Intermission:
(Mis)adventures in Italy

No country on the planet is more seductive than Italy, and at the first opportunity I heeded its siren’s song. It was 1958, and I had been escorting my teachers, Dr. and Mrs. Fritz Zweig, on a tour of Europe. When they decided to have an extended visit with friends in Austria, I found myself at liberty for a few weeks. I didn’t hesitate, jumping on the first train south and tracing a path through Como, Turin, Milan, Florence, Venice, and Bolzano. It felt like stepping into one of the many romantic movies set in Italy that were popular at the time, and Cilea’s Adriana Lecouvreur seemed to provide the soundtrack: I saw a performance of it at La Scala, and the next day I found myself on the Piazza San Marco where a summertime orchestra was playing excerpts, a mournful trumpet pouring out the most exquisite schmaltz.

I returned to Italy in 1960 as an unpaid assistant to my mentor, Dr. Herbert Graf, working on productions of Otello in Venice and Poliuto at La Scala. Those experiences seemed heavenly. How could they not? The casts included Maria Callas, Franco Corelli, Mario Del Monaco, and Tito Gobbi. Plus, I had no real responsibility.

I was in love. Going by those early visits, Italy seemed about the most perfect place in the world. When I started working there professionally, however, the ideal in my head gave way to stark reality.

To this day I’m not entirely sure why I ended up working so extensively in Italy. After all, I was a foreigner — a swarthy foreigner no less — and relatively unknown. I think it was because I was perceived as a specialist with “other” repertoire — German and French operas, plus Mozart and operetta — though eventually I would be trusted with the sacred Italian operas. My exploits in the very birthplace of opera would be quite an education, in every sense of the word.

Staging Italian operas in Italy should be the fulfillment of a dream for any director. But one of my earliest experiences — a Don Pasquale in Turin in 1967 — perhaps revealed how things would often go for me. I had just led a terrific production of the work in Zurich starring Reri Grist. It turns out that this meant nothing in Italy. Suffice to say that as far as my all-Italian cast was concerned, I didn’t exist. Above all, Carlo Badioli in the title role had no use for me. Rehearsals were like scenes from some kind of absurdist play, with everyone doing everything but listening to the director. Young and earnest, I nevertheless drove myself into the ground trying to do my job, to the considerable disinterest of everyone around me. I was so irritated that I indulged in a bit of payback, albeit of the tongue-in-cheek variety. The company arranged a radio interview for me, and the host started off by bringing up my years at UCLA. “What was your field of study?” he asked. Still wincing from that afternoon’s particularly brutal rehearsal, I cheerfully responded, “Psychology. With an emphasis on children with special needs. That’s why I’m qualified to work with opera singers.” I understand the cast was furious about this, but what could they do? It’s not as if they could have made things any worse for me!

When I directed at La Scala for the first time, a staff member who would serve as my assistant was sent to welcome me. She looked me up and down before delivering the good news. “They’re going to kill you,” she said.

The Elixir of Love, with Pavarotti and Reri Grist (right), San Francisco Opera, 1969. Photo by Cecil Thompson.

I had just arrived and I was pretty sure I hadn’t had time yet to offend anyone. Innocently, I asked, “What have I done?”

“A foreigner doing Italian repertoire at La Scala?” she said, shaking her head. “They’re going to kill you.” That was my first day.

My assignment was a new production of a repertory mainstay, The Elixir of Love, and it starred beloved native son Luciano Pavarotti, with one of my favourites, Giuseppe Patanè, conducting. The best strategy, I felt, would be to show everyone from the start that I knew what I was doing, that I was capable of driving this particular bus. Earlier that same year I had directed Luciano in a successful Elixir at San Francisco Opera, and I planned to recapture some of that magic. Instead he approached me to apologize in advance. “I’m sorry, Lotfi, but I cannot give you what I gave you in San Francisco,” he said. “Here they are only interested in the singing. If I act too much there will be hell to pay.”

I also had to contend with an unanticipated obstacle: La Scala’s acoustics. In general the sound was pretty good, but there happened to be a sweet spot located downstage, right next to the prompter’s box. For whatever reason, voices sounded especially booming and rich coming from this spot. It was almost like singing into a microphone, resulting in more sound from less effort. Needless to say, every singer gravitated to it. The rumor was that Fiorenza Cossotto had sung all of Carmen there, refusing to budge. During my staging rehearsals the principal artists were amiable enough. But during the performances much of the action got toned down and everyone competed for time in the sweet spot.

