the Rio Norma

Rio de Janeiro is justifiably famous for its Carnival. Less so for its opera. From where I stand, the two have an awful lot in common, though Carnival is probably less chaotic. Granted, I only directed in Rio once, in 1980. Considering the bizarre production and a dozen other lunacies I don’t think I could have withstood a return engagement.

To start with, the casting was a bit unorthodox. Grace Bumbry, a fabulous artist, was singing the title role. But Grace, for all of her greatness, was essentially a mezzo-soprano, and Norma is very much a soprano role. To be fair, Grace had sung Norma before. In fact, just a few years earlier she had pulled off an unusual feat at Covent Garden, singing both Norma and the mezzo-soprano role of Adalgisa in the same production — Norma to Josephine Veasey and Adalgisa to Montserrat Caballé. But it never was the best fit. I once asked Grace why she, one of the world’s leading mezzos, even bothered with soprano repertoire at all. In typical fashion she responded bluntly. “Honey,” she said, “sopranos get better fees.”

I engaged one of my favourite designers, Beni Montresor. After a number of preliminary meetings in Canada, he left for Rio to oversee construction of sets and costumes. Beni was a terrific artist, and he had created many successful productions for me. But something happened to him in Rio. Maybe it was Carnival, which was in full swing while he was there.

I arrived at the venue, the Theatro Municipal do Rio de Janeiro, and immediately started doing double takes. For the female choristers Beni had created glitzy chiffon robes that flashed with sparkly sequins; the huge headdresses were covered with shiny conch shells. They all looked sensational, like Josephine Baker, or the cancan dancers at the Moulin Rouge. There was only one problem: they were supposed to be playing temple virgins.

Norma presides as high priestess over this temple of chastity, but Grace’s costume was even more outlandish: gold, purple, red — literally a kaleidoscope of riotous colours — and peppered with jewels that shimmered seductively under the lights. There is a wonderful moment in Act One where Norma sings about the occupying Romans, proclaiming that they will be “destroyed by their decadence.” Yet here she was, looking about as decadent as you could get.

Then there were the bloodthirsty Druids, played by the men’s chorus. Beni dressed them up in a kind of modified samba-warrior fashion, with a form-fitting top that widened to a billowy bottom. Artistic merit aside, the design was less than practical. For one thing, these costumes were stiff and heavy. Plus they were so long that it was hard to walk without tripping. Then there were the bullet-shaped helmets, outfitted with cumbersome nose guards that made it difficult to see anything. On top of all of this, the choristers carried spears, meaning they only ever had one free hand to untangle themselves from their own costumes. When exiting the stage, invariably they would, in nearly perfect unison, (1) stoop over, their spears clanking as they struggled against the stiffness of the fabric; (2) yank up their costumes by the hem; (3) tilt their heads at a funny angle in order to see around the nose guards; and (4) stumble over themselves into the wings. It was straight out of Looney Tunes.

Beni must have been so enamored of the Carnival atmosphere that he couldn’t help but let it influence his design. I gave him a single wide-eyed look of incredulity, but otherwise didn’t make a fuss. There wasn’t much I could do. We only had so many days before opening night.

The Ringling Brothers could have sold tickets to the rehearsals. Grace never really sang out, perhaps in order to save her voice. Unfortunately, our already unsteady chorus was supposed to get most of its cues from her — especially in Act One, which has a long stretch of back-and-forth between Norma and her followers. Often Grace wouldn’t even whisper her lines — she’d mouth them. The whole chorus would lean in as if to say, “Excuse me? What was that?” and everyone would take a guess at the vocal entrance.

Our maestro, Henry Lewis, fared no better in the pit. Henry and I had met as students in Los Angeles. Back then he was a cellist, and when he made the transition to the podium I happened to attend the very first opera he conducted. That performance featured a modest orchestra of students and amateurs, but he probably would have given anything to have such a group with him for this Norma. As it was, we had musicians from the Brazilian National Orchestra, an outfit with a name that sounded more professional than it was. The score is fairly simple and straightforward, but they didn’t seem to be able to play more than a page at a stretch without falling apart. We had a good old-fashioned train wreck on our hands. The only ray of sunshine was our Adalgisa, played by the fine mezzo-soprano Florence Quivar.

