling of Sardou’s sensational play demonstrated “the ennobling influence of music over dramatic material which is not altogether ennobling” (Argus 2/4/24, 20).
That comment is unusual; he does not have many kind words for many of the works presented by the company. His theme throughout the season seems to be “loathed the opera, loved the performance”. Lucia di Lammermoor is a work “as dead as any mutton, and would have been buried long ago but for the fact that it gives misguided prima donnas the opportunity to discharge quantities of vocal fireworks of a singularly distressing kind” (Argus 1/4/24, 12). “Responsible writers joined in a chorus of lamentation when La Sonnambula was resuscitated in London not long ago, and not without justification” (Argus 9/5/24, 18). Il Trovatore “affords a splendid test of good singing… and perhaps that is what retains it in the favour of the masses long after it has lost its appeal to the more fastidious.” (Argus 28/4/24, 10). He displays a disdain of the showy early Verdi, and prefers the more refined, musically “developed” later Verdi (Argus 14/4/24, 10). But even then Aida is not as quite as good as Otello and Falstaff, although “some good judges think that here, more than anywhere else, Verdi achieved that blend of self-assertion and self-effacement which alone enables true opera to be written…” (Argus 16/5/24, 12) Which makes it sound like good composing is a matter of etiquette and character rather than talent and technical skill.
The Age’s critic, on the other hand, expressed no extreme opinions about performers or works. His articles have the same restraint as today’s reviewers, albeit prompted by good taste rather than the possibility of legal action. He was capable of the subtle pointed remark; in a review of Aida he notes “the high notes the artist gave out in the ensemble were startling in their brilliant shrillness” (Age 16/5/24, 10).
His comments are incisive and short, rather than expansive and baroque; he does wax lyrical when describing Melba’s farewell performance, but that is excusable when you believe you are describing the end of an era (Age 14/10/24, 9).
Like the Argus critic he has a great knowledge of opera, but doesn’t expend it in criticisms of the works. He describes singers’ performances with attention to technique rather than hyperbole. He knows the traditions, but doesn’t hold them as inviolate – in fact he remarks positively on innovation:
Caro Nome probably proved an astonishment to many who have heard itHe holds opera as highly as the Argus critic: “Melbourne is entitled to the gratification that may be derived from the knowledge that it has shown itself to be not indifferent to the higher form of entertainment”; and he refers to it as “music and story in the highest form.” (Age 21/5/24)
sung in galloping fashion, with the fioriture thrown off in bravoura style. Last
night it came out quietly and mostly softly. That is as the item should be. An
innocent girl does not, or should not, want to proclaim the name of her lover to
all and sundry. Especially if she happens to be Rigoletto’s daughter. (Age
4/4/24, 9)
Although he is competent in describing the vocal characteristics of the performances, he seems more comfortable commenting on the plot or stage action. At times he focuses on the physical rather than the vocal aspects. At several points he concentrates on Toti dal Monte’s physical caharacterisation of her roles (Age 26/5/24, 10 and 16/6/24, 11); and after seeing Phyllis Archbold’s portrayal of Delilah he may have needed a good lie down:
The play she made with her arms was superb. As far as arms can theyQuite.
played the technique of love to perfection. Samson was beyond question caught by
Delilah’s face and figure. That her voice played a big part in his ruin goes
without saying. But with those arms in the first act luring him on, gyrating in
lascivious motion, almost kissing his hard, roughened skin, one felt that, apart
form everything else he was doomed from the outset. When they got closer (in Act
II) they would round him like caressing snakes. And the way the artist let her
body sway in sympathy with her arms was astonishing. (Age 5/5/24, 11)
Sunday, July 6, 2008
The Art of the Reviewer - Part 1
The Sydney Mail on 13th August 1924 carried a short note reporting the following:
Balanced? No. Reasoned? No. Bitchy? Somewhat.
Not having studied Mr Vernon’s work within its context, I can’t say whether this is typical of his style. However it provides a great contrast to the type of criticism occurring on the other side of the world at that time. The reviewers of the Melba-Williamson Opera Company in Sydney and Melbourne in 1924 had their prejudices and idiosyncrasies, but they also took a responsible stance towards what they were covering.
