Mid-Life Crisis

I don’t consider myself much of a churchgoer. But I can honestly say that I’ve heard my fair share of scripture — most of it preached to me by Jon Vickers. One of the greatest tenors who ever lived, Jon had a talent that was unique, sometimes difficult, and, when fully ignited, impossible to ignore. He was also a champion Bible-thumper, a quality that is exceedingly rare in an opera singer. If you crossed a fire-and-brimstone preacher with Maria Callas, you might very well have gotten Jon Vickers.

He was at his best when playing outsiders like Florestan, Siegmund, and Canio — the larger-than-life figures who are essentially loners. I think it was a case of art imitating life. When playing an outsider, Jon merely had to be himself: intense, single-minded, above the law. He was nonpareil in the title role of Peter Grimes, though I’d heard that the composer, Benjamin Britten, was less than impressed. I once asked Jon, “Is it true that Britten doesn’t like your Grimes?” Irritably, he responded, “Oh, what does he know!” In this case, I have to say Jon knew better.

In 1976 I was invited to create a new production of Handel’s Samson for Dallas Opera, with Jon in the title role, soprano Patricia Wells as Delilah, mezzo-soprano Maureen Forrester as Micah, and Nicola Rescigno conducting. I had a funny feeling from the get-go. My only previous experience with Handel — a Giulio Cesare for the UCLA Opera Workshop — had been such a disaster that on that basis alone I was convinced I had a Handel curse. But I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to work with Dallas’s excellent cast, not to mention the sheer challenge of something new.

Dramatically, the part seemed to suit Jon to a tee. In Handel’s version Samson is blind at the outset and never has to relate to others. I thought it was perfect for Jon. Another “outsider” role. The musical side of things, however, was a rough ride. Jon had sung Samson before, notably at Covent Garden, and the Dallas production was going to be a tune-up for him to do the role at the Metropolitan Opera. But he was not really a Handelian. That kind of singing requires a discipline and temperament quite different from his. It didn’t help that Rescigno wasn’t a Handel specialist either. Jon sensed this almost instantly and began to go his own way. For example, in order to get through certain difficult passages he would push the tempo, only to discover that he couldn’t maintain that speed when it came to the fioratura — whereupon he would scream at poor Nicola, who had been merely obliging Jon in the first place. Jon’s shouts of “No, goddamn it, too fast!” became a familiar phrase at our rehearsals.

When the curtain rises Samson is in chains. No problem, I thought, as I began to stage. All Jon has to do is stand there.

It should have been easy. But Jon was dissatisfied with the wooden prop chains. “No, no, no, Lotfi,” he grumbled. “I need some weight to work against. I have to feel them.” Jon was hardly a ninety-pound weakling. Giving him something to “work against” meant hefty, large-linked metal chains. Now we had a new problem. Every time Jon so much as flinched, the unmistakable sound of clanking metal would echo into the house. It was realistic, yes, but often quite a distraction. Patricia’s role wasn’t that big, and she was mostly featured in Act One. With Jon moving around, however, every time she opened her mouth you couldn’t help but think of the Anvil Chorus. He wasn’t intentionally sabotaging her, only reacting like any good actor. Even the slightest shift would cause the clank clank clank. Patricia was so distraught that she was reduced to tears.

Samson in Dallas, with Jon Vickers and the funeral bier, 1976.

Eventually Jon decided it was time for our first Bible lesson. I was staging one of the many large chorus scenes and I must have said the wrong thing. Interrupting angrily, Jon proclaimed, “Lotfi, you have no idea what this scene is about!” He then proceeded to cite chapter and verse, his voice booming throughout the theatre. “Thus sayeth the Son of Man … Who in the eyes of the godly … And there shall rise up …” Jon had memorized impressive swaths of the Christian holy book, and he could go on forever. It was the kind of display that could have been found in a revival tent somewhere in the backwoods of the American Midwest. I figured it was easiest to let him rant. At last he came to a stop, his eyes blazing with a unique blend of righteousness and contempt. I continued with the rehearsal.

Our next Bible lesson was not long in coming. This time I knew I had to do something or risk having my entire rehearsal period hijacked. “Lotfi,” Jon thundered, “you just don’t understand! In the BIBLE …” And off he went.

I stood facing him calmly and when he paused for a breath I spoke up. “Jon, I think you’re forgetting one thing.”

“What is it?” he muttered.

“You see, I’m a Muslim.”

“Well, goddamn it, you’re a Muslim. You must believe in something!”

“Of course. But what I believe might not be what you believe.”

In fact, I am the son of a Christian mother and a Muslim father and had been raised in both traditions. I wasn’t about to share that with Jon, though. He wasn’t well versed in the similarities and differences between the two faiths, and I knew I could use that to keep him off balance. Jon was serious about his religion, but I had a feeling that the real reason he was turning the stage into a pulpit, at least for this production, was because he was insecure about the music. It had nothing to do with the Bible, but rather the score.

