OperaBlog by Pittsburgh Opera

Looking back

2007-10-18T09:16:00.001-04:00

We've been back in Pittsburgh for just over a week now and the hectic allbeit enjoyable nature of working at an Opera Company is in full swing with Madama Butterfly in performances and preperation for L'Elisir damore underway. I thought I would take a moment to share a few favorite pictures of mine after a brief glance through the over 500 that I took.

Two of the pictures are of ancient temples built to Athena and Poseido that we saw them in Paestum. It's so hard to imagine that they date back to 500 BC and are still some of the "youngest" ruins we saw.

Our first evening in Napoli we had the pleasure of meeting and dining with the Scheetz and McCormick Families of Pittsburgh and Rhode Island. Here's a little shot of us at a trattoria in Napoli on the water. Pardon my lack of dinner atire, this was during the missing luggage days!

Below is a beautiful fresco inside an ancient, Roman bathouse.

This is the organ inside the Cathedral in Dubrovnik, Croatia. Not quite as ancient, but still lovely.

These were a few favorites of mine. More pictures to come as I can sort through them!

Dean

PHOTO journal

2007-10-17T20:33:00.001-04:00

The ship

The view from the ship

With Lorraine and Margaret, two of the Pittsburgh Opera family on board

Did we mention that the airline lost Dean's luggage for three days at the beginning of the trip? Here he is moments after his luggage was returned....

The view from atop the city walls of Dubrovnik

Jean-Anne and Brack Hattler with me and James in Dubrovnik before the rain hit

When James "found his Lesniak." His last name means hazelnut in Croatian. We found this jar of hazelnuts in a souvenir shop.

With Jean-Anne after our last concert on board... do we really have to go back?

Cruising through the grand canal of Venice at sunrise on our last morning.

As you can see from the pictures, we saw many amazing things and met many wonderful people. Performing on the Corinthian was incredibly rewarding and the guests on board expressed to us all many times how much the music had added to the trip. We all made many wonderful memories during the 10 days. Thank goodness we have a stunning production of Madama Butterfly waiting for us back in Pittsburgh...!

Thank you to Pittsburgh Opera for making this unforgettable trip possible. Here's to many more concerts in the mediterranean!!

-Deborah
The trip took place September 30-October 9, 2007.

Barefoot and Happy

2007-10-17T19:39:00.000-04:00

Sometimes you just gotta take off your shoes and feel the ground touching your skin. It’s even better when it’s raining and you are walking the streets of the old city in Dubrovnik.

James and I walked around atop the old city walls and gazed at the breathtaking views of the red rooftops and the water in the distance. About two-thirds of our way around the wall, we got caught in a torrential downpour! Luckily, we were close to a staircase that led to street level and we managed to get down without sliding onto our rear ends. We found shelter underneath an archway, but, after about ten minutes, realized that the uneven ground below us was allowing the rainwater to collect into a huge pool of water. James stepped up onto a wooden plank lying by the wall and I jumped up onto a precarious bench and nearly flipped off. After a few minutes of laughing at how ridiculous I looked perched on the bench, we realized that the rain was not letting up. We were going to be in worse shape if we stayed trapped in the middle of the ever-growing lake forming around us. So, off my shoes and socks went (because really is there anything worse than wet socks?), and James and I started running through the winding streets towards the main plaza to meet up with Dean. We ran, we splashed, we yelped, and we giggled. And boy did we get some stares from the people we passed. We finally made it to the entrance of the museum where we dried off. One of the guests on the cruise, Steve, caught me in this great candid photograph, clutching my shoes and heading for shelter.

As if the afternoon couldn’t get any better, James finally found his Lesniak! James had been looking for proof of his family name meaning hazelnut in Croatian. We found jars of hazelnuts with his name on them, Lesnjak gelato, and plenty of Lesnjak chocolates which we bought up to bring back to our colleagues in Pittsburgh. The day ended with a fabulous performance of Dalmatian folk dances and klapa singing. The costumes and the performers were colorful, passionate, and energized. It was hard to stay still in our seats!

It was another magical day.
This trip happened October 7.

A Special Treat Followed the Concert

2007-10-06T16:36:00.000-04:00

As James already mentioned in his post, last night's concert was a big hit! The highlight of the program for me was listening to James' piano solo. I had goose bumps on my arms and the thuderous applause at the end confirmed that I was not the only one who felt that way!

I had the opportunity to sing one of my favorite arias: the Vilja song from Franz Lehar's "The Merry Widow." I mention this not only because it was a joy to sing it again, but also because I made a most unusual discovery about one of the cruise's passengers as a result of singing it.

One of the guests on the trip, named George, approached me shyly at the end of the night with a glimmer in his eyes. He told me that he wanted me to know how much it had meant to hear me sing "Vilja." It had brought back strong memories for him of his mother and her singing. It turns out that his mother was a celebrated Czech soprano by the name of Jarmila Novotna (1907-1994)! She sang regularly at the Metropolitan Opera from 1940-56 and was well-known for her portrayals of the greatest lyric soprano roles, including Violetta, Gilda, Adina, Madama Butterfly, and Manon Lescaut. She also sang regularly at the Vienna State Opera House. It was at this important house where she created the title role in Franz Lehar's last and most ambitious operetta called "Giuditta" in 1934. James also pointed out that the famous Lippen Schweigen duet traditionally inserted into productions of "The Merry Widow" was originally written for "Giuditta." As you may imagine, Lehar's music was extremely important to Novotna's career and to her family.

I have to say I was relieved to learn about all this AFTER the concert! (NO PRESSURE!) I was so touched to hear him speak about his mother and flattered when he told me that my singing had brought back vivid memories of her. What power music has to pull on our heart's strings!

We are all eagerly awaiting tomorrow's adventure in Croatia!
Ciao! Deborah

"Tonight" (well, technically yesterday night)

2007-10-06T16:16:00.000-04:00

I have always said that I had a dream job, but never did I think that my dream job would lead me to a dream excursion as well! I decided to spend yesterday morning jogging around Syracuse, a lovely town with Greek, Italian, and of course Sicillian influences. I felt that my walkman was anachronistic as I jogged through "old world" streets while listening to a recording of "Flight," the new opera for the resident artists this year. As we made our way around Sicilia, the towns got more intimate and the dialect became thicker!

In addition to the fantastic friendships I have made with our fellow passengers, I have also gotten to know members of the crew. Dean has been practicing his greek with both crew members and passengers, while I was able to learn that indeed, my last name (Lesniak) does mean hazelnut in Croation (thanks to a lovely Croatian bartender on the vessel named Anna.)

Last evening's concert was inspiring for many reasons, but most of all because I genuinely felt moved by the emotional energy our audience was feeding us. I saw tears in various sets of eyes during Dean's "Ideale," Deb's "Vilia" and the West Side Story drew a similar response. We all owe kudos to Mark Trawka for planning such exquisite repertoire for these concerts!

This concert also presented me with an opportunity to perform a solo of my own-- and to fit the opera theme, I chose the "Rigoletto Paraphrase" of Franz Liszt. I was overwhelmed by the attentiveness of the audience, the solid wall of uniformed crew members who lined up to see us in the back of the lounge, and the gentle rocking of the ship that serves as a constant reminder that I'm living a dream here on board.

After the concert, Deb and I spent the evening into the late hours talking with our new friends as the evening unfolded perfectly. I hope our friends at home are faring well, and although we'll be sad to leave, I know this experience is changing and inspiring us in ways we had not imagined.

(Insert cute song title here) :-D

2007-10-06T12:12:00.000-04:00

We sailed into Atronto this morning and spent the day walking the lovely cobble stone streets lined with old fashioned stores and coffee shops. This lovely little city was lined with tiny fishing boats and a beatiful lighthouse that James, Deborah and I jogged past this morning. I especially enjoyed watching the fishermen in the harbor prepare for the days work. Tomorrow we sail to Dubrovnik, which I am especially excited about as I've never been to Croatia. Stay tuned for details!!!

Ciao!