It may be that harsh criticism was moderated by the nature of publication of theatrical comment. The practice in Australian papers at the time and up until the 1940s was for reviews to appear without a byline. This was not confined to criticism; most articles carried in the newspapers were anonymous ("by our Special Correspondent"), the exceptions generally being opinion pieces by major figures (usually establishment) and the daily novel extract. This anonymity contributed to the authority of the paper and in turn that authority was granted to the article. By sitting on the dignity of the publication the writer could make statements with ex cathedra status. It is only in journals such as the Bulletin, with its deliberate larrikin ethos, that anything approaching Vernon’s ferocity appears; and that was only to deflate, not destroy.
In a recent issue of the New York Theatre, Grenville Vernon, a
prominent critic, declares that Mme Galli-Curci is enjoying a triumph which her
singing has never earned. “Far greater artists and singers than she today,” he
asserts, “have to content themselves with salaries one-quarter of what she
receives.” And Mme Maria Jeritza, another pillar of the Metropolitan, according
to this critic, though an artist of real merit, owes her position to her beauty
and her great body agility, her feeling for plastic poses, and her knowledge of
the value of acrobatics. Her first real sensation, we are told, was made in
“Tosca” when she sang the “Vissi d’Arte” lying on her stomach. “It might not
have been art, but it certainly was news.” (Sydney Mail 13/8/24, 13)
Balanced? No. Reasoned? No. Bitchy? Somewhat.
Not having studied Mr Vernon’s work within its context, I can’t say whether this is typical of his style. However it provides a great contrast to the type of criticism occurring on the other side of the world at that time. The reviewers of the Melba-Williamson Opera Company in Sydney and Melbourne in 1924 had their prejudices and idiosyncrasies, but they also took a responsible stance towards what they were covering.
It may be that harsh criticism was moderated by the nature of publication of theatrical comment. The practice in Australian papers at the time and up until the 1940s was for reviews to appear without a byline. This was not confined to criticism; most articles carried in the newspapers were anonymous ("by our Special Correspondent"), the exceptions generally being opinion pieces by major figures (usually establishment) and the daily novel extract. This anonymity contributed to the authority of the paper and in turn that authority was granted to the article. By sitting on the dignity of the publication the writer could make statements with ex cathedra status. It is only in journals such as the Bulletin, with its deliberate larrikin ethos, that anything approaching Vernon’s ferocity appears; and that was only to deflate, not destroy.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Marjorie at the movies
MARJORIE LAWRENCE ON STAGE!
The State has the honor to present the world-famous Dramatic Soprano in a magnificent setting…. and with special orchestra. Her Programme includes: Oh, Hall of Song (“Tannhauser”) Wagner; Ave Maria (Gounod); Impatience (Schubert); Danny Boy. Miss Lawrence will appear at the 2 p.m. and 8 p.m. de luxe sessions.
“ON THE SCREEN: “EAST SIDE OF HEAVEN,” Universal’s scintillating modern comedy of a baby who arrived before the wedding. With JOAN BLONDELL, MISCHA AUER, “SANDY” (Amazing baby star), Irene Hervey, Bing Crosby. Four big song hits (General Exhibition) (Sydney Morning Herald, Friday 11 August 1939, p. 2)
Lawrence’s promoter, Arthur Longden, had found an easy way to make up the shortfall for less-than-overwhelming box office receipts on the Sydney leg of her Australian tour. Greater Union had found a way to guarantee audiences for their new release. Lawrence would make two twenty-minute appearances a day, six days a week for two weeks. And Lawrence seemed quite happy about it. “This will give me an opportunity to sing to Australian people who could not afford to hear me in the Town Hall,” the Herald reported her as saying. “‘The musical experience will not be lowered,’ she added, ‘but I shall sing songs that I consider will interest an average Australian audience.’”[1]
Cultural hierarchy, the division of entertainments into “highbrow” and “lowbrow”, had long established itself in Australia. Antipodean culture was not afflicted by the bifurcation to the same extent as in America; there always seems to be some crossover of classes in operatic ventures in Australia up to this time. Even so, this is quite a departure from the norm. We have a highbrow artiste slumming it in a picture house - admittedly upmarket, but still…
The highbrow/lowbrow idea is present in Lawrence’s words, “The musical experience will not be lowered.” In other words, “Worry not! We shall not debase the currency.” But there is no sense that this is an attempt to give the masses some High Art. The opportunity is economic, not educational: people who couldn’t afford 2/- to attend her Town Hall recitals could now hear her down the road at Market Street. Lawrence’s reference to “an average Australian audience” might imply that they might prefer something lesser than the usual high standard of her repertoire. But it could also mean that she was aware that her audience was not the usual concert-going crowd, knowledgable about a wide repertoire and accustomed to particular demands.