The chorus was altogether another matter. Dressed in the grey rehearsal smocks that were the custom at the time, they gathered around me warily. Instantly I sensed something was off. I would, for example, put a tall chorister in one spot, turn away to do something else, and turn back to discover that my tall chorister was now a short chorister. Or I would place people here and there, and a minute later I would find the same number of bodies but different choristers. This happened constantly. At first I thought I might be going crazy. Finally I set a little trap: I placed a number of choristers, turned as if to move on to something else, and turned back quickly. I caught the culprit red-handed: the chorus director, Roberto Benaglio, was reordering everyone. He smiled sheepishly and said, “For the blend, maestro.” Relieved that I wasn’t actually going crazy, I kept him close so that he could have input on who stood next to whom.

Arranging the choristers onstage was child’s play though, compared to getting them to take direction. Drawing on the best ideas from my previous productions, I gave them all kinds of acting business. I’m making an impression, I thought, as my staging began to arouse murmuring. After a while the capo stopped me and said, “Maestro, here first we sing, then we act.” And thus I was introduced to the theatrical style that prevailed at La Scala. Choristers would stand wherever you put them — as long as they weren’t singing. But a page or two before a musical entrance they would make their way stage right (sopranos and tenors) or stage left (mezzo-sopranos and basses), plant themselves, stare directly at the conductor, and then — and only then — sing. You always knew when a chorus number was imminent because the stage would look like a box of marbles that had been upset. It mattered not a whit if this sudden rearrangement made no dramatic sense. Never, and I mean never, did they want to move and sing at the same time. And never, and I mean never, would they sing except from their designated areas on the stage. I learned that many directors had washed their hands of this bizarre behavior and resigned themselves to a static chorus, using only supernumeraries and dancers to move and act. I never worked so hard in my life to get a chorus to do more than just stand and sing, a practice derisively referred to as “park and bark.” Ultimately, I got at least some of what I wanted and it was all worthwhile when one critic, comparing my Elixir to the previous night’s I Vespri Siciliani, noted that the chorus managed to learn how to act between the two performances.

Props are an integral part of any opera performance, and at most opera houses it’s a straightforward affair: the director requests certain things and the props department obliges. But that’s not how things worked at Venice’s La Fenice during my one and only engagement there. At the outset I walked around starry-eyed. After all, a lot of opera history had been made at that venerable opera house. One day I happened to be offstage, leaning against one of the rails, lost in thought. Beaming, my assistant came up to me and said, “Oh, Maestro Mansouri, you are standing in the exact spot where Maestro Verdi stood on the opening night of La Traviata.” Chills ran through me as her words sank in, and I felt I should drop to my knees to kiss the floor.

Rehearsals were another matter. We were doing Così fan tutte, a fairly prop-heavy show. Early on I visited the prop department to make some routine requests — trays, cups and saucers, chaise lounges, tables, and the like. “Si maestro, certo,” the prop master replied laconically. The next day I arrived to find an empty stage. I made do with whatever I could scrounge, and later returned to the prop master. Italian was a relatively new language to me, so I thought perhaps I wasn’t being understood. I repeated my requests, speaking more slowly. “Si, maestro, si, si,” the prop master drawled, gesturing to indicate that he understood me perfectly. The stage remained conspicuously prop-free.

This little farce repeated itself day after day for two weeks, with my agitation building. The day before the piano dress rehearsal I was at my wits’ end. I went to the prop master, barely holding my temper in check. “On my sainted mother,” the prop master responded, “I give you my most sincere promise that you will have your props for tomorrow’s rehearsal.”

“I have your promise?” I asked cautiously.

“Promise,” he responded solemnly.

The next day I arrived early to check the stage — and found nothing. By this point smoke was coming out of my ears. I tracked down the prop master. “But, signor,” I whined, “you gave me your promise!”

“Oh, maestro,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. “A promise … eh.” I wanted to strangle him, but I gave up instead. On opening night, every single prop I requested magically appeared.

That same production also perfectly illustrated something that has always confounded me. The Italian culture is exuberant, the people animated. Why then do so many Italian audiences go crazy when an opera singer actually sings and moves? This Così featured Tatiana Troyanos as Dorabella and Cristina Deutekom as Fiordiligi. The audience greeted Troyanos’s superb rendition of “Smanie implacabili” with screams of, “Don’t act so much!” and, “Not so much clowning!” She rushed to me and asked, “What are they saying?”