Dean

Capturing a Moment in Time

2007-10-05T10:46:00.000-04:00

It's been three days of brilliant sun, shimmering water, majestic temples and cathedrals, fascinating museums, and delightful meals with new friends on board the luxurious Corinthian II cruise ship. From Napoli to Pompeii to Agropoli to Palermo, we have travelled to some of the most magnificent destinations in southern Italy.

For me, the highlight so far was our visit to Pompeii. As we arrived via tour bus, we all gaped at the imposing Mt. Vesuvio. I remember learning in school about the amazing city frozen in time, but I never could have imagined the awe I would feel visiting the city myself.

It is hard to believe that, after 2000 years, so much of the original city's structure and spirit has survived. As we wandered through the maze of streets among hundreds of tourists and the many stray dogs who make it their home, I imagined the streets filled with 15,000 people in its heyday. You could see the grooves in the stone streets where carriages once travelled and the large boulders used as stepping stones to avoid the murky and smelly street water. Street after street offered glimpses into what were once homes and shops. Most striking, of course, are the legendary bodies preserved by the imprints left in the ash from the volcano eruption. When the site was excavated, the bodies had obviously decomposed, but the imprints left in the ash remained intact. Archeologists were able to recreate the bodies by pouring plaster into the empty space that remained. The "mummified" bodies and their terrified facial expressions instantly capture a unique moment in time. Two thousand years later, we can see the people of Pompeii facing their last breath on earth. One cannot help but feel transported back in time.

After this chilling experience, we then went into what remained of a villa with an almost completely intact fresco. The painting's vibrant colors light up the wall and it was a breathtaking realization to know that a artist had painted it sometime between 500-400 BC!

This trip offers many opportunities to learn new things and meet new people, but, most importantly, it exposes us all to incredible beauty and inspiration I know we will carry with us for years to come.

Arrivederci for now!
Deborah

My heart is back in Napoli

2007-10-05T03:31:00.000-04:00

With all of the excitement opening the season of the Pittsburgh Opera, it was difficult for me to imagine that I would spend the second week of production for Madama Butterfly many miles away sailing along the Italian coastline! I felt as if I had just met the new family of Resident Artists and the cast of Butterfly, and with all of that excitement and preparation, I couldn't wrap my mind around the amazing opportunity that lay before me.

The afternoon of the exciting performance for the Rising Stars concert, it finally hit me! I felt like one of those game show guests who had just won a cruise-- yet I was going not only to enjoy the view and see the sights, I was also given the opportunity of a lifetime to perform along the coastline that inspired many of the works I regularly perform.

That opportunity was requited last evening during our performance of light Italian-inspired song and opera. It is rare that one gets to perform for an audience that over the past few days, Deb, Dean and I had gotten to know so personally. To add to the feeling that we were performing for people at this point we had considered friends, we had just begun a cruise of some of the most visually inspiring coastlines in the world!

Deb kicked off the program with the Italian Street song making a visually stunning entrance along the back staircase! It was a truly memorable experience to perform this piece within days after being in Napoli and literally hearing the mandolin players on the streets and in the dining area on one of our lunch excusions.

Shortly into the program, Dean was also able to experience singing "Santa Lucia" having just passed near this body of water! As a coach, I can honestly say it was an inspired performance!
Above all, the performance was special because we were performing in an intimate space where we could see the expressions of the audience-- the laughter, the tears, and looks of bliss from the full audience of colleagues, passengers, and crew!

The evening was overwhelmingly received, and not only were the artists granted an ovation after the concert, when we arrived for dinner, we were greeted with applause from the entire ship! Seated at the table, it hit me what a rare and beautiful adventure we were on: not only were we seeing monuments, works of art, and natural landscapes that have inspired centuries of artistic achievement-- we were able to share how inspired we were by this setting and experience with an entire ship of audience members doing what all of us love to do: perform!

What is it that we're living for...?

2007-10-04T16:45:00.000-04:00

I have to say that I was floored by the audience's raving response to tonight's performance. The accolades carried on through desert and cocktails. Sharing the stage with my two pheonomenally gifted new friends and colleagues is now a close second to the first morning's sunrise for a trip highlight.

I was offstage getting "champagne" for Verdi's Libbiamo when Deborah flirted with one of our patrons during her "Quando m'en vo", but I understand it was quite the sight!

Tomorrow we go on to see an Ancient Greek amphitheatre, but we don't have to sing until we return to the ship in the evening. For now, I think I'll enjoy the stars over the Meditteranean sea and the lounge pianist.

Good night.

Dean

We open in Parma, we next play in Venice...

2007-10-04T07:35:00.000-04:00

Well, actually we open in Palermo, but close enough. Palermo is quite a change from yesterday's visit to Agripoli and the ruins of Paestum. The bustling streets reminded me a bit of Napoli, from where we went to the ruins of Pompei.

I have found myself quite taken aback by the strong Greek, Spanish and Arabic influences on the island of Sicilia. We just saw a Byzantine Catholic church that was originally Orthodox Christian and had latin words spelled with Greek letters. It is interesting to see so many influences combine to make one strong, proud ethnicity that even has its own dialect. The melting pot of European nations is also well represented by the crew of the ship. Our hosts come from the Phillipines, Italy, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Germany, Poland, Greece, Croatia and more! Infact my new Greek friend/ship staff member Vasili is recently married to our Croatian hostess Anna. Getting to know these interesting people has been a huge part of the trip for me.

This afternoon the other guests go by bus to the Medievil city of Monreale, which is about 45 mintues away. Deborah, James and I will stay on board to relax a bit and prepare for our first performance on board the Corinthian II for what seems to be an extremely eager audience of opera fans.

Wish us good luck!

Dean K.

I love it when we're Cruisin Together...

2007-10-03T16:55:00.000-04:00

When I reflect on truly memorable moments in my life, and skip cliches such as graduations and weddings (not my own), I have to admit that the list is rather short. I'll never forget my first opera - Romeo et Juliette in 1998 with David Miller singing Romeo, I'll always smile and remember the day I met the young lady who is now my fiancee, and I can't think of getting the phone call inviting me to join the POC without feeling a little foolish; I actually dropped the phone. This morning the list grew a bit. At 5:30 am I woke and went from my Cabin aboard the Corinthian II to the observation deck and watched the Coast of Napoli, lit only by a picturesque lighthouse, fade into the darkness as we set on our way past the isle of Capri and the Amalfi coast on our way to Agripoli.

We were served breakfast al fresco as the coasts rolled by and cameras flashed as if it was the Diamond Horseshoe Gala. I had the pleasure of meeting many new guests this morning, all of whom seem very eager for our first concert of Italian arias, duets and folk songs tomorrow evening. As if the view was not a delight enough, Deborah, James and I spent the early morning jogging around the deck of the ship with sea spray blowing into our faces.

We spent today at Agripoli touring Pasteum, which has temples built by the Ancient Greeks in honor of Poseidon and Athena in 450 BC and an accompanying museum. Of particular interest was a tomb that was opened in the 1970s. Inside the tomb were several vases sealed with wax. When the vases were opened they revealed 2000 year old honey that had been perfectly preserved. Honey was placed in the tomb as a memorial symbol of life everlasting.

On another note, the luggage of seven guests, including me, arrived today after a few days of cat and mouse with the air line.

Tonight we had a lovely dinner party and cocktail hour and are on our way to Palermo where we will spend the day tomorrow. Check back soon for more details and, if I can find a USB cable, some pictures too!

Dean Kokanos

Food for thought - Food at sea

2007-05-10T11:00:00.000-04:00

In Billy Budd, we hear the men grumbling about the bad food. Across the ages, military men the world over have complained about food (and in fact, a huge morale boost for soldiers in the field can be something as simple as a hot meal that resembles home-cooking). Duty always trumps the relaxation of a prandial repast, but how bad could it have been on Billy's Indomitable? You'd be amazed...