Rather than dumb-down her programme, she adapted it. At the State she sang the following:
Dich teure Halle (Wagner, Tannhäuser)
Ave Maria (Gounod)
Ungelduld (Schubert)
Danny Boy (Weatherly)
Floods of Spring (Rachmaninov)
My Ain Folk (Trad.)
This was a representative selection of her repertoire and a good reflection of her recital programs: an aria, art songs, and popular songs, in the same ratios as the recitals. With the possible exception of the Rachmaninov, she had sung these works in her recitals (and she had sung another Rachmaninov song). There was no Brünnhilde’s Immolation from Götterdämmerung or the Final Scene from Salome, twenty-minute epics that are taxing to the unaccustomed. The programme was a précis of her long-form recitals, not a dumbed-down version for the uncultured.
Interestingly, in the reviews I have uncovered there are no comments that are remotely deprecatory. The Herald noted the warm welcome to her first appearance, and that “Miss Lawrence’s voice seemed to have been slightly amplified, and filled the large auditorium with a rich resonance.” There is no condescension to the venue or the audience; the comment about the venue is merely a technical one. The Daily Telegraph describes the lighting: pink and mauve for Wagner, a white spot for Ave Maria, pink for the Schubert, green for Danny Boy (of course), and pink for the Rachmaninov. The Telegraph also records that she worked with the Wurlitzer organ, the orchestra and the piano (which suggests an all-expense spared approach to scores and arrangements). [2] This is all description, not comment. From the public discourse there seems to have been no great cognitive dissonance between Marjorie Lawrence and Bing Crosby, between “Floods of Spring” and "Hang Your Heart on a Hickory Limb".
The idea emerging from my research is that cultural hierarchy did exist with regard to opera in Australia, but it was not as sharply delineated as in other places. Well into the twentieth century there was considerable interest in opera in all classes, and less condescension between musical forms; and I expect to find more evidence of this cross flow, appearing in different ways at different times and places.[3]
[1] SMH 9th August 1939, 17.
[2] SMH 12/8/39, 19; DT 12/8/39, 5.
[3] I expect to see the influence of European immigrants, eg people like Ladislav Noskowski, a reviewer for the Sydney Mail.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Ghost Town
After we visited Mum in hospital yesterday we went to Cronulla for lunch. Neither of us had been there for eight years; our visits to Mum are usually hit-and-runs, over the bridge into the Shire, straight to Mum’s place, and back.
It’s odd what the brain retains. Even though I hadn’t driven on some of the roads since 1996 the spatial memories were still there: at one set of lights I noticed that I didn’t have to think about positioning the car properly for the best approach to the corner because I had done it thousands of times.
We left the car in the parking station behind Cronulla Street and went for a walk. Some of the beloved shops that I knew back in the ’70s were gone: Jolly Roger’s, the bookshop, the Monthien Thai. Other old friends were still there: Green’s Shoes, Lowes, and the post office. Malouf’s Chemist is now Blooms the Chemist, without Mrs Hopton, who well into the ’90s insisted on calling me Mr Kemmis even though she had known me since before I was born. The Cronulla Cinema had been converted into a multiplex in the late ’90s, after we left town. None of the original interior fabric remains from 1928 (art deco) or its renovation in 1974-5 (mission brown) – it was completely gutted and rebuilt, in multiplex-blechhh style.
I noticed that my brain took in visual cues– the shape of a window frame, the angle of a wall – familiar things that allowed me to place the buildings. But the contents of the window, the signage, even the kind of business, were not what I expected. It was like seeing something out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned to look, it was not there. Maybe that’s how people see ghosts.
Lunch was a couple of small pizzas in The Point, an upmarket pizzeria near where the aquarium used to be, but I couldn’t work out what it replaced. We were served by a young woman of Middle Eastern origin wearing a headscarf: that was a change from the Cronulla I knew. Megan was facing the street, and she commented that it was a very Cronulla sight – everybody strolling past (and there were many, even on a cold, windy, overcast day) was Caucasian. I laughed, but when we left the restaurant I saw what she meant: everyone was Caucasian. And it jarred. I’m not a Shire boy anymore.
