Horsing Around in Vienna

For most people, “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere” evokes thoughts of New York City. But for the longest time these lyrics made me think of Vienna. My obsession was fuelled by two of my greatest artistic influences, both of whom had deep ties to that city. Vienna was where my voice teacher, Tilly Zweig, had sung Sophie (to Lotte Lehmann’s Marschallin) in Der Rosenkavalier under the baton of Richard Strauss. And Vienna was where my mentor, Dr. Herbert Graf, had been born and raised; his father was the city’s leading music critic for years, his godfather was none other than Gustav Mahler, he started his career as an assistant to Max Reinhardt, and as a child he had been analyzed by Sigmund Freud. You could hardly be more Viennese than Dr. Graf! I had heard all of the stories and I wanted to be part of that long and glorious heritage. As I built my career, my dream was not only to work in Vienna but also to become a major success there. It didn’t quite work out that way.

Vienna’s two opera companies — the Volksoper and the Staatsoper — are among the best known in the world. The former is considered more populist, offering lighter fare like the operettas of Franz Lehar and Johann Strauss, while the latter is older and more prestigious. In 1971 I debuted at the Volksoper with Showboat produced by Marcel Prawy, who was actually affiliated with both companies. Prawy had made it his mission to introduce classic American musicals to Vienna, all sung in German-language translation. Thanks to him, local audiences first experienced works like Carousel, Porgy and Bess, and Kiss Me Kate (or, as it was billed, Küss mich Kätchen). Prawy had assembled a terrific group for my Showboat, including designer Oliver Smith and choreographer Todd Bolender. Leonard Bernstein, who was in town to work at the Vienna Philharmonic, hovered around my rehearsals and I was terribly flattered — until I realized he was only interested in my handsome German ingénue, a young man who turned out to be less of a singer than a hustler.

As it happened, my time in Vienna coincided with the Staatsoper’s annual Opera Ball, which is a combination of cotillion, carnival, and all-around upper crust to-do held in the opera house itself. Marcel invited a number of us from Showboat and, considering the price of admission (up to several thousand dollars), we otherwise would have had no chance of attending. There was a strict dress code, though, which for men meant the old-style “soup and fish” (tuxedo with white tie and tails) — attire that none of us had. Coming to our rescue, Marcel sent us to the Volksoper’s production facilities where we were outfitted with costumes from The Merry Widow. We had no trouble fitting right in. It was the only time in my life that I wore tails.

Going to the Opera Ball was like going back in time a century or two. Unimaginable elegance, style, and privilege coursed through every square inch of the regal old building. The night was pure magic. It was also my first glimpse inside the Vienna Staatsoper. I was more than impressed — I was enthralled. As I wandered around like Alice in Wonderland I dared to imagine, Will I work here some day? The house of Mahler and Strauss, of Krips and von Karajan? And then I got my chance: the Vienna Staatsoper invited me to create a new production of Puccini’s La Fanciulla del West for the 1976 season. It was an ideal first assignment. Not only did I love the work, but also I had done it several times, most notably with Carol Neblett and Plácido Domingo. Standing there with that offer in my hand, I experienced a vision: I saw myself taking up the mantle once held by my beloved teachers, and becoming part of an extraordinary tradition. It would be Mahler and Strauss, Graf and Zweig — and Mansouri.

But, as the saying goes, appearances can be deceiving. Reality began to deviate from my fantasy at the very first rehearsal when I worked with the chorus on Act One. Now, granted, this is a terrifically complex assignment, but that’s no excuse for what I discovered: the chorus of the fabled Vienna Staatsoper didn’t know the music. This made my job impossible. It wasn’t merely a matter of lining up everyone so they could pour out a conventional number like “Va, pensiero.” Fanciulla moves at a pace similar to its source, a play by David Belasco, and the chorus functions almost as a principal character, with numerous rhythmically challenging interjections and a lot of physical activity. On top of that, it has a slew of small parts, all drawn from the chorus. In other words, unless everyone knows the music cold, you have no chance. As it turns out, my chorus couldn’t even stand still and sing it. Scores in hand, eyes glued on the equally clueless assistant conductor, they stumbled through every single measure. I released them early. This is the Vienna Staatsoper? I thought, feeling like a kid whose balloon had just been burst.

“When you get very angry,” German director Günther Rennert once told me, “wait twenty-four hours before showing it. Make sure you’re calm when you say something hard. Then your anger will be justifiable, not just an outburst.” It was time to apply that fine piece of advice. The next day’s rehearsal started off just as badly and I called the chorus together. “Gentlemen,” I intoned, “it was always my dream to work at the Vienna Staatsoper. This is where Mahler and Strauss conducted. The greatest singers in the world routinely grace the stage here. I had anticipated one of the most thoroughly professional experiences of my career. But I didn’t realize that I was going to be faced with an amateur chorus.” There was an audible gasp, and it was the chorus’s turn to look like a kid whose balloon had just been burst. I again released them early.

There were several newspapers in Vienna, and all of them followed opera closely. The next day the headline read: “MANSOURI SAYS STAATSOPER CHORUS IS AMATEURISH.” I began to get indignant looks when walking around the theatre.