First of all, there was no refrigeration, and ships needed to be on station for months at a time. So fresh food was gotten in port and rapidly consumed, and the rest was preserved or kept alive on board. A man-o-war would keep live chickens, ducks, geese, pigeons, sheep, goats, and an occasional calf (all of which had to be fed and watered, and all of which werre eventually slughtered for food, except perhaps for the captain's egg-laying chicken). Melville's novel does not say, but since the Indomitable is sailing in the Narrow Seas (that is, the English Channel, as opposed to the Open Seas) when Billy is impressed, we may assume that she was short-handed but not necessarily short-supplied. So her food stock might yet have greeenstuff and some fresher food. But it could have been bad.

Food is preserved today by cannning, sterilization, pasteurization, refrigeration, and chemical preservatives. We also use traditional methods of pickling, salting, curing, smoking and drying. Louis Pasteur was not even born until 1833, so in the late 18th century of the Indomitable, only the traditional methods were an option. Because a ship is inherently a humid place, dried or smoked foods do not last as long as pickled or salted foods.

Meat (the British were, after all, all about "beef and brawn" and not "all hoppity skippety" like the French) was preserved with salt in wooden barrels. Salt beef (which was deridingly called salt horse) was common, and so much salt was used in preservation that the meat needed to be soaked in seawater for hours just to leach some of the salt out of the meat! But rotten meat was a problem, too – since quartermasters ashore were personally responsible for their stores, an unliked captain would be given barrels that were known to be bad. And to digress a moment, if a captain lost a ship, he was held personally and financially responsible (unless a court-martial absolved him). With great power comes great responsibility.

The ship's bisquit that Dansker gives to Billy was probably hard tack – flour, water, and salt – and was also known as "tooth dullers", "sheet iron" or "molar breakers" . For long voyages, hardtack was baked four times (rather than the more common two), and prepared six months before sailing. After a while, it would often be moldy or infested with weevils or maggots. Since you ate what was given (or else went hungry), sailors would simply knock out the bugs (they're loaded with protein, but am told that they taste somewhat bitter).

Then there is a lovely concoction called "portable soup". There is an excellent description of it in the book "Lobscouse and Spotted Dog", but basically it is the precursor to bullion cubes. Whatever soup stock there was was boiled until "the meat has lost its virtue", then boiled some more. Then dried and cut into flannel-like chunks. Once reconsituted, it was like "luke-warm glue, but it goes down quite well if you don't breathe". Dried peas could also be made into a soup, provided you mashed them to a powder with a marlinspike first.

The mere names of some of the dishes are enough to inspire dread: Burgoo, Skillygalee (oatmeal gruels), Figgy-Dowdy, Spotted Dog (puddings), Frumenty, Dog's Body (pease-pudding), and my favorite, Drowned Baby (a suet pudding).

Of course, the captain and officers ate a bit better. They would set in their own stores of wine and meat, but that is in part because they did not dine with the common sailors (nor even with the midshipmen unless invited). And if they ran low on food (due to bad supplies or poor preservation), it would just not serve to come for'ard 'a begging – they went hungry on short rations, same as everyone else.

The galley was an open fire or a stove. The Indomitable was made entirely of wood (probably some 5,000 trees would have been needed), so cookfires were not welcome any more than necessary. Rough weather could preclude their use entirely, so some meals (especially those before a battle, when cookfires were extinguished) were served cold. Feeding 700 men must have been difficult, but eating the food was, well... unimaginable!

Life on a 74

2007-05-08T13:27:00.000-04:00

Billy Budd is about many thing, but it has a lot to do with life on one of His Majesty's fighting ships. In this case, the Indomitable is a 74 – which means it is a ship of the line with 74 guns. When you see Billy Budd onstage, there are at times over 90 men onstage, and it feels a bit crowded. That is exactly what it was like on a 74 (even moreso!), but for comparison, consider this.

Pretend that the lobby of the Benedum Center is a ship. With a deck that size, our ship would be a Brig or perhaps a 5th or 6th rate ship (the Indomitable would have beeen a second rate ship (this is not an insult) and few ships on the sea would be larger. Nelson's flagship, the HMS Victory, was a first rate with 88 guns on three decks, although a very few ships sported as many as 100 guns. A first-rate ship would be crewed by 700 men, but the 90 men you see onstage would be a fine crew for our imaginary 6th rate.

The lobby would be the main deck, and the gallery below (where the restrooms are) would be belowdecks. Of course, that much space would be enough for two decks – the ceilings would be lower. Our ship would hold perhaps a dozen small cannons, and the masts (there would probably be two) would easily climb 100' into the air – much higher that the Lobby's ceiling. Everything is moved by human muscle, there are only simple machines (like pulleys and wedges) so a large (strong and fit) crew is needed to haul, reef, belay, and splice. It will be cramped to get 90 men in the space available, but it's much much more crowded than that!

You now have to add food, water, ropes, sails, powder and shot, galley and mess, etc., and then figure you'd be on board for over 6 months at the whim of the wind and waves (and orders that were issued from thousands of miles away with no radio), with only two toilets (basically seats of ease that drop straight into the ocean), no showers, and probably only the most very rudimentary medical facilities (a 5th rate would have only a barber, surgeons were rare and none of them washed their hands yet, since antibodies were not speculated upon until the 19th century).

Food is either fresh (so there are live chickens, ducks, sheep and goats on board) or preserved (salt horse, portable soup, and ship's biscuit – and that possibly rotting or infested with weevils), and if you want better you bring it yourself (but remember, refrigeration didn't exist either). Add to that the borborygmus, snoring, and flautus in a closed deck, sleeping between the cannons, working round the clock with equipment that can crush or maim the unwary, going aloft in all weather (which often means clinging to ropes 100' above a pitching deck) to reef and furl sails (ungainly square rigged masses of heavy canvas, sodden with salt and spray, moved with human muscle and little else). And while a thousand leagues from a friendly port, sailors had to effect repairs at sea – everything from mending sails to splicing ropes to baulking leaks to swaying up a new mast to replacing a rudder. And if things went bad, you probably drowned – there were no lifeboats, and if the cutters were successfully launched (no mean feat even in calm conditions), the captain and officers went in first. Sailors avoided learning to swim – going overboard for any reason meant you would almost certainly drown, and they figured it was better to drown quickly instead of after being exhausted.

Discipline, order, and the chain of command are essential. Cruelty exists (Claggart's character is certainly not a fabrication), but obeying an order is often a life-or-death matter, and in the closed environment a bad example (disobeying orders, violating rules) is one that will soon be followed by all – and that can mean the loss of the whole ship. So Billy's shipmates are the ones who will haul the rope that hangs him, and sew him into his hammock for burial – just as it would be they who would have bound him to a grating to be flogged, and tenderly carried him below to tend his wounds after the cat is put back in its baize bag. It is hoped by all that discipline is meted fairly to all, and whatever is done is witnessed by all. Many disciplinary actions were summary judgements, but because his was a capital offense, Billy was given a court martial (even that is a loaded term – it just means "military trial", usually a tribunal of officers presiding).

At least the English Navy was "civilised". The French were a lot worse off, and the whalers of the time lived in apalling conditions (being at sea for 2-3 years at a stretch). The Royal Navy men were relatively well fed (and pensioned when they became supernumeraries). Civilian ships often lacked discipline, order, and even the rough quality of life that Billy has (and don't even get me started on the blackbirders). In Melville's story, the Indomitable is shown to be a cruel ship, but there were worse (and far better!) ships to crew on. But what we all have to remember is that a ship is not a democracy, it is a monarchy. The captain is the king of his small floating patch of the earth, and the captain's word is law.

As a foretopman, Billy's life was a hard one, and his fate harder still. But his last words are "God Bless Captain Vere". Billy knew what was at stake.

Headline: Boy meets girl, both die

2006-11-10T13:46:00.000-05:00

If you look in most Shakespeare folios, the plays are grouped into the Comedies, the Tragedies, and the Histories. As if theatre is either funny or sad, or relates a historical event (which, if life imitates art, must either be funny or sad but at least is non-fiction). I suppose that this rigid categorization that scholars imposed must have its roots in classic Greek theatre. The Greeks were definitely great tragedians. A couple of weeks ago I saw Œdipus the King at the Pittsburgh Public Theatre, and everybody important dies (or is blinded). I haven't seen any classic Greek comedies, but I suspect that they may be based on laughing at everyone dying. The Greeks must have had romances (the kraters and urns picture them), but romance must just have been a sub-plot. Comedic romances or tragic romances were the order of the day.