It’s odd what the brain retains. Even though I hadn’t driven on some of the roads since 1996 the spatial memories were still there: at one set of lights I noticed that I didn’t have to think about positioning the car properly for the best approach to the corner because I had done it thousands of times.
We left the car in the parking station behind Cronulla Street and went for a walk. Some of the beloved shops that I knew back in the ’70s were gone: Jolly Roger’s, the bookshop, the Monthien Thai. Other old friends were still there: Green’s Shoes, Lowes, and the post office. Malouf’s Chemist is now Blooms the Chemist, without Mrs Hopton, who well into the ’90s insisted on calling me Mr Kemmis even though she had known me since before I was born. The Cronulla Cinema had been converted into a multiplex in the late ’90s, after we left town. None of the original interior fabric remains from 1928 (art deco) or its renovation in 1974-5 (mission brown) – it was completely gutted and rebuilt, in multiplex-blechhh style.
I noticed that my brain took in visual cues– the shape of a window frame, the angle of a wall – familiar things that allowed me to place the buildings. But the contents of the window, the signage, even the kind of business, were not what I expected. It was like seeing something out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned to look, it was not there. Maybe that’s how people see ghosts.
Lunch was a couple of small pizzas in The Point, an upmarket pizzeria near where the aquarium used to be, but I couldn’t work out what it replaced. We were served by a young woman of Middle Eastern origin wearing a headscarf: that was a change from the Cronulla I knew. Megan was facing the street, and she commented that it was a very Cronulla sight – everybody strolling past (and there were many, even on a cold, windy, overcast day) was Caucasian. I laughed, but when we left the restaurant I saw what she meant: everyone was Caucasian. And it jarred. I’m not a Shire boy anymore.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Rules for Opera Goers, 1891
I found this in the university library today and barely managed to control myself. One of the funniest things I've ever read about opera.
From the Illustrated Sydney News, 23rd May 1891, p. 5
From the Illustrated Sydney News, 23rd May 1891, p. 5
When people glare at you because you have some particularly bright things to say and are afraid that you will forget them if you wait till the curtain falls, it is considered jeu d’esprit to talk louder than ever, and make things as pleasant as possible for the musical cranks.
When the ballet comes on it is thought eau devie to look through the large end of your opera glass.
When two sisters attend the opera together, it is not nom de plumé for one to wear a bonnet and the other to merely wear false hair. It looks as if there were only one decent bonnet in the family.
The custom of throwing things on the stage is not encouraged by the most eminent artistes.
Never send a floral lyre to the prima donna. A lyre is a more appropriate gift for the manager.
Such expressions as ‘bravo,’ ‘encore,’ and ‘chestnut,’ are not considered affaire de coeur. The bon ton will merely ejaculate ‘rodents’ to express condemnation, and 'immenza’ to express approval.
Gents will be sufficiently mise en scène to abstain from having beer brought to them during the performance. The beer is apt to become flat in transit, and therefore it is advisable to wait until the act is over.
Opera goers from Ashfield and ‘up the line’ can have their overshoes stored in an adjoining building, and thus avoid embarassing the audience.
Playing progressive euchre in the boxes is not esteemed entre nous in the most chic circles.
Gentlemen will please not rise in the midst of a cavatina and enquire: ‘Where in thunder is the cuspidor?’ Such an enquiry is a breach of all that is protègé.
Trousers are a good deal worn by opera goers this winter inside and out.
We have jotted down these few points for the unenlightened, without any special thought, and without consulting any works of reference. If by these few words any soul is led into the ways of behave, our mission is accomplished, and we are content.
B. BATHURST BURR-SMITH
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Death at the Opera
On May 10th 1849 in New York a long feud between two Shakespearean actors, the populist, scenery-chewing American Edwin Forrest and the aristocratic, cerebral Englishman William Charles Macready, finally went beyond strong words to violence. Forrest was the star of the Bowery Theatre, catering to the working and immigrant classes. Macready played at the Astor Place Opera House further north on Broadway, which catered to a wealthier audience. On May 7th both actors opened in Macbeth. Forrest was a success, while Macready’s performance was cut short by Forrest’s supporters who heckled and threw eggs, vegetables and furniture at the stage. On the night of Macready’s next performance a crowd of about 10,000 people gathered outside the Astor Place Opera House and attempted to storm the theatre. The police called in the National Guard, who fired point blank into the crowd. Twenty-two people died.