“Honey, they love you,” I replied. As for Deutekom, when singing cadenzas she had a subtle technical tic that might have been suggestive of certain winged barnyard creatures. Her “Come scoglio” was greeted with screams of, “Where’s the egg?”

From the first note to the last, Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro is the single most perfect opera ever written. Aficionados are loath to miss even a minute. But in my experience, Italian audiences felt differently. I once directed the work in Genoa with a magnificent cast, including Geraint Evans as Figaro and Teresa Stich-Randall as the Countess. After one rehearsal Geraint and I went to the box office to request complimentary tickets, him for his wife and me for some friends visiting from Zurich. “Oh, maestri,” the agent responded, “I’m so sorry, but the performance is completely sold out.” While disappointed, we were delighted by the prospect of a capacity crowd. On the appointed evening the curtain went up to reveal Geraint on his knees intoning the first phrases: “Cinque … dieci … venti …” He looked into the house to see that it was largely empty, with only about five hundred of the two thousand seats occupied. I noted the same thing from the wings. At the first opportunity we rushed to the stage manager to ask what the hell was going on. “Just wait,” he replied with a wave of the hand. When the curtain went up on Act Two, the house was packed. Likewise for Act Three. But for Act Four we were back to the initial five hundred.

In my time, Italian singers tended to shy away from the operas of Mozart and, in fact, my Mozart casts consisted primarily of non-Italians. Take, for example, this splendid cast I had in Rome for a production of The Magic Flute: Peter Schreier (German) as Tamino, Teresa Żylis-Gara (Polish) as Pamina, and Martti Talvela (Finnish) as Sarastro, with Ernest Ansermet (Swiss) conducting. The seeming disinterest in Mozart on the part of many Italian singers might have been partly attributable to the cultural undercurrents of the time — that age-old split between Nordic and Mediterranean. But I think it was mostly a matter of discipline. Many of the core Italian operas accommodate or even require boundless musical liberties, such as taking phrases out of tempo or holding high notes for a long time. Not so with Mozart. With his music, you have to be faithful to the page. This requires restraint, where most of the Italian artists of the time preferred impetuousness and swagger. Those Italian artists who loved to sing Mozart proved, in my estimation, to be the best of the breed: Graziella Sciutti, Paolo Montarsolo, and Ilva Ligabue, to name a few. Sesto Bruscantini is an example of an Italian singer who got more disciplined — but only after he married soprano Sena Jurinac. And it’s no coincidence that artists such as these went on to have more international careers than their Italian confreres. Being able to perform Mozart meant you were not only a fine singer, but also disciplined, capable of working with a conductor, and, owing to the sophistication of many of the plots, capable of taking direction. Mozart operas became a kind of calling card, a gateway to invitations for other kinds of work throughout the world from great conductors like Charles Mackerras and great directors like Jean-Pierre Ponnelle. No doubt things have changed — in an increasingly connected world there is little room for provincialism — but this always fascinated me.

In 1966 I landed what I thought was a plum gig: a new production of Werther at Genoa with tenor Giuseppe di Stefano in the title role. I had idolized him for years, and here I was working with him! Unfortunately any illusions I had were quickly shattered. He argued endlessly. At first I tried to mollify him — I wanted a successful production after all — but he seemed to delight in being obstinate. Things came to a head when we staged Act Two: Werther is supposed to observe Charlotte emerging from a church. That’s it. Literally a tilt of the head. Our set had a perfectly lovely church. Di Stefano, however, hated it. “The church is on the wrong side of the stage,” he growled at me. “It’s supposed to be stage right.”

I was stunned. “What difference does it make?”

He didn’t have an answer for me, but he made it abundantly clear that he couldn’t possibly turn his head to the left. I reasoned, I cajoled, I pleaded, all to no avail. Something similar seemed to happen at each rehearsal. My only consolation was that the conductor, the venerable Franco Capuana, supported me as I did battle.