Today, we have nuances of comedies. Slapstick, farce, wry, black humor, toilet humor, one-liners and more. We have tragedies, too, although Hollywood is less likely to intentionally produce one than it is to classify a box-office flop as a tragedy. We have adventures, dramas, documentaries, biographies, mysteries, horror movies, and the ever-present remakes and sequels.

Romeo and Juliet is one of those timeless tales that some folks never get tired of, so in Hollywood terms you will be viewing ~~Pierre~~ Charles Gounoud's operatic remake of the classic play. It doesn't sound quite so attractive when I put it that way, so you'll see why I don't like the Greek, the scholarly, or the Hollywood classifications.

Romeo and Juliet is neither comedy, nor tragedy nor certainly history, but it has elements of all. Shakespeare was a master of inserting comedy into even his darkest plays (the brooding Hamlet jousts with the gravedigger even as Ophelia is carried to her grave). There is romance amongst the drama — Shylock loses both his ducats and his daughter in the denouement. So while the ending of Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy, the middle is a drama, a romance, a thriller, and a mystery.

And where is the mystery, you ask? Besides the mysterious alchemical potion that Friar Lawrence gives Juliet, the mystery of love at first sight, the mystery of how a blood-feud between Montague and Capulet can span generations without remembrance of the first insult?

The mystery of Romeo and Juliet is how one simple story - boy meets girl, both die - can be told and retold for 400 years in so many ways. Besides all the theatrical productions, it has been told by Zeferelli (all gauzy and starry eyed), by Bernstein (jazzy and driving), in Shakespeare in Love (as a play within a play), by Baz Lurhman (spledidily marrying modern genre with Elizabethan language), and by Gounod. In all the other productions I mentioned, music was a highlight, but for Gounod, music is the medium.

And therein is another mystery... I attended a dozen rehearsals of Pagiliacci, but with a new consulting job starting up, I haven't attended any for Romeo and Juliet. I haven't seen the dress rehearsal, and in fact, as I write this blog entry, I am sitting on a plane heading for California, so I will miss opening night. I can't tell you anything about the production, the staging, or the music. But at least I know the story!

So like many of you, on Tuesday I will be seeing a favorite classic story being told in a new way. And as I've said it many times before in my blog, this is gonna be fun!

Blogosphere

2006-10-28T10:55:00.000-04:00

Two weeks between posts—I have not fallen off the face of the earth! Rehearsals for Romeo and Juliet have started, I have painters at my house, and I have also started a new consulting gig. I do this blog for fun, but I have to earn a living, too, so I have been preoccupied.

One thing that I did this week was to appear on a panel session at Tech Now, a technology conference for non-profits sponsored by the Bayer Center at Robert Morris University. Because of my work with the Opera Blog, Laura Willumsen (Director of Marketing and Public Relations) thought that I'd be a good advocate and thus I was on the panel with some visionaries in the non-profit world. We discussed blogging, wikis, podcasting, web pages, data infrastructures, filtering, and legal issues (albeit touching only briefly on all of them).

So, some fun statistics for you! According to the latest quarterly installment of David Sifry's "State of the Blogosphere," there are between one and two new blogs created every second (that's between 75,000 and 175,000 blogs every day, depending on whether you count splogs or not). Some of these blogs contain useful information, deep fascinating subjects, and good writing. Some don't. The blogosphere is doubling in size roughly every 200 days, and there are about 1.6 million postings per day (or about 18.6 posts per second). And as Steve Martin once said: "Some people have a way with words, and some not have way".

How can one blog achieve notice in this maelstrom of information? One way is to get listed in another popular blog! I read about a dozen blogs every day without fail, because the blogs I read are the source of my news (you can see some of them listed in the references page that I provided at the Tech Now conference). As an example, my thermd environmental monitoring project was mentioned in Hack A Day, and the number of visitors to my site quintupled for a few days. Viral marketing really works!

Now, I like to think that (extrapolating from the July report) amongst the 75,000,000 blogs that are out there, Opera Blog is one of the better written ones. But I know that compared to Slashdot or BoingBoing, it is not one of the more widely read. If you've never heard of these blogs (or the others in my references page), here's the word-of-mouth you need! If you don't know about some of the oddments I talk about in the various operas I blog on, well, that's word-of-mouth too—or is it text-of-fingers?

Regardless, if you think someone might be interested in my musings, whether they are a fan of opera or not, pass on the URL to them. You never know what you might discover in return...

Whose line is it, anyway?

2006-10-15T21:51:00.000-04:00

What is the real story behind Pagliacci? It is easy to answer that—a wife cuckolds her husband, and in a jealous rage the husband murders his wife and adulterous lover. But is it really that simple? Looks can be deceiving...

I asked Garnett Bruce (the stage director for this production) how he came up with the staging for the chorus scenes. There are over 55 people on stage sometimes (I counted!), and coordinating them can be a daunting task. He said that he is inspired by the great painters—Titian, for example—and that when he looks at their paintings, there is the "obvious" scene, but along with the forced perspective there is always something going on in the corners, something that attracts your eye and gives the static image life. And when you watch Pagliacci, you see that Garnett is true to his word. The stage is filled, yet in addition to the center stage action, there is always something going on in the periphery. The women who pull theirs shawls over their heads just before they enter the church, the pairs of men who traverse the stage in animated conversation as Nedda and Tonio sing their duet, the young boy "napping" against the barrel downstage right for most of the first act, and Silvio lurking in the crowd of theatregoers in the second act—so that when Nedda is stabbed, he can rush headlong out of the horrified throng onto Canio's waiting blade. Unless you are looking for them, you never see these minutæ, yet there they are all the time, giving life to the scene.

So in looking at the corners of the story of Pagliacci, I want to share something that Kevin Patterson (Director of Artistic Administration) suggested to me: the story is really all about Tonio.

In the classic operatic tradition, Tonio is a hunchback. Although this is now very poitically incorrect, his deformity made it all the easier to hate him, and all the simpler for him to be portrayed as evil. Pittsburgh Opera made the artistic choice to portray him instead as a man with a sound body, but still with the twisted morality Leoncavallo wrote for him. The history of opera is that the tenors typically got all the good roles, but the baritone who first played Tonio got Leoncavallo to write him a prologue, upstaging the tenor. The tenor gets his musical revenge, because although Leoncavallo wrote the final La commedia è finita line for the baritone Tonio, it is the tenor Canio who now sings it (and Leoncavallo himself sanctioned this change).

But history aside, the psychology of this opera (and Pagliacci is all about the psyche), is consistent. Tonio begins the story. When the players enter the town, he is pushed by Canio, and Tonio declares (from the corner of the stage) that Canio will pay for that. It is he who first confesses a secret love for Nedda. When she spurns him, he swears by the Blessed Virgin that she will pay for that, too. And when Tonio (again, from the corners) spies the trysting Nedda and Silvio, it is he who runs to find Canio. It is he who urges Canio on and then gnaws at the corners of Canio's jealous mind, suggesting that Silvio will likely be present at the performance that night (and indeed he does lurk in the wings, watching). When Canio cracks, and can no longer maintain the charade of Pagliaccio, it is Tonio who hands him the knife (up until now, Canio has been furious, but mostly blustery. And in the final denouement, Canio stands in the middle with bloodstained hands, but it is Tonio who has mounted the Commedia stage, surveying what he has wrought. His promised retribution has been exacted, and his hands are unsullied. And while jealous Canio had kissed Nedda ere he killed her, Iago-like Tonio has orchestrated the whole murderous affair.

So what matter if he doesn't sing the last line? He has the last laugh.

Dressing

2006-10-13T15:56:00.000-04:00

Last night was dress rehearsal—the actors were dressed in costume, and the stage was dressed in the set. Nedda (in a long dress of the era) gave Tonio a dressing down after his unwanted advances, and we watched Canio dress himself in the part of Pagliaccio. The orchestra was in their undress uniforms (black tie only being required for performances), but none of them were undressed (this being a family-friendly production). The choristers presented themselves in dressed arrays, but the chicken (a prop used in the Commedia dell'Arte) had not been dressed. For some strange reason, when you dress a chicken you actually undress it, removing the feathers and preparing it for cooking. It is amazing to me how so seemingly simple a word can have so many meanings.