In Highbrow/Lowbrow Lawrence Levine writes that the Astor Place riot marked a change in United States culture. Slowly over the mid to late nineteenth century theatres stopped being places where all classes met for similar entertainments; not only did different classes start attending different theatres, they began to prefer different styles of performance, and eventually different content. It was the start of the “serious” vs “popular” divide.*
Could an Astor Place Riot ever have taken place in Australia? I don’t think so. Australians have generally had little interest in violent partisanship – that’s why the Cronulla riot shocked us. The issue of class raises passions in Australia, but I can’t recall the last time anyone died in an argument over it. And in Australia art has never been the focal point for class war, merely the opportunity for sniffiness and sneering. If I ever see a fight in the audience of the Sydney Opera House, it’s not likely to be because of artistic or class issues – it’s going to be because some inconsiderate jerk hasn’t turned off his mobile phone. (I will probably be the one who starts it. But then I’m a Cronulla boy.)
Richard Waterhouse observes that opera audiences in Australia in the nineteenth century were “more representative of the population at large than was the case in Europe”.** Eventually opera became more patronised by middle and upper classes, but the split into different “spaces” that occurred in America never happened here. After six weeks of performances the Australian National Theatre Opera Company had to extend its 1953 Sydney season because of the popularity of Menotti’s The Consul starring Marie Collier; but it had to move from the Tivoli Theatre to the Theatre Royal because a variety show with local and West End stars, puppeteers, and “Gene Jimae, ‘Harmonica Wizard’” was booked into the Tiv. In 2006 at Star City a season of the Gershwins’ Porgy and Bess was followed by Titanic The Musical. We have our separate pleasures but we don’t mind if they sit cheek by jowl.
Why did the serious/popular bifurcation happen the way it did in Australia?
* Lawrence W. Levine, Highbrow/Lowbrow: The Emergence of Cultural Hierarchy in America, (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988), p. 68.
**Richard Waterhouse, Private Pleasures, Public Leisure, (South Melbourne: Longman Australia, 1995), p. 136.
In Highbrow/Lowbrow Lawrence Levine writes that the Astor Place riot marked a change in United States culture. Slowly over the mid to late nineteenth century theatres stopped being places where all classes met for similar entertainments; not only did different classes start attending different theatres, they began to prefer different styles of performance, and eventually different content. It was the start of the “serious” vs “popular” divide.*
Could an Astor Place Riot ever have taken place in Australia? I don’t think so. Australians have generally had little interest in violent partisanship – that’s why the Cronulla riot shocked us. The issue of class raises passions in Australia, but I can’t recall the last time anyone died in an argument over it. And in Australia art has never been the focal point for class war, merely the opportunity for sniffiness and sneering. If I ever see a fight in the audience of the Sydney Opera House, it’s not likely to be because of artistic or class issues – it’s going to be because some inconsiderate jerk hasn’t turned off his mobile phone. (I will probably be the one who starts it. But then I’m a Cronulla boy.)
Richard Waterhouse observes that opera audiences in Australia in the nineteenth century were “more representative of the population at large than was the case in Europe”.** Eventually opera became more patronised by middle and upper classes, but the split into different “spaces” that occurred in America never happened here. After six weeks of performances the Australian National Theatre Opera Company had to extend its 1953 Sydney season because of the popularity of Menotti’s The Consul starring Marie Collier; but it had to move from the Tivoli Theatre to the Theatre Royal because a variety show with local and West End stars, puppeteers, and “Gene Jimae, ‘Harmonica Wizard’” was booked into the Tiv. In 2006 at Star City a season of the Gershwins’ Porgy and Bess was followed by Titanic The Musical. We have our separate pleasures but we don’t mind if they sit cheek by jowl.
Why did the serious/popular bifurcation happen the way it did in Australia?
* Lawrence W. Levine, Highbrow/Lowbrow: The Emergence of Cultural Hierarchy in America, (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988), p. 68.
**Richard Waterhouse, Private Pleasures, Public Leisure, (South Melbourne: Longman Australia, 1995), p. 136.
Monday, May 26, 2008
No gain...
Late last week on my Facebook page:
Kim is writing a really bad paper on Foucault.