I might have been able to forgive such madness if di Stefano delivered a brilliant performance. Sadly, he didn’t. The day before opening night he trotted off to nearby Monte Carlo to gamble. He returned to Genoa in time for the curtain, but he appeared haggard and reeked of cigarette smoke. I could sense what was coming and I left the theatre; I just couldn’t bear to watch. But I heard all about what happened. His voice was completely shot: he crooned, he bellowed, he took whole passages down an octave. It was a thoroughly painful performance. And, as it was broadcast live on RAI radio, it was one that all of Italy heard.

When doing Otello in Palermo in 1966 I learned that maintaining a close relationship with the director was of supreme importance to my conductor, Nino Sanzogno. Or so he had said in an interview with a local newspaper. This came as a complete surprise to me, considering we didn’t meet until the dress rehearsal — and the only words he saw fit to share with me came during the third act when he screamed out, “Reggista, reggista! The third banner on the left is a half-foot too short!”

It’s no secret that a rift divides the Italians and the French. OK, they frankly hate each other. I don’t really know why. Never was this more clearly illustrated than in a production of Carmen at Palermo, directed by a colleague of mine. Carmen is, of course, a French masterpiece. Moreover, Palermo was presenting the work in the original French for the first time, rather than in Italian translation. The chorus dutifully, if begrudgingly, wrapped their tongues around the language of their hated neighbours. Apparently it sounded fairly good — with one glaring exception that neatly encapsulated the animosity between the two cultures. The very first words of the chorus are, “Sur la place chacun passe …” But the word chacun was sounding suspiciously like ka-kuh instead of sha-kuh. The conductor, a Frenchman, pointed out the error, leading to this exchange:

“Pardon, pardon, monsieurs,” said the maestro. “It is sha-kuh, not ka-kuh.”

“It is ka-kuh,” replied the capo, the chorus representative.

“Ka-kuh? Non, non, non — sha-kuh.”

“Ka-kuh.”

“Monsieur, I think I should know! It is sha-kuh.”

At which point the capo retrieved his score. The word was correctly printed. But in Italian, ch sounds like k, whereas in French it sounds like sh. A brief language tutorial was attempted, but the capo would have none of it. “Maestro,” he insisted, “it is written ka-kuh and we will sing ka-kuh.” And so they did. For every single performance.

The animosity between Italy and France may have played a small part in an epic struggle I had with the eminent Italian baritone Renato Bruson when I directed him in Gounod’s Faust at Palermo. But more likely it was an acute case of difficult-artist syndrome. Every time I worked with Bruson he proved to be impressively hard-headed, unwilling to cooperate with anyone, directors least of all. My staging for Faust was a tad out of the ordinary for the time, although still within the bounds of orthodoxy. In any event, it made perfect dramatic sense. Drawing on the source material by Goethe I rearranged the scenes so that the death of Valentin takes place before Marguerite’s visit to the chapel. That way Valentin’s body could be carried in procession to the chapel, where it would serve as a focal point for Marguerite’s descent into madness. Logical and easy, I thought. So did the rest of the otherwise disciplined cast, which included Jeannette Pilou as Marguerite and Ruggero Raimondi as Méphistophélès. Bruson was the only one who didn’t want to go along. “I’m not playing a dead body,” he said. “When I’m dead, I’m done.”

All I was asking was that he lay still and allow himself to be carried a few feet. I reasoned, I begged, I cajoled. But I may as well have been talking to a brick wall. He didn’t give a damn about what I wanted, or about giving his cast-mates some dramatic substance to work with. “Get a supernumerary to do it,” was his last word, as he walked out of rehearsal for the day. Incensed, I went to the props department and had them make a huge sign that read simply “Valentin.” When we ran the scene the next day we got to the fated point. Bruson fell to the floor dead, then promptly got up and left the stage. At which point I set out the sign and instructed a group of supernumeraries to pick it up as if it were a body and carry it in procession to the chapel, to the great amusement of everyone onstage. Furious, Bruson went to the general director and complained. My little idea was vetoed. Though my point was made.

One of the best parts of working in Italy was the panoply of recreational options for off days. I fell in love with the Amalfi Coast and pretty much the entire island of Sicily, aimlessly roaming the byways of those achingly beautiful parts of the country. While directing a production of Wozzeck at Palermo, I took an especially memorable trip to nearby Segesta. Two of my cast members, Nicola Rossi-Lemeni and Paolo Montarsolo, joined me for an exploration of the spectacular Roman ruins, which included a temple and amphitheatre. Overcome by the sheer history of the place, Nicola asked Paolo and me to sit in the last row of the amphitheatre while he made his way to what remained of the stage. From whispered speech to full voiced singing, the acoustics were stunningly immediate and clear. It was pure magic.