I wanted to show you some before and after pictures of the production of Pagliacci. The "before" shots were all taken during rehearsal, and the "after" images are what you will see on stage. It never fails to amaze me how real the stage becomes. To be sure, we all enter into the theatre with a willingness to suspend disbelief. We know that Peter Pan doesn't fly—there are just wires and a flying rig—but we allow ourselves to believe. We know that Colombina (or Nedda (or Mary Mills)) is still very much alive after Pagliaccio (or Canio (or Richard Leech)) stabs her, but the violence of the act is still shocking. And we know (at least intellectually) that the scene on stage is just clever lighting, backdrops, and forced perspective with false buildings. But when the house lights go down, the curtain rises, and the orchestra swells—something inside of us is transported to a magical, yet wholly real place.

I have had the extreme good fortune to have been granted a behind the scenes peek at how Pagliacci has been put together. I have had the luxury of watching others work, while all I did was take pictures and write. My job is perhaps not all that trivial—each blog item that I post takes an average of 6 hours to construct—but I can tell you how it works, because it is what I do. But in watching the rehearsals, I got to see how some of the magic is done. It's hard work! I saw how the magician hides cards up his sleeve, how the assisant carries the rabbit into the box so it can be later revealed, and I got to share it with you (and I really enjoy sharing). And I also know what I want to explore next time (scenery construction and lighting are high on the list).

Opening night is tomorrow—go downtown, sit back, and enjoy the show. You will see the culmination of the on-stage and off-stage work of the performers, orchestra, and all the myriad crew. I will have one or two more articles to write about Pagliacci, and then it is on to Romeo and Juliet.

I hope you're having as much fun peeking backstage as I am!

Traveling Theatres

2006-10-11T10:21:00.000-04:00

The story of Pagliacci is based around characters in a travelling theatre troupe. When Leoncavallo wrote the opera, most private transportation was a thing for the wealthy, and public transportation was not as convenient as it is today. Most people (unless they served in the army) rarely strayed more than a few miles from their homes, and it was not a trivial undertaking to travel into the city to go to the theatre. Unless you lived in a city large enough to support a theatre, the only exposure you had to theatrical events was when the theatre came to town.

Thus you will see the arrival of the Commedia dell'Arté as an event that draws out all of the townspeople. Since there is no theatre, the actors use what is at hand—the same stage that is used for proclamations, executions, and whatever else might require an audience—or maybe they just use a small knoll in a field. Whatever they use, when Canio, Nedda, Tonio and Beppe show up, it is a big deal. In As You Like It (Act V Scene I), Shakespeare wrote "It is meat and drink to me to see a clown". The well worn roles of Pagliacci, Colombina, Taddeo and Arlecchino are familiar, comfortable, and reflections of some of the daily drama in the village. Everyone knows a henpecked husband, and whispered rumors of indescretions and assignations fly on the wind (so when enacted on stage, they are mirrors of what people already suspect). Every man is a fool when he is in his cups, and the pratfalls allow people to laugh at their own mistakes as much as they can mock the faults of others. Whatever else may have been going on in their lives, the theatre—especially comedic theatre, where the townspeople can relate to the parts being portrayed—provided a welcome release.

Now I haven't written anything in the past few days because I have been travelling between two theatres myself. Last night I got to sing in Byham Theatre as part of Hot Pink Pittsburgh, Adagio Health's fundraiser for breast and cervical screening for uninsured women in western Pennsylvania. It is a good cause, a fun event, and singing in the Byham is a joy (and as part of our onstage warmup, I sang a few bars of the Vesti la Giubba aria). So, I have been preoccupied.

But tomorrow night is the final dress rehearsal for Pagliacci. I will be there, taking photographs, and giving you a preview. More soon...

Discourse and Disagreement

2006-10-06T10:37:00.000-04:00

Thursday's Post Gazette featured an opinion by Francesca L. Savoia. Ms. Savoia is an award winning associate professor of Italian at Pitt, and she is admittedly passionate about her field.

I just happen to disagree with her.

I have the utmost respect for her knowledge of Italian (mine is extremely limited), her expertise in the Italian theatre, and Italian opera libretti (I read the supertitles and trust the translations). I do not believe that her letter to the editor (which I reproduce below with her permission, along with my reply) was about those areas of expertise, so I offer a contradictory opinion.

Blogs are about the writer's opinions, and then space is left for the readers to reply. I sent her a copy of my response, along with the same invitation that I give to you all. Please add your comments—to this or to any other article that I write—by clicking on the word "comments" at the end of any article.

Professor Savoia's letter to the Post Gazette:

"Pittsburgh Opera's postcard is silly and sensational"

A few days ago I received a postcard announcing the imminent Pittsburgh Opera production of Leoncavallo's "Pagliacci." In an attempt to attract a public large enough to offset the high costs in staging operas these days, the people responsible for the creation for the advertisement opted for the truly sensational.

The card sports the most vibrant colors imaginable (magenta, turquoise, yellow, orange and red!) and employs an array of letter fonts and sizes. You would be wrong to think that the title of the opera must be prominently featured. In spite of the logo devised to complement the name of the opera (an umbrella-shaped tent reminiscent of ... the circus?! Don't they know that "Pagliacci" stands for "players" or "comedians" and does not mean, in this case, "clowns"?), you promptly forget about it. In fact, the variety of items on the card is such that not only can you not linger on the name of the opera it is supposed to bring to your attention, but also pretty quickly you either feel dizzy and overwhelmed, or lose all of your interest (or both).

The price of tickets, the phone number to call for reservations, the address of the Web site to visit for gathering other (meaningful?) information, and luring phrases such as "Feel the blaze of fiery Italian opera!", not to mention a Pittsburgh Opera Trivia Quiz (complete with its silver "scratch-me-with-a-coin-to-unveil-the-correct-answer" dots) are some of the items on one side of the card.

On the other side, the "Opera Lady" advises you (how I wish she wouldn't!) on "authentic" Italian pronunciation, informs you that the opera lasts only 90 minutes (as if this were its most attractive quality) and dispenses other relevant bits of information (such as the fact that Rice Krispies once appropriated the tenor's aria for a memorable commercial jingle!).

My outrage may have something to do with the fact that I truly love opera, that I was born and grew up in Italy, and when I decided to live in the States and left my family behind, it helped that I could teach my language and culture at Pitt for a living. But I surely hope that others feel as insulted as I do.

Shame on you, Pittsburgh Opera! My students are among the people your campaign is targeting and, if my colleagues and I have taught them well, I will not have to point out to them that a very poor knowledge and understanding of Italian culture and a very reductive, if not perverse notion of what opera can still contribute to the entertainment and enrichment of our lives, transpires from your advertisement.

Francesca Savoia
Squirrel Hill

My reply to Professor Savoia

This letter is in response to Francesca Savoia's letter of October 5, commenting on Pittsburgh Opera's postcard. I also received a copy of this card, and while I noticed the bold coloration, I realized that it was a marketing piece. Ms. Savoia and I are both supporters and lovers of the opera (I am also the primary contributer to the OperaBlog - http://www.pittsburghopera.org/operablog/ - but unlike the Opera Lady, I am not on the staff). However, surprising as it may sound, there are Pittsburghers who are not natural lovers of opera, and must be enticed!

As Ms. Savoia knows, stereotypes of opera abound, and interminable length is one of them. Mentioning the brevity of Pagliacci is just good business - even as a computer scientist and writer, I recognize this!

But I think that we can all be forgiven ignorance outside of our areas of expertise. With a PhD in Italian, certainly Ms. Savoia should forgive what she sees as a mistranslation of "Pagliacci". My Italian/English dictionary says that "Pagliaccio" means "clown" and that "Pagliacci" is the plural. I am certain that we all can be forgiven if we miss a cultural subtley...