I was staying at the Oro Verde, a hotel on Copacabana run by Swiss nationals. While I didn’t know much about Rio, I had a feeling that I would appreciate Swiss order and security. I didn’t know the half of it. Rio was enchanting, but you had to be careful. Without my asking, an escort was assigned to me: every time I was driven from the hotel to the theatre, he was in the car with me. When leaving the theatre, two guards, with batons at the ready, would make sure I got safely into a taxi. I knew I had to watch myself, but I was beginning to think that all of the supervision was overkill. That is until I came back to the Oro Verde one night to see that a gang had overrun the neighbouring hotel. Smashing windows, stealing everything that wasn’t bolted down, running amok in the hallways, they looked like a bunch of pirates swarming over a hapless schooner.

The large districts known as favelas were reputed to be the most dangerous parts of Rio. A story (certainly apocryphal) was going around about the recent visit of Pope John Paul II: it was said that while touring one of the favelas, his Holiness had extended his hand so an admirer could kiss the papal ring, and that was the last anyone had seen of the anello piscatorio. A fellow guest at the Oro Verde, a German photographer, was obsessed with visiting one of these favelas and talked about it endlessly. He was a particularly arrogant gentleman and could not believe the stories we had all heard. Over and over the concierge warned him to stay away. The more he was warned, the more determined he became to go. “I’m a photographer,” he would say. “And German. Do you understand? German. They have no reason to harm me. In fact, they will be pleased that I am visiting. You’ll see.” One morning, he loaded himself up with his gear and off he went. He probably fancied himself going on some kind of exotic safari to a strange and mystical land where the feckless and unadventurous feared to go.

Later that afternoon he stumbled back into the lobby. He was hard to miss, as he was wearing nothing but his undershorts. His clothes, equipment, watch, glasses — everything that could be removed from him had been removed from him. As staffers rushed to his aid, he woozily tried to explain what happened. The concierge eyed him paternally and said, “Sir, you are lucky to have gotten out with your life.” I don’t think Mr. Photographer ventured any farther than the hotel lobby after that experience.

Some nights I would take a walk on the beach, occasionally witnessing religious ceremonies — Macumba, I think — illuminated by huge bonfires and the traditional luminaria (lighted candles inside of paper bags). Practitioners would sacrifice chickens and perform mesmerizing dances. I had seen nothing like it before, and I found myself thinking that it was a whole lot more compelling than my train wreck Norma.

The only reason that rehearsals didn’t drive me completely up the wall was that our venue was so spectacular. The Theatro Municipal is an exact replica of the Palais Garnier, Paris’s jewel of an opera house. You couldn’t help but be impressed every single time you walked through the doors. Practically every detail was a work of art. And how often does one get to avail oneself of a belle époque bathroom constructed almost entirely of mahogany and brass? It was more than enough to turn a routine human function into a special event, something to look forward to with unnatural relish.

Surely the building was far more impressive than the artistic enterprise that was taking place within it. Our dress rehearsal lasted more than five hours, and we still hadn’t gotten to the end of the opera by the time we had to stop. Admirably, Grace pulled every trick in the opera singer book to bring her role to life on the stage, but she couldn’t really sing it. Between the costumes, the chorus fumbling around the stage, and the very odd sounds coming from every direction, it looked less like an opera performance and more like the very drunken, very broken-down end of Carnival.

I understand the performances weren’t much better. Alas, I can’t say for sure because I simply couldn’t bear to stick around for them. By this point I had given up. Or rather given in. When this happens, all you can do is grab your feather boa and join in the dance. Samba your troubles away, and all of that. The show wouldn’t be much to speak of, I thought, but I would never forget the “facilities.”

On top of everything, the theatre’s intendant absconded with all of the money allocated to the production and I didn’t get paid. Considering all I had been through, I was not in the least surprised. This Norma was such a fiasco that it practically demanded to end in a criminal act. That might have been the end of it, but a few months later a friend from Rio visited me in Toronto. Very graciously she told me how much she had enjoyed Norma, adding, “You must come back to direct another opera soon.”

“My dear,” I responded, “I can’t afford to!” With that, I told her the whole sad story. My friend apparently had more pull than I realized: a cheque arrived from the theatre shortly thereafter. All things considered, it still wasn’t enough to make me want to return!