Incidentally, Birgit Nilsson was the only one who could successfully rein in Jon’s religious zeal. Whenever he would start preaching she would give him a baleful eye, raise a hand, and simply say, “Jon, now we rehearse!” It worked every time.

The Good Book didn’t figure into Jon’s next eruption. At the end of the opera Samson is dead and a kind of funeral takes place — a lavish celebration of his soul, featuring a major chorus and ballet. Samson, even in death, is the focal point, so I had my designer build a funeral bier centre stage. To make sure the audience had a good view, I had the bier tilted up and faced squarely to the house. All Jon had to do was lie there while the chorus sang and the dancers circled him. I was fairly confident that Jon could lie still and do nothing, so there was no reason to call him to those rehearsals. I should have known better. Jon saw what I had planned for the first time at the dress rehearsal, and initially climbed onto the bier without protest. The scene started well enough, with the chorus singing beautifully and the dancers, choreographed by Brian Macdonald, swirling reverently. But after a few minutes, Jon sat bolt upright and yelled, “What the hell is going on here?”

I thought it terribly obvious, but I calmly explained, “Jon, this is a celebration. Your people are honouring your soul and spirit.”

“Nope,” he replied. “Nobody moves. And sure as hell, no goddamn ballet.”

In case you’re wondering, Jon may have been a devoted Christian, but somehow he was not immune to taking the Lord’s name in vain — with remarkable alacrity in fact.

Stunned, I pointed out that the score called for a ballet — oh, and that we were doing a little thing called opera, which often calls for both movement and singing. “I’m dead,” he said, his voice rising. “So that’s it. All this movement and dance business will be a distraction.” After considerable back and forth, and with the clock ticking on my rehearsal, I gave up. I knew we had reached the point where there would be no further discussion. But Jon had more on his mind. “And what the hell is this?” he grimaced, referring to the bier. “I can’t lay like this. It’s a bad angle for me. I’ll look ridiculous to the audience.”

“Fine, Jon,” I said. “We can adjust it.” But shifting it left or right put Jon in silhouette, giving a most pronounced view of his rather rotund midriff. Shifting it so that it faced upstage provided everyone with a view of the back of his wig. No angle seemed to satisfy him, and all of the shifting was beginning to get absurd.

Angrily, Jon growled, “Fine, Lotfi, do whatever the hell you want. But no ballet!” And with that he stormed off the stage for the day. So did Brian, who was so fed up that he left the theatre and went straight to the airport to catch the first available flight back home to Toronto.

It turns out that Jon had stormed out of his own birthday party. Maureen had learned that on the day of this very rehearsal he was turning fifty, and had thoughtfully organized a little celebration for her co-star. We had planned to surprise Jon with a cake and a thundering version of “Happy Birthday” sung by a stage full of opera singers, which is about as impressive a rendering as you can imagine. She had even collected money for a gift. Jon, alas, was long gone by then. The gift was returned, the cake went to the canteen where it was promptly gobbled up by hungry performers and stagehands, and I invited Maureen out for a drink. “Perhaps Jon is having a mid-life crisis,” she mused.

Jon found one last opportunity to climb onto his pulpit. Two of Dallas Opera’s wealthy patrons, a proper “old money” couple, threw a party for us at their ranch, a fancy house on a huge lot just outside of the city where it seemed that little actual ranching took place. It was a hot afternoon, with the temperature hovering around ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit, and although the house was comfortably air-conditioned, our hosts, apparently desiring to show off the fabulous fireplace, had a roaring blaze going. Still, it was quite the elegant affair, and the beautifully dressed crowd acted with antebellum decorum. The hostess floated around the room graciously and I had a hard time keeping my eyes off her — primarily because she was a dead ringer for the actress Billie Burke, best remembered as Glinda the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz.

As with any proper home of this type, the family Bible had pride of place, showcased on a beautiful wooden lectern. Jon found it in time for the dessert buffet. The guests, conversing in small groups, had just begun to enjoy the delicate sweets when they became aware of a fast-building rumble. Gripping the lectern as if succumbing to a reverie Jon began to proclaim various passages, occasionally pounding a fist for emphasis. One by one, the guests fell silent, either out of habit, courtesy, or sheer incredulity. Jon hoisted the rather hefty book into one hand and began to roam, as if seeking converts in a tent full of sinners, before planting himself in front of the fireplace. It was quite the vision: his impassioned face perspiring and red, his powerful voice echoing off the rafters, and the flames leaping behind him. Now fully transfigured by religious ecstasy, he closed the Bible with a righteous snap, returned it to the lectern, and said simply, “I have to leave.” Out he marched, leaving an uncomfortable silence in his wake. No one dared move let alone speak.

The silence was broken by Glinda, our hostess, who chirped up, “Oh me, oh my. I had no idea that I was having the good Lord over for dinner.”