Many Pittsburghers the age of Ms. Savoia's students will also remember Krusty the Klown singing the Rice Krispies jingle in The Simpsons cartoon. I laughed and saw it as a way to tie into the collective unconscious. And although I was blessed with a multilingual upbringing, as a language professor I am sure you realizes that helping people pronounce foreign words will make them better communicators. Would you rather that the "Opera Lady" left her audience ignorant of the proper way to speak unfamiliar phonemes? How can people talk about something they can't pronounce?

Pagliacci is a fantastic opera, riviting and emotional, with a deep look into the human condition. I am happy to know enough about opera and language to appreciate it. It is silly to be insulted by the color of ink that is used in an advertisment. Please, professor - the music is what matters, not the marketing. Give others a chance to see the opera and make up their own minds!

Daniel Klein
Squirrel Hill

Dear Readers (as Miss Manners would say), please add your comments below!

Masks

2006-10-05T09:01:00.000-04:00

People have used masks for millenia. They are used in ritual, in society, and of course, in the theatre. The ancient greeks used the twinned masks of tragedy and comedy, the Noh style of Japanese theatre uses hundreds of stylized masks, and clowns have been painting masks on their faces for a long time (the "fool" can be traced back to ancient Egypt, and is the first card in the Tarot deck). And we wear masks in our daily lives. We wear the mask of the smiling acceder when the boss makes a foolish comment, the mask of patient tolerance when our teenaged citizenry dress in the latest outré fashions and piercings, the mask of invisibility while commuting on the bus, and the mask of blindness when passing the beggar in the street.

Masks give us the power to change who we are. Sometimes the masks are worn, sometimes painted on, and sometimes assumed invisibly. Doffing and donning them is often a thing of ritual. In Japan (where masks of civility are proudly worn all the time), ritual removal is found through alchohol—pent up feelings can be hurled at one's boss when the mask is shed, but the next morning apologies are offered and accepted, because both parties consent to the ritual mask of drunken expressiveness.

Masks are complicated. For six years, I was a member of Pittsburgh TheatreSports, an improvisational comedy troupe based on the teachings of Keith Johnstone. Most of the friends and colleagues who came to see me perform thought that I put on a (figurative) mask when I did all of the wacky things I did on stage. My mother knew the truth. When I got on stage, I took off my mask...

Masks give us anonymity. The Lone Ranger hid behind his mask (but I don't know if he ever removed it, so I am uncertain what he was hiding). In the middle ages and the renaissance, party-goers often wore masks to hide their identity (although often their anonymity was only guaranteed by convention—it is hard to be innocent of the fact that you are dancing with the king). In Romeo and Juliet, Tybalt recognizes fair young Romeo by his voice, yet Capulet insists that he be permitted to remain unmolested at the party. In part, this was because "to say truth, Verona brags of him; To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth", but also because as long as Romeo remains mask'd, Capulet could outwardly feign ignorance of the presence of the scion of his Montague foe. The mask works both ways...

Masks give us power. African tribes don masks in ritual and in dance; indigenous American tribes did the same, and "war paint" is another form of mask. Samurai warriors wore fierce masks into battle, and in football season this ritual is preserved in locker-rooms throughout the United States as erstwhile warriors smear lampblack under their eyes, ready their helmets, and put on their "game face". Wrestlers in the WWF (now the WWE, an incredible form of physical theatre) don the masks of their personas, and in Mexico (where the art form is even more ritualized than here), luchadores wear full head-covering masks. When a wrestler has been defeated, his mask is ritually cut off. Perhaps this has roots that lie much deeper in the human sacrifice Maya/Aztec/Teotihuacan society, but today the removal of the mask strips the player of the final vestiges of his power—and to regain it, he must earn it back from this humiliating defeat.

Masks can be used to instill fear. Certainly the sight of hooded Klansmen rightfully instills dread (given the history of hatred and lynchings that follows them), but masks can also cause fear of justice and of good. In contemporary graphic literature Batman wears a mask that the bad guys fear (and that selfsame mask gives him a measure of his power).

And of course, masks allow us to change character. Canio becomes Pagliaccio when he smears on the greasepaint and puts on the costume, and well he knows this: the Vesti la Giubba aria tells us how the show must go on, and how heartbroken Canio can become the smiling Pagliaggio. And this is to say nothing of the fact that in opera, the mask describes the front part of the singer's face (cheeks, nose, sinuses), and singers can use their mask to enhance their tone.

But as I said, masks are complicated. On stage, Richard Leech wears the mask of Canio, but in the rehearsals that I have been privileged to see, the mask comes on and off as the player analyses the character, as the character sings, as the Maestro speaks with the player... And of course, the character of Canio similarly dons the character of Pagliaccio. As an audience watching the opera, we get to see the same analysis and discussion that I have seen in rehearsals. In the opera's denouement, we see the masks shatter. Pagliaccio reveals the Canio beneath the greasepaint, Colombina dissolves into Nedda, and Silvio's adultery is bloodily unmasked. And although the tatters of the clown's paint remains, the power of the mask is gone—all that remains is a shattered, heartbroken man.

And when the curtain falls, we applaud the flesh-and-blood men and women who wore those many layers. But when the house lights come back up, we hastily reapply our own masks—nodding civilly at the person who kicked our chair, ignoring the beggar on the corner, girding ourselves for the next day...

Books and Papers, Players and Programs

2006-10-02T18:40:00.000-04:00

I wanted to write a piece about the storyline of Pagliacci - and the problem is that I get confused by all the Italian names. So I figured I'd translate them to American names, and translate the story into American terms. So let's start with the characters:

Canio: This is probably the hardest, since there is no American equivalent that I could find! Canio is both a first and a last name, and St. Canio is the patron saint of Acerenza and Calitri, both in Italy. Paolo Di Canio is a controversial football (that is, soccer) player who used to play for Sheffield Wednesday and West Ham United (both in England), but now plays for A.S. Cisco Roma—so, no help there. I'll just call him Carl.
Tonio: This one's easy. Tonio is the diminutive form of Antonio, which is Anthony. If we're keeping with the diminutive forms, then we wind up with Tony.
Beppe: Another easy one. Beppe is the diminutive form of Guiseppe, which is Joseph. So keeping in style, I'll call him Joe.
Nedda: A small challenge here, but nothing insurmountable. Nedda is a nickname for Antonietta, which would turn into Toni.
Silvio: Another small challenge, until we realize that Silvio is derived from Silvius, meaning "wood" or "forest". So I will call him Woody.

Now on to the story. There are many plot synopses available on the web, but let me simplify it:

Carl is married to Toni, but Toni is having an affair with Woody. Tony has the hots for Toni, but Toni does not reciprocate. Carl is jealous of Toni's indescretions, and the scorned Tony adds fuel to the fire. Joe (remember Joe?) tries to keep things sane, but ultimately Carl stabs Toni and then Woody.

So far so good. Then there is the play within the play, with Carl playing Pagliacci (Clown), Toni playing Columbina (Dove), Tony as Taddeo (Thaddeus), and Joe as Arlecchino (Harlequin), but I already got myself confused again... too many names! But there are really only five major parts, and it all makes sense, really! And although I make light of it here, it is pretty darn dramatic. This is especially true because Commedia dell'Arte typically ends happily with the inamorati marriage and forgiveness all around for any wrongdoings. Not so in Pagliacci!

But how does one keep everything in this twisted plotline straight? When you see it happening, the story resonates, but when you try to tell it in simple words, the going gets rough. Without the signposts of faces, emotion, and costume, it is easy to get lost in the mere roadmap of the story. So there are books. More books than you could believe!

Just counting music, there are at least five versions of the score in active use at staging and chorus rehearsals. There are the Schirmer and Sonzognio piano scores, the Dover and Kalmus versions of the orchestral score, and the Peters vocal score. Because Leoncavallo only wrote one opera of note, there has not been quite so much scholarly work invested in the piece (in spite of the fact that it was the first opera recorded in its entirety, and Enrico Caruso's version of Vesti la giubba was the first record to sell a million copies). So variances exist, and Maestro Buckley often must choose between which version will be authoritative for what portion of the opera—and since words may change slightly, the stage managers must take notes to ensure that the supertitles reflect what is actually being sung!

