GRAND OPERA Bari Style

Korero (AEWS), Volume 3, Issue 6, 23 April 1945, Page 26

GRAND OPERA Bari Style

Often when servicemen are gathered together for the exchange of reminiscences and the consumption of alcohol the conversation will veer round to the topic of leave, and what one used to do with it. Some one will then start to talk of the culture he absorbed, and the thrills of aesthetic delight he was caused to feel by many a musical, pictorial, and architectural masterpiece. Much of this chatter is no doubt designed to play the part of red herring, and draw attention away from the less creditable episodes of the narrator’s leave. Sooner or later, however, the subject of Grand Opera, with capital letters, will be lightly touched upon, with reference to some dazzling performance witnessed in Naples or Rome. The operatic standard in these two cities was certainly high, but I always counter such enthusiasm with the inquiry, “ Did you ever see the Opera in Bari? Now, there was a performance. What scenery, what costuming. What noise. Probably nowhere else in Italy was there a performance quite like it.” Perhaps in the unique character of the presentation lay most of its charm. It was my privilege to see two performances of The Bari Opera—“ Madame Butterfly ” and " Lucia di Lammermoor ” —and a brief description of their unusual character may be interesting.

First impressions of the Teatro Piccini are not encouraging. Two steps up from the pavement bring one to a shallow-paved portico, the roof supported

on stone columns of great stoutness. The entrance doors to the foyer resemble those of a debilitated wool-store, and are badly in need of paint. The foyer itself is also true to type —walls painted in railway drab, tesselated floor, and weary red-plush settees. I cannot recollect the presence of any of the more obscure pot-plants, but the ensemble is such as to give the impression that they have been but lately removed for their weekly dose of moth balls and adder’s blood. After this decayed magnificence, the interior of the theatre is a pleasant surprise. There are no signs of decay here, and the dimness without serves to give added lustre to the brilliance within. All the traditional playhouse trappings are there, in an excellent state of preservation. Pink and porcine cherubs decorate the roof, flapping heavily about the ears of commendably nonchalant and lightly draped females. Gold leaf drips from the cornices, and gleams in opulent festoons across the front of boxes and balconies against a background of that blue-green paint so beloved of our grandfathers. At the rear of the theatre, in the centre of the first tier, is the Royal Box. Here the decorators cast restraint to the winds, and applied the gold leaf in a frenzy of patriotic fervour, sparing not even the backs and arms of the chairs. If he ever used it, I feel sure that the diminutive Victor Emmanuel must have looked and felt like some small creature

of the dark, blinking timorously out from one of the more fabulous caverns of Eldorado. Over his head—a sword of Damocles —hovered a vast and gilded coat of arms.

Nor is this all. The walls of the boxes are wine red, each box containing a large mirror. A luxuriant growth of crimson plush has a stranglehold on the whole interior of the theatre. Over seats and balustrades it has crept, the infection at length spreading to the stage curtains, a flaming phantasy in red fluff, exciting both in appearance and behaviour. To crown all, a chandelier of becoming period and proportion hangs precariously from the roof, poised ready at a moment’s notice to pin to their seats the luckless occupants of the centre block of the orchestral stalls.

For an opera house, the floor space is small, but the building is of a height sufficient to accommodate three tiers of boxes and a spacious gallery. Looking down from a third-tier box close to the stage, the effect is rather that of gazing into a capacious bear-pit. Unrehearsed incidents on the stage serve at times to heighten this impression. A curious departure from general practice is that smoking is permitted throughout the performance. What the artists think of this is not considered or recorded, but no one would deny that an atmosphere of the consistency of blue flannel is hardly conducive to the perfect vocalization of anything more tuneful than laryngitis. So much for the setting. To describe the performance without seeming to be wantonly unkind is more difficult. In spite of crippling handicaps in the wardrobe and properties departments, the company put such enthusiasm into their work that one could not help but applaud their efforts. ' I was able to see two of them “ Madame Butterfly ” and “ Lucia di Lammermoor.” The first was an unfortunate choice. The leading soprano having succumbed to influenza, a courageous lady who had probably been able to sing “ Butterfly ” some twenty-five years ago, was taking, or rather filling, her part. The sensation of disappointment as Butterfly, thirteen

stone of thistledown, volplaned heavily in from the wings, is still painfully vivid.