9:36pm
Kim is disheartened at how really, really bad his Foucault paper is. Really. It's shit.
12:07am
John wrote
at 12:15am
Do you need help with kooky Foucky?
Kim wrote
at 10:46am
I don't need help with the Foucster - I've forgotten how to write! I haven't written an essay since 1999, and getting the right words onto the page is bloody painful. I'd rather have a bone marrow biopsy.
In a huge, possibly fatal, blow to my confidence (not really) I have discovered that writing is painful. Like love, it hurts. Only with a pen (or keyboard, or whatever.)
Part of the problem is because I had fallen out of the habit of engaging with complex texts. Part of it is because I don’t start writing until I finish reading. Part of it is because I take notes in point form instead of full sentences. Part of it is because I record ideas the way they’re stored in my brain, instead of converting them to expressive language. Part of it is because I don’t have mastery of my material. Part of it is because I get stuck on the detail – agonising over “compare with” versus “compare to” instead of writing one of them, either of them, and quickly getting on with the rest of the paragraph. Part of it is because I keep hacking away at the tricky bit instead of rewriting the whole section from the beginning.
But mostly it is because, for some reason, I have a physical or emotional response to the act of writing. Sometimes it really hurts when I type something – it’s as if the change on the screen hits me in the head and shakes me. I like that analogy – some parts of my Foucault paper needed so much work I felt like I’d been “rope-a-doped” (see Ali v. Foreman, Kinshasa 1974*).
It’s probably the ADHD when the medication isn’t working. But I don’t have the choice to stop writing when it happens. Maybe I should just see it as a challenge, like hitting the wall during exercise, and work through it.
Perhaps it’s what Barthes meant by the “text of bliss”:
* That’s a fight, not a legal citation. Unfortunately it took me longer than eight to get Foucault down on the canvas.
** Then again, perhaps it's not.
Kim is writing a really bad paper on Foucault.
9:36pm
Kim is disheartened at how really, really bad his Foucault paper is. Really. It's shit.
12:07am
John wrote
at 12:15am
Do you need help with kooky Foucky?
Kim wrote
at 10:46am
I don't need help with the Foucster - I've forgotten how to write! I haven't written an essay since 1999, and getting the right words onto the page is bloody painful. I'd rather have a bone marrow biopsy.
In a huge, possibly fatal, blow to my confidence (not really) I have discovered that writing is painful. Like love, it hurts. Only with a pen (or keyboard, or whatever.)
Part of the problem is because I had fallen out of the habit of engaging with complex texts. Part of it is because I don’t start writing until I finish reading. Part of it is because I take notes in point form instead of full sentences. Part of it is because I record ideas the way they’re stored in my brain, instead of converting them to expressive language. Part of it is because I don’t have mastery of my material. Part of it is because I get stuck on the detail – agonising over “compare with” versus “compare to” instead of writing one of them, either of them, and quickly getting on with the rest of the paragraph. Part of it is because I keep hacking away at the tricky bit instead of rewriting the whole section from the beginning.
But mostly it is because, for some reason, I have a physical or emotional response to the act of writing. Sometimes it really hurts when I type something – it’s as if the change on the screen hits me in the head and shakes me. I like that analogy – some parts of my Foucault paper needed so much work I felt like I’d been “rope-a-doped” (see Ali v. Foreman, Kinshasa 1974*).
It’s probably the ADHD when the medication isn’t working. But I don’t have the choice to stop writing when it happens. Maybe I should just see it as a challenge, like hitting the wall during exercise, and work through it.
Perhaps it’s what Barthes meant by the “text of bliss”:
Cool – I mention Ali and Barthes in the same piece. I can write like Norman Mailer!the text that imposes a state of loss, the text that discomforts (perhaps to the point of a certain boredom), ... brings to a crisis [the reader's] relation with language. (The Pleasure of the Text)**
* That’s a fight, not a legal citation. Unfortunately it took me longer than eight to get Foucault down on the canvas.
** Then again, perhaps it's not.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Pilgrim’s Progress, 27th March 2008
Published on Opera-L 28th March 2008
The Pilgrim's Progress by Ralph Vaughan Williams
Soloists: Alan Opie, Joshua Bloom, Kanen Breen, Catherine Carby, Henry Choo, Conal Coad, Taryn Fiebig, Antoinette Halloran, Hye Seoung Kwon, Michael Lewis, Lorina Gore, Barry Ryan, and Pamela Helen Stephen.