The four stage managers each have their own annotated copy of the rehearsal score (a looseleaf copy of the piano score). And although I missed the first orchestra read-through, I know that each player has his or her own instrument's part. That's 2 flutes, 1 piccolo, 2 oboes, 1 cor anglais, 2 clarinets, 1 basset-horn, 3 bassoons, 4 horns, 3 trumpets, 3 trombones, 1 tuba, 2 harps, timpani, tubular bells, percussion, and strings (at least according to Wikipedia—I'll count the actual numbers at the next orchestra rehearsal). Wikipedia also says that additionally, there is an onstage violin, oboe, trumpet, and the smiley-faced bass drum that Pagliacci (played by Carl—err... Canio) loudly beats.

Each chorister has sheet music. There is a "Supernumerary Handbook" that details what every supernumerary ought to know. There are study guides for schools, property lists and inventories, set designs and scores of drawings, tape lines, spike lists, punch lists, entrance and exit cues—and I haven't even seen the lighting designers and the lighting cues yet! Every day the cast and crew are emailed a detailed rehearsal schedule (which is adjusted based on the overall schedule and what was completed the day before). If you thought that the story and a few Italian names were complicated, you should see all that goes on behind the scenes!

But wait... that's my job! You get to sit back and enjoy the show (and hopefully read my blog). There may be a lot of books to read, but since everyone will be reading off the same page, it'll be great!

Emotional Roller Coaster

2006-09-30T17:19:00.000-04:00

Pictured at right and below is a smiling Richard Leech, who plays the eponymous role in Pagliacci. As Canio, he is on one hand a loving husband who adores his wife, and on the other hand he is murderously jealous. As the clown Pagliacci in the Commedia dell'Arte troupe he laughs—yet in real life as Canio he cries. He is both terrifying and pitiable, fierce and vulnerable, introspective and emotive. As a caricature of a character, we may find his emotions funny or evocative, but the persona of Canio is neverthless human—and as such, serves as a mirror for what we all may feel. Penned in the early days of wooden track roller coasters (American roller coasters date from the 1880's, and European Coasters date somewhat earlier), the emotional extremes displayed by Canio, Nedda, and Tonio are as gut-wrenching as the modern Steel Phantom at Kennywood. Andrew Lloyd Weber's Phantom of the Opera is not a roller coaster, does not provide an emotional roller coaster, and is merely a musical about opera, but Pagliacci prominantly features a steel dagger. La analogia è finita.

Canio/Pagliacci must show a multitude of faces in this opera, reflecting the myriad emotions that he feels. I watched Richard Leech as he proceeded through a collection of emotions, and rather than try to describe them, I thought it would just be better to show you...

And all of this without the murders at the end of Act II! What is fascinating to me is that beneath the powerful emotional subtext of this opera, we are told that everything is normal. Regardless of the ups and downs of their personal lives, the show must go on! Canio tells us that actors have feelings, too. Then he tells us that the discord we see in the troupe's players is a mere sham, that everything is really hunky-dory. And because the villagers would rather be fooled than see reality, they believe him—because theatre is all about a willful suspension of disbelief. But what is really interesting is that regardless of this roller coaster of emotion, the bright smiles and the menacing glowers, the actors feelings as people and the actors feelings as players, we are reminded of the happy-happy nature of the Commedia troupe.

Janus is the two-faced god of gates, doors, doorways, beginnings, and endings in Roman mythology. In Pagliacci we only see one of Janus' faces—we see the end of the troupe (although we can easily imagine how things began). The twinned masks of comedy and tragedy, symbols of the theatre, are also called Janus masks, and unlike these masks, both sides of Pagliacci's drum are the same—smiling, serene, reassuring. The tragicomedic masks are not on the players outwards faces, but in the dichotomy of the real and the acted. The comic face is worn by the parts the actors portray, while tragic face is worn by the actors themselves. Canio and Nedda are two-faced hypocrites (and for you language buffs, the word hypocrite derives from the Greek word hupokrites for "stage-player" or "actor"). The villagers bear the full brunt of this hypocracy—they come to the Commedia expecting a comedy, but witness a tragedy instead.

Fasten your seat belts, and keep your hands inside the car at all times. It's gonna be one heckuva ride!

Pants an'at

2006-09-28T22:35:00.000-04:00

"Rent, build, or buy?" When you are contemplating a new domicile, that's a question you have to ask yourself. But if you are Pittsburgh Opera, that is also the question that you ask regarding costumes and props. On Tuesday, I visited the costume shop while the children's choristers were being fitted for their regalia, and although I can't show you pictures of the kids (legal issues regarding minors and photographic release forms), I can show you the costume shop itself!

More shoes than Imelda Marcos! More hats than John B. Stetson! More shirts than... a lot of people! When you walk down to the basement of the Pittsburgh Opera building (it seems that artists always live in basements or garrets), that's what you see. Rows and rows of everything clothing.

When Pittsburgh Opera puts on a piece, the set and props can be rented from another company or built from scratch. The latter is a rather expensive proposition (unless it can be rented to other companies), so the set is often rented (and if you recall my piece on Tosca Backstage, you'll also remember that famous singers have imbued their energy into the props). Depending on the size of the cast and the complexity and period of the dress, costumes can be rented, sewn from scratch (again, an expensive proposition), or bought. It turns out that shoes are not part of the costumes that travel with the set, so Pittsburgh Opera owns a lot of shoes. The kingly garb that enrobed Michael Hendrick in Ariadne auf Naxos was rented, but because the kids in the children's chorus are difficult to fit, the costumers spent some time at the local thrift shops finding clothing that looked right and could be taken in. When you can't rent, you can buy (and at discount prices)!

And because costumes have to be taken in or let out, hemmed, cuffed, or trimmed, the costumers have a myriad of machines and threads in just about every color known to man. There are boxes of ribbons, bows, buttons—sometimes they are added to a costume, sometimes they are removed—and the costumers pay attention to detail. At 14 years of age, one young lady chorister would have been (in the time Pagliacci was penned) of marriagable age. Consequently, her parents would have dressed her as a young lady. But at that young age, she would still be playing with her friends—so if you see her socks drooping around her ankles, it is to firm up this dichotomy. Other children are portrayed as outgrowing their clothes, or wearing over-large hand-me-downs from their elder siblings. All of this contributes to the vitality of the scenes. Even if you don't know how the set and costuming is put together, your subconscious still registers these small clues, and makes the scene seem all that much more real.

So, whence the title for this piece? In addition to playing rock'n'roll, local radio station WDVE often features comedy bits. One of these was called "Pants an'at", and featured a particular Pittsburghese turn of phrase: an'at (a contraction for "and that" for those unfamiliar with it). Yinz Know Yinzes from Picksburgh an' 'at When... Yinz finish all yinzes sentences with the words an' 'at. It is such a uniquely Pittsburghean turn of phrase that we even have a "country code" sticker for Pittsburgh. Originally designed for identifying the coutry of origin for European license plates, these oval stickers had two letters on them: NL for the Netherlands, DE for Germany (Deutchland), DK for Denmark, etc. Of course, there is an ISO standard defining all the 2-letter codes (and these same codes are used for international internet addresses). But in the US (the ISO 3166-1-alpha-2 code element for United States), the stickers achieved cult status. You'll see OBX (for North Carolina's Outer Banks), FDNY (honoring the New York Fire Department), and PGH, PIT, and N@ (for sweet home Pittsburgh).

Now to digress from my digression, if you fly a lot, you recognized that "PIT" is also the FAA and IATA 3-letter airport code for Pittsburgh. But if you're a geek like me you'll also know that every airport has a code. Monroeville Airport is 4G0 (did you know that Monroeville even had an airport?), Finleyville is G05, and Bandel Airport in Eighty Four is 22D. Much though it'd make a great airport code, the registered codes are purely alphanumeric, so N@ remains a purely local joke.