One morning, the rehearsal schedule called for me to report to the Spanish Riding School. The purpose: to select horses for my production. Fanciulla traditionally features live horses; most notably, the heroine, Minnie, makes her last entrance literally riding to the rescue of her lover, Ramerrez. Options are usually limited to whatever trained horses happen to be available locally. But this was Vienna. I was going to have my pick of horses from one of the world’s oldest and most prestigious riding academies, home to the legendary Lipizzaner stallions. While I had heard of them, I had never seen one in the flesh. What an extraordinary treat, I thought.

One of the fabulous Lipizzaner stallions.

The Spanish Riding School was first named in the sixteenth century, though it carries on a military tradition that dates back as far as Ancient Greece. Performances take place in the Winter Riding School, built in the early eighteenth century. Sunny and ornate, the hall looks for all the world like a fancy ballroom — except that the floor is covered with carefully groomed earth instead of parquet. I figured it would be a simple matter of looking over a few of the stately animals and asking a few questions. Oh, no, no, no. Any visit to the Spanish Riding Academy is an event. As with the Opera Ball, going in was like going back in time. A colonel, who looked as if he had stepped out of a tintype from the Franco-Prussian War, greeted me. With impeccable manners he escorted me to his richly appointed office and offered me a cognac. It was nine o’clock in the morning. Then it was off to the royal box to formally choose the four horses for my production. An orchestra, arranged in the tier above me, started up a sprightly tune. And then entered the horses, their riders dressed in spotless eighteenth-century riding gear. Upon entering, they saluted me with a flourish. All of this for little old me? I later learned that they were saluting the portrait of Charles the Sixth suspended behind the royal box — a tradition. The riders, employing an inscrutable language of physical and aural cues, got the horses to perform moves with unnerving precision. To say I was impressed is a woeful understatement. These horses filled me with childlike wonder. Who could ask for better? There was only one problem. Every horse shown to me was white. Turning to my escort, I naively asked, “Herr Colonel, do you have any brown horses?” His lip curled a fraction of an inch but, given his otherwise stiff bearing, it was enough to tell me that I had asked about as foolish a question as could be imagined. Very quickly I learned that all Lipizzaner stallions are white. They’ve been bred that way for centuries. As impressive as they were, I seriously began to worry about how this would play onstage. Fanciulla is set during the California Gold Rush. I needed realism. One white horse? Fine. Even two would work. But having four matching white horses would look contrived. If they made an entrance such as I had just witnessed, my Fanciulla would begin to look like a circus routine. But by even daring to ask for anything other than a white horse I had created a scandal.

The next day the headline read: “MANSOURI ASKS FOR MAKEUP FOR THE FAMOUS LIPIZZANERS.” The indignant looks increased.

At last our cast arrived. Carol Neblett, my Minnie, was an old friend. Franco Bonisolli, my Ramerrez, was an old enemy. And Giangiacomo Guelfi, my Jack Rance, was from the old school; like opera singers of bygone days, he did little more than “park and bark.” I immediately arranged for Carol to practise at the Spanish Riding School a few times per week. “Lotfi,” she said, a trace of annoyance in her voice, “I hardly need to do this. I’ve ridden horses.”

“Not like these,” I replied.

After her first day of practice she rushed up to me excitedly. “What the hell, Lotfi,” she gushed. “I just raised my little pinkie and the horses started to dance!” She was as enchanted by them as I was.

Unfortunately, Carol ended up coming down with a nasty bug that put her out of commission for ten days. With a sneer, Franco said, “No soprano, no Franco.” Rehearsals became surreal: I essentially had Guelfi and the chorus, none of whom could do anything more than stand still. My earthy, often rough-and-tumble staging was looking like a concert with costumes. When Carol was well enough to return, Franco still wouldn’t get near her. “She might be contagious,” he announced.

At the end of my rope, I called the prop master over. “Would you kindly bring a surgical mask for Mr. Bonisolli?” I asked. Franco wasn’t amused.

I was more than a little nervous about our first rehearsal with the Lipizzaners. My obtuse chorus had gotten marginally better, but still kept all eyes glued on the prompter; it wasn’t what you would call verismo. And now I was adding large, very powerful animals. From the wings, Carol had to ride one horse and guide another down a long ramp to centre stage. The other two horses, essentially decoration, were preset. Carol, in typically fearless fashion, started down the ramp, singing her guts out. But the horse she was riding slipped off the ramp and fell hard. Carol took a nasty-looking spill — and the chorus, rather than rushing to her aid, scattered to the wings like rats from a sinking ship. Carol, every bit an all-American, got up, dusted herself off, and screamed, “Why, you fucking chickens! Thanks a whole hell of a lot!” — along with various and sundry suggestions that the chorus might have found not only highly insulting but physically challenging.

The next day the headline read … ah, by that point, I had stopped reading the newspapers. I could only imagine what they were saying.

Opening night was not terribly exciting. The audience gave a warm ovation, but I didn’t take a curtain call. Truthfully, I was crestfallen. I had arrived in Vienna with high hopes, but this one experience had thoroughly dashed all of my fantasies and expectations. I had no burning desire to return, and they never asked.