The Bach Choir
Opera Australia Chorus
Australian Opera and Ballet Orchestra
Richard Hickox, conductor
Concert performance
Concert Hall, Sydney Opera House
Thursday 27th March 2008
In March every year Opera Australia marks the end of its Sydney Summer Season by stepping out of the Opera Theatre across to the other side of the Opera House, the Concert Hall, for a one-off concert performance of a major vocal work. In past years there have been the Verdi Requiem and Carmina Burana. This year it was Ralph Vaughan Williams's "morality", "The Pilgrim's Progress".
This has been an old favourite of mine. The Adrian Boult EMI recording was one of the first opera sets I bought way back when, and I've always loved the "cowpat" school of British music (RVW, Delius, Finzi, Moeran et al). I had never thought I would hear a live performance, so this was an opportunity not to be missed. (I overheard one other person who thought the same - he had flown over from New Zealand for the performance.)
RVW wrote the work over four decades in various versions, and it shows - at least to my ear there is a certain patchiness. But this is covered over by the distinctive Vaughan Williams "sound": lots of strings, plangent woodwinds, flowing melodies and, most importantly, modal harmonies. Add "Hymns Ancient and Modern" and the English oratorio tradition, and you have "The Pilgrim's Progress".
Last night the orchestra was arranged traditionally, with the Opera Australia Chorus and the Bach Choir (totalling about 150) seated behind. Soloists were not seated on the platfrom but came onto the stage as required.
This was a necessity by virtue of numbers, but it allowed more opportunity for theatricality. For example, the "Shining Ones" in Act I made their entrance near the top of the choir stalls, Watchful started and finished his aria offstage, and Apollyon was heard though a speaker rather than onstage - shades of Fafner's speaking-trumpet. Theatrical effect was also helped by clothing: most of the women changed gowns between their different roles, while the men wore suits or tails, or black shirts for ensemble appearances. (NB Frockwatch: there was a preponderance of bias-cut satin among the women, mostly in primary colours, with sequins coming second. In a solidarity appropriate to such an ensemble work, there was nothing that screamed "look at me" or "no gay friends".)
The vocal writing in "Pilgrim's Progress" is not spectacular - certainly, it is not easy, but there are no show-stoppers. Most of the fireworks belong to the orchestra, and they delivered. On occasion the brass drowned out the strings, however Hickox had a good overall control of the sound. All the principals played their solos well, however I especially enjoyed Virginia Comerford's viola solo in Act IV.
An absence of surtitles may have made the going difficult for some of the audience, because much of the time the (English) text could not be understood. This may have been the acoustics of the Concert Hall; however I was pleasantly surprised by the excellent German diction of many of the same singers in a performance of "Arabella" in the sonically-abysmal Opera Theatre a few weeks ago, so I'm not sure how to explain it.
Alan Opie gave a very strong peformance as Pilgrim. He took the role beyond the one-dimensional character of the libretto, and I can imagine how much more he could do with the role in a staged production. His performance of the Prison scene in Act II showed great expressive variation without going over the top.
I can only single out a few of the supporting singers, as they were all very good. Watchful's aria, not an easy one, was beautifully sung by Barry Ryan. Kanen Breen was sometimes overpowered by the orchestra, but his Lord Lechery was a typically expressive characterisation. Matthew Clark produced an unusual amount of volume (for a treble) as the Woodcutter's Boy.
I was greatly impressed by the combined choir. They did not "leap out" at entrances and tuttis but remained part of the texture, blended with the orchestra. This is a tribute to the skills of the conductor and those who prepared the choristers. The hair stood up on the back of my neck when they sang as the "doleful creatures" in the Valley of Humiliation - at first I though some strange instrument was playing. In the Vanity Fair scene the choir was more frightening than in the Boult recording - rather than the slightly G&S feel that Boult conjured, the scene came across as more of a "March to the Scaffold". And what point is there in having a huge choir if they can't make "huge choir" sounds? In the "Arming of the Pilgrim" the combination of solo trumpet and choir was very stirring to one brought up on early 20th century Anglican hymnody.
In all, a good piece, well performed.