Pittsburgh Opera also has a wig-master. Sometimes the wigs are obvious (the judge in Cosi fan Tutte), but very often the flowing locks sported by the singers are the results of the wig-masters craft. They look completely natural, and only after the performance have I realized that the singer was not as flaxen-haired as I had supposed. Of course, in Pagliacci, some of the wigs are rather comical. Clowns are supposed to have bright orange hair...

And of course, everything in the costume shop will eventually need to be cleaned! Consequently, there is a dizzying array of cleaning products available to the costumers. But there is also dye (in case the myriad colors of thread, ribbon, and fabric are insufficient), spot remover, fixatives, swabs, daubers, and things I didn't recognize!

Mark Twain said that "Clothes make the man" (although most people forget the second half of the quote). And the costume shop makes the clothes.

Choristers

2006-09-28T00:36:00.000-04:00

I was an extra in George Romero's 1978 film Dawn of the Dead. At 1:30am on the day of shooting, I piled a few of my friends into my rattletrap 1964 Dodge Polara (the one with the push-button transmission) and drove out to the Monroeville Mall, where we were slathered with gray makeup and told to "act like a bunch of zombies". We were shown the winding route that the tractor-trailer would follow through the nearly empty parking lot as it careened towards the mall. We were then given the direction that we were all supposed, with lurching stride and arms outthrust, to look like perambulating dead people. Since shooting started at 8am and we hadn't slept at all since the 2am cattle-call, the "look like a zombie" part was easy. Improvising a drunkards walk was not hard for some, since alchohol had also figured prominantly in their late-night nutrition. But what came as somewhat of a shock to me, at least, was looking up from my caffeine-free torpor to see that the tractor-trailer was not on its assigned course, but rather was about to magically transform me from a play-acting dead person into the real thing. Not wishing to permanently fill the role of corpse, I acted with un-zombie-like aplomb and put on a burst of very scared human speed. In acting terms, I "improvised".

Opera has no "extras", they have supernumeraries (or "supers" for short). There are likewise no "understudies"—that term, I was told, is left for the "legitimate theatre". Opera therefore has "covers". And instead of "walk-ons", "bit parts", and other (mildly perjortative) terms, opera has a chorus—a non-starring, but nevertheless essential vocal part. For the Commedia dell'arte scene in Pagliacci, the choristers fill the role of the villagers come to see the production put on by Canio, Nedda, Tonio, and Beppo. Not counting the dozen or so children, there are about 40 choristers, and last night was the chorister staging.

It will probably come as no surprise that the choristers are a lot better prepared than the extras I worked with in Dawn of the Dead. Here, they all know their parts, so when the accompianist began playing, I was treated to 40 voices singing full-throatedly on key and in time. But that was expected, given what I saw in how the principal singers had prepared. What was really interesting was the staging.

First, the stage director places every person in their final position on stage. There is some small amount of shuffling based on voice part (so that there is not, for example, a preponderance of sopranos in one place), and then the director gives every singer their "motivation". You two are sisters, you are upset that these people have sat in front of you, you folks are friends with this group, etc. Then each singer is given a starting location offstage and a "trajectory" (and in some cases, instructions to carry their seats or benches from offstage). Essentially, the director works the chorus through their roles in reverse. A quick run-through is done to see how it looks, some small adjustments are made, and then intermediate actions are dictated. You three run out to get the best seats. You two stop along the way to chat with your friends. You argue with the commedia actors to get the show started, and you four jump in for support...

And all of this is done while singing their part, and listening for cues. And some of those cues are of course given by the in-the-wings stage-managers, who coordinate entrances with balletic precision. I learned that the stage-managers also have to be able to read music, since they take their cues directly from the score. Because this was only a staging rehearsal, the principal singers were not in attendance. So at times Maestro Buckley would fill in for them, singing their parts quite creditably! This in additition to conducting the music and giving cues.

Of course, not every action of the chorus is dictated by the director—there is still some room for improvisation, but by and large the entire chorus is scripted from entrance to exit. The net result is that any scene with the choristers quite frankly looks a lot more "alive" than Dawn of the Dead. I suppose that since Pagliacci concludes with only three corpses (while George Romero's film started with scores of them) this is only logical, but it is really quite remarkable to see the care with which the start of this scene is tended. When I have seen the chorus in action in other operas (like the party scene in La Traviata, the church in Tosca, or the village in Rigoletto), I marvelled at how vivid, vital and realistic the scene looked. Now I know why!

Studio A

2006-09-25T21:59:00.000-04:00

When you walk into the stage entrance to the Benedum Center (it is an inconspicuous glass doorway on Liberty Avenue) and go up one flight of stairs, you find yourself in a small lobby overlooking the street below. Behind the one other substantial door is Studio A, a space that is slightly larger than the Benedum stage. There are mirrors on the long walls, and a barre for ballet practice. But today the heavy velvet curtains are all drawn, and the commedia stage is in the middle of the room. Tape lines on the floor delineate the locations of walls, props, and the edge of the stage, and a pair of stage doorways sit in their appropriate locations. A row of chairs sits at the front of the stage facing the audience, which today consists of Maestro Buckley, directors, stage managers, covers—and lucky me! The "on-stage" chairs are for the singers, and when I arrive at 10:50, they are all filled as assorted introductions are made.

The musical part of the rehearsal is scheduled to begin at 11:00, and at 10:59:30 artistic director Christopher Hahn makes some brief introductory remarks. Amazingly (though I suppose I should not be surprised at all, given the level of professionalism of the cast), by 11:00:20 Maestro Buckley signals the accompaniast, and they're off! Not even 30 seconds past the posted starting time, and the singers are rehearsing/performing their roles!

I am not sure what I expected to see or hear. Alas, movies have led us grossly astray when it comes to backstage life, and as I learn the real facts, I will be sharing them with you. By the time rehearsals in Pittsburgh begin, the singers have largely memorized their parts—the learning of notes and words have already been accomplished, what happens now is much more detailed. Of course, they each have music stands with the score in front of them, but it felt like the sheet was by now largely a guide. This is not to say that they each have their parts down cold, because each singer takes notes. And the conductor is not called "Maestro" for nothing. As a child, I always thought that they were there to wave their arms in time to the music, but the depth of knowledge—the mastery—that they must possess is awsome. Each note, each phrase, each beat, each breath that the singers take is under their scrutiny. The tempo is stretched here, metered there. Suggestions for adjustments to the color of a singer's voice, where to breathe, where even to put the consonant of a word—at the start or the end of a glissand—all these things are the conductor's purview. The orchestra plays the notes that are written, the singers sing the notes and words that Leoncavallo wrote a little over 100 years ago. But it is the maestro who drives the musical emotion—he is the feeling behind the metronome, the finger on the pulse of the music.

Within minutes, some of the singers are sweating. It is not hot in the room, but singing opera is hard work, and this degree of focus is taxing. Once the production reaches the stage, the singers emote to each other and to the audience. But here in Studio A, their focus is on the conductor, and he is the cynosure of all eyes, all voice, all feeling. I have rarely seen such active engagement. Pagliacci is an opera filled with love, anger, desire and jealousy. Although I grew up in an Italian neighborhood, I do not speak very much Italian—but emotion transcends language. There were times when I was not looking at the singers, but I could hear the raw emotion in their voices. It is chilling, really, to hear such pain and rage. To then look up, and see someone acting the role is no reassurance. Their faces mirror the emotion in their voices—if you smile while singing, people can hear your smile, and a snarl of rage or a grimace of pain translate equally well into a character of sound. Were I blind and unaware of the rehearsal, I might have cried out "peace!" to stop the fight. I know this smacks of hyperbole, but it is true... even the pianist is emoting, his fingers thrumming out the feelings, his body swaying to the pulse the maestro has set.

I am not sure what I expected to see or hear, and when I started writing this evening, I thought I would tell you about the story, about the singers, about the staging, and the story within the story. And in the days to come, I suppose I shall. But in digesting the day's events, I found myself overwhelmed by the emotion of the opera. Leoncavallo insisted that the plot of Pagliacci was based on a true story he had witnessed as a child. Many critics believe that Leoncavallo was simply trying to make the opera seem more realistic. I would argue that whatever the truth, he succeeded.