As though that were not enough, her irritating but faithful female attendant considered it necessary for the registration of emotion to move at the double in demented circles wringing her hands the while, in the traditional “ maid and the mortgage ” manner. To crown all, “ Lieutenant Pinkerton ” was a reedy tenor with an errant Adams-apple and trousers at half-mast, while at least one member of the orchestra was perusing The Reader's Digest when he should have been more profitably employed. Some one’s suggestion that he was probably busy qualifying for a subordinate part with the Allied Military Government may not have been far wide of the mark.

Costuming and scenery were of the poorest, but that could hardly be avoided in Italy’s economic circumstances. “ Madame Butterfly ” did not suffer severely from lack of wardrobe, as wonders can be performed with a few gaily coloured kimonos, but the scenery was limited to one or two dingy backcloths and side pieces invariably quite inapposite.

“ Lucia di Lammermoor ” was of a much more stirring character. Lucia herself was young and commendably shapely, with a soprano voice of a verv pleasing quality. Her mother occupied a chair at the extreme right of the orch-

estral pit, immediately beneath the stage box. From here she watched her daughter’s performance with the closest attention, and was plainly either mouthing her every word or actually singing with her. I incline to the latter theory, as it would better account for mother’s state of prostration at the close of the performance, when, with the perspiration streaming down her face, she beamed upon daughter and audience impartially before vanishing rapidly backstage to discuss the whole matter vociferously over a mouthful of supper.

In this opera, the principals were conspicuously well-dressed. This prodigality apparently exhausted the resources of the wardrobe, for the minor characters and chorus were in desperate straits. I have noticed before that the Italian idea of the Highland costume is purely rudimentary. A company which toured New Zealand years ago presented a “ Lucia,” in which the Highlanders wore kilts to their ankles. At Bari the gentlemen of the chorus were less fortunate. They had no kilts at all, but used as a substitute rather dainty check table-cloths, in pinks and blues. Most of them lacked stockings and wore their own socks, all except one individualist who wore nothing except a pair of hairy legs protruding from what appeared to be old football boots.

This rather overdone informality seemed to have a seriously adverse effect upon the chorus, who stood about the stage in melancholy knots taking the most perfunctory interest in the performance. Bearing in mind the sketchv nature of

their costume, they were probably suffering from “ wind-up ” in the fullest sense of the term.

Far happier was a sinister individual whose part in the plot it was rather difficult to determine. This gentleman, a gorgeous sight in plumed hat, satin coat, and knee-breeches of eggshell blue, with lace at collar and cuff, floated on to the stage as though but lately wafted from the court of Charles 11. As the height of his heels tended to project him forward upon his nose, he maintained his equilibrium by means of a tapered staff upon which he leaned heavily. Gazing round upon his bedraggled associates he gave tongue in a disgruntled bass, as though conveying to the audience his regret that they should have come upon him in such unsavoury company.

All operas were sung in Italian, but there was little difficulty in following the plot of each. “ Lucia di Lammermoor ” was unusually hard to follow owing to the confusing costumes which gave little if any hint as to the wearer’s identity, and were in certain cases quite one hundred years out of period.

The orchestra did not give the performers the help that they merited. This may have been because the orchestra had only lately been gathered together and needed further practice. The effect was too strongly suggestive of the thinness and discord of a village concert. By this time, however, it is probable that the orchestra has very greatly improved with more practice, and with the infusion of some fresh blood. The average age, to my recollection, appeared to be about sixty-five, and several of the older members were plainly sitting up long past their bedtime.

No one would claim that the Bari performances were good opera, but I think that most people found them excellent entertainment. One had that pleasurable feeling of anticipation that one associates with a good motion-picture cartoon : the feeling that the events you are watching have passed so far outside the realm of normal probability that fresh enchanting absurdities may and probably will occur at any moment. In this expectation, one was rarely, if ever, disappointed. —A Kot er o Report.