The Pilgrim's Progress by Ralph Vaughan Williams
Soloists: Alan Opie, Joshua Bloom, Kanen Breen, Catherine Carby, Henry Choo, Conal Coad, Taryn Fiebig, Antoinette Halloran, Hye Seoung Kwon, Michael Lewis, Lorina Gore, Barry Ryan, and Pamela Helen Stephen.
The Bach Choir
Opera Australia Chorus
Australian Opera and Ballet Orchestra
Richard Hickox, conductor
Concert performance
Concert Hall, Sydney Opera House
Thursday 27th March 2008
In March every year Opera Australia marks the end of its Sydney Summer Season by stepping out of the Opera Theatre across to the other side of the Opera House, the Concert Hall, for a one-off concert performance of a major vocal work. In past years there have been the Verdi Requiem and Carmina Burana. This year it was Ralph Vaughan Williams's "morality", "The Pilgrim's Progress".
This has been an old favourite of mine. The Adrian Boult EMI recording was one of the first opera sets I bought way back when, and I've always loved the "cowpat" school of British music (RVW, Delius, Finzi, Moeran et al). I had never thought I would hear a live performance, so this was an opportunity not to be missed. (I overheard one other person who thought the same - he had flown over from New Zealand for the performance.)
RVW wrote the work over four decades in various versions, and it shows - at least to my ear there is a certain patchiness. But this is covered over by the distinctive Vaughan Williams "sound": lots of strings, plangent woodwinds, flowing melodies and, most importantly, modal harmonies. Add "Hymns Ancient and Modern" and the English oratorio tradition, and you have "The Pilgrim's Progress".
Last night the orchestra was arranged traditionally, with the Opera Australia Chorus and the Bach Choir (totalling about 150) seated behind. Soloists were not seated on the platfrom but came onto the stage as required.
This was a necessity by virtue of numbers, but it allowed more opportunity for theatricality. For example, the "Shining Ones" in Act I made their entrance near the top of the choir stalls, Watchful started and finished his aria offstage, and Apollyon was heard though a speaker rather than onstage - shades of Fafner's speaking-trumpet. Theatrical effect was also helped by clothing: most of the women changed gowns between their different roles, while the men wore suits or tails, or black shirts for ensemble appearances. (NB Frockwatch: there was a preponderance of bias-cut satin among the women, mostly in primary colours, with sequins coming second. In a solidarity appropriate to such an ensemble work, there was nothing that screamed "look at me" or "no gay friends".)
The vocal writing in "Pilgrim's Progress" is not spectacular - certainly, it is not easy, but there are no show-stoppers. Most of the fireworks belong to the orchestra, and they delivered. On occasion the brass drowned out the strings, however Hickox had a good overall control of the sound. All the principals played their solos well, however I especially enjoyed Virginia Comerford's viola solo in Act IV.
An absence of surtitles may have made the going difficult for some of the audience, because much of the time the (English) text could not be understood. This may have been the acoustics of the Concert Hall; however I was pleasantly surprised by the excellent German diction of many of the same singers in a performance of "Arabella" in the sonically-abysmal Opera Theatre a few weeks ago, so I'm not sure how to explain it.
Alan Opie gave a very strong peformance as Pilgrim. He took the role beyond the one-dimensional character of the libretto, and I can imagine how much more he could do with the role in a staged production. His performance of the Prison scene in Act II showed great expressive variation without going over the top.
I can only single out a few of the supporting singers, as they were all very good. Watchful's aria, not an easy one, was beautifully sung by Barry Ryan. Kanen Breen was sometimes overpowered by the orchestra, but his Lord Lechery was a typically expressive characterisation. Matthew Clark produced an unusual amount of volume (for a treble) as the Woodcutter's Boy.
I was greatly impressed by the combined choir. They did not "leap out" at entrances and tuttis but remained part of the texture, blended with the orchestra. This is a tribute to the skills of the conductor and those who prepared the choristers. The hair stood up on the back of my neck when they sang as the "doleful creatures" in the Valley of Humiliation - at first I though some strange instrument was playing. In the Vanity Fair scene the choir was more frightening than in the Boult recording - rather than the slightly G&S feel that Boult conjured, the scene came across as more of a "March to the Scaffold". And what point is there in having a huge choir if they can't make "huge choir" sounds? In the "Arming of the Pilgrim" the combination of solo trumpet and choir was very stirring to one brought up on early 20th century Anglican hymnody.
In all, a good piece, well performed.
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