On another occasion, my wife, Midge, joined me for a visit to Bellini’s home in Catania, which was presided over by a pint-sized guard who appeared to have been sent over from Central Casting. His black jacket, worn to an impressive sheen from years of service, indicated that he took his job very seriously, and indeed he hovered around us officiously.

One of the rooms featured a piano with the score of Norma set out and turned to the aria “Casta diva.” As we admired this and that, a recording of the aria began to filter in. Midge and I recognized the voice as that of Joan Sutherland, and we smiled at each other knowingly. The guard also smiled, and with a pronounced sigh simply said, “Ah … La Divina,” referring to Maria Callas.

Good naturedly I raised an eyebrow and said, “No, no, no! La Stupenda!”

Offended, he charged out of the room in a huff, presumably to check the recording. A minute later he returned at a considerably slower speed, a sheepish look on his face. “La Stupenda,” he nodded meekly. Joan got a big kick out of that little story.

Painting of Joan Sutherland in costume as Ophelia.
Painting by Michael Stennett.

Intermission after Act One is payday in the opera world. While the audience is chatting and enjoying a glass of wine, a company representative is making the rounds backstage to hand out the agreed-upon fees. Once upon a time this arrangement was a performer’s only leverage: if the money didn’t appear, he or she refused to go on for Act Two. The tradition possibly comes from Italy where ticket refunds are unavailable if a performance reaches the first intermission. These days things have been tweaked somewhat at the big opera houses; a chorister or orchestra player, for example, often collects a weekly salary like any working stiff. And for those who still receive fees at intermission, cheques, or even electronic deposit, are generally accepted. But when I was working in Italy payment came at the first intermission — and usually in cash. This wasn’t as straightforward as you might think. Prior to the adoption of the euro, Italy had the lira — a currency renowned both for its extraordinary size and its peculiar exchange rate. Payment generally involved stacks and stacks of bills — far more than could be comfortably accommodated in a wallet or pocket. A friend of mine, a designer, once left a performance so obviously loaded down with lira that, on the walk from the opera house to his hotel, much of it was plucked out of his pockets without him even knowing. I usually requested to be paid on the morning following opening night; I’d bring along a suitcase, stuff it with my fee, and then immediately make my way to a bank so that I could trade a load of lira for a much more manageable stack of Swiss francs.

Payday ought to be uneventful, but it was once used to express displeasure. The conductor Herbert von Karajan was what you might call a prima donna. His ego was so big that a joke made the rounds: “Did you hear that God is looking for a psychiatrist? He thinks he’s von Karajan.” On one occasion at La Scala he so irritated everyone that he got paid in the lowest denomination of lira possible. At intermission a small mountain of bills was left stacked in his dressing room.

I am all for tradition, but Italy has one that I think is ready for the dustbin of history: the claque. Think of it as “fans for hire.” Comprised of a small but vocal group of locals, the claque exists at virtually every opera house in Italy, large or small. If you pay them off they will shower you with applause and screams of support. If you don’t pay them off they will be conspicuously silent or, worse, boo you relentlessly. Many singers believe it is easiest just to pay them. I sympathize. It takes courage to be an opera singer and there is no sense incurring any additional stress.

Still, the claque doesn’t always get its way. On one occasion the bass Nicola Rossi-Lemeni was singing the title role of Wozzeck for Palermo and the capo of the claque showed up to collect. Clearly the capo didn’t know much about Wozzeck. With its brooding plot, through-composed style, and fragmented vocalism, it offers no clear opportunities for an audience to applaud. Knowing that the claque could neither help nor hurt him, Nicola told the capo, “I’m sorry, I have no arias,” and sent him away empty-handed.

On another occasion, James McCracken was doing Otello for the Verdi Festival. The capo showed up and Jimmy handed him twice the normal amount. “And now I have a favour to ask,” he told the capo.

“Of course, maestro,” the capo responded, expecting a request for extra applause here or there.

“Tell your friends not to applaud for me at all,” Jimmy said. “Because even if only one person applauds, I want to know it’s for me.”

The capo took the money and the claque sat on its hands. The rest of the audience, however, exploded with some of the most feverish and impassioned applause I’ve ever heard in my life.