 b Paris, June 17, 1818; d St. Cloud, October 18, 1893
Charles-François Gounod emerged as one of the leading figures in French music during the latter part of the 19th century. Although the composer never achieved the titanic stature of Wagner or Verdi, his opera Faust once rivaled in popularity some of their most successful works. The young Gounod showed early artistic talent, but his parents were determined that he study law. His preference for music eventually won, and at the age of 16, the rebellious teen began the official path of a typical 19th-century composer in France. At the Paris Conservatoire Gounod studied with Halévy, Le Sueur and Reicha. Winning the Prix de Rome in 1839, he embarked upon a two-year study in Italy, during which time the composer first became familiar with the Faust legend. Returning to France, Gounod quickly obtained a position in a mission church but was fortunate to befriend an influential soprano, Pauline Viardot, who maneuvered a commission for him from the Paris Opéra. Sapho, set to a libretto by Emile Augier, was a succès d’estime — but not a huge box-office draw. It was dropped after six performances. Still, a debut at Paris’ premiere opera house gave the composer a certain cachet, and Gounod was offered subsequent commissions from the Opéra, La nonne sanglante and Ivan le terrible. Unfortunately, the composer’s second opera was only marginally more successful than the first, and the Ivan project was canceled after an attempt had been made on French Emperor Louis-Napoleon’s life (the libretto contained a similar plot of regicide). Gounod’s fate at the Opéra was placed in limbo. Meanwhile, Léon Carvalho, new director of the Théâtre Lyrique, courted the composer with the prospect of producing Faust. It was soon discovered that another theater, the Théâtre de la Porte-St-Martin, had planned an extravagant spectacle based on the Goethe play, and Gounod’s Faust was put on hold. The impresario tried to appease the composer with a comic libretto, Le médecin malgré lui, based on a play by Molière. Although the libretto was beyond reproach and the music critically well-received, Le médecin again was not a triumph. In the meantime, the St. Martin Theater had postponed its production of Faust, and Carvalho gave Gounod the nod to complete his opera. Its resounding success in France and all over Europe elevated Gounod to a composer of international acclaim. Over the next few years, Gounod produced four more operas: Philémon et Baucis, a mythological comedy that tried to capitalize on Jacques Offenbach’s hugely successful Orphée aux enfers; La colombe, an opéra-comique about an impoverished nobleman’s attempts to win the heart of a wealthy countess; La reine de Saba, another commission for the Opéra based on the biblical tale of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba; and Mireille, a love story set in French Provence. None of these works ever achieved the special appeal of Faust, although Mireille became a staple of the Opéra-Comique’s repertory for many years. The composer’s life began to unravel — his unsteady career was plagued by claims of Wagnerism by the French press as a result of his association with the German composer. A nervous condition had resurfaced, and rehearsals of Mireille put Gounod’s friendship with Carvalho to the test — at one point their communication was reduced to the exchange of notarized letters. He eventually mended his relationship with the impresario in time to produce another work for the Théâtre Lyrique,Roméo et Juliette. The opera proved to be Gounod’s greatest immediate success. At the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian War, Gounod moved his family to England. There he continued work on the score ofPolyeucte, an opera he had begun following a trip to Rome in 1869. He befriended an enthusiastic fan, Georgina Weldon, who soon began to manage his affairs. A romantic relationship evolved, and as soon as Gounod’s incensed wife left to return to Paris in 1871, the couple’s affair became widely known. In 1874, the composer abruptly left England to return to France and his family. In his haste, he left the nearly complete score ofPolyeucte behind, and the embittered Georgina was reluctant to part with it. Gounod instigated legal proceedings and began to reproduce the opera from memory, a task that took nearly a year. Meanwhile a settlement with Georgina was finally reached. She returned the score — with her name scrawled in crayon across every page. Polyeucte was not produced until 1878. In the meantime Gounod had received yet another offer from Carvalho, who had assumed directorship of the Opéra-Comique after Camille du Locle’s bankruptcy. Cinq Mars was set to a story of political conspiracy and intrigue by Alfred de Vigny, styled after the novels of Sir Walter Scott. Its reception echoed those of his early operas — the work was neither offensive nor memorable in any way. Le tribut de Zamora was Gounod’s last work for the stage. His final years were spent composing sacred music, and his reputation had begun to decline as the more austere Third Republic frowned upon products of Second Empire frivolity. TodayFaust and Roméo et Juliette remain in the repertory, and in addition to leaving behind these masterpieces, Gounod is perhaps most remembered for his restoration of a higher purpose in French theater at a time when it was needed most. Courtesy of The Minnesota Opera |
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Faust’s legendary deal with the Devil has intrigued creative minds for centuries, perhaps reaching its zenith in the music, visual arts and literature of the Romantic period. The story reaches back to early 16th-century Germany, an era of religious turmoil and upheaval, when it was commonly believed Satan was just around the corner. The namesake of the drama, Dr. Johann Faust, was educated at the University of Heidelberg and studied divinity at Wittenberg, but was forced to flee under suspicion of dabbling in the black arts. (Faust himself denied nothing, boldly referring to the Devil as his “brother-in-law” and the spirit of Helen of Troy as his mistress). It is said that he met with a violent end, perhaps by a sleight of alchemy gone awry.
Such a colorful figure hardly could have gone unnoticed, and various treatments of the good doctor’s life began to emerge almost immediately after his death. Festival puppet plays communicated the morality tale to the illiterate, and printed chapbooks began to circulate at county fairs for those who could. Johann Spiess’s Historia von Doktor Johann Fausten (1587) emerged as a popular version (sensationally translated into English as The History of the Damnable Life and Deserved Death of Dr. John Faustus) and inspired a dramatic interpretation by Shakespeare’s contemporary, Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593). Unlike Speiss’s moralizing fable, Marlowe crafted his play with a slightly lighter tone in mind. In this case it is Faust who aggressively pursues a contract with the Devil, and with Mephistopheles as his guide, he makes his way through the courts of Europe, creating tricks and feats of magic for heads of state. Throughout he is tormented by two angels — one good and one bad — and repentance is always a viable option (at least until the very end). Oddly out of character, Faust chooses that particular moment to make a pathetic plea to God for salvation, but it is too late — the Devil takes his soul as per their agreement. A moral message concludes the drama. Germany’s first dramatist of note, Gotthold Lessing (1729-1781) left his Faust incomplete, but the fragments reveal the protagonist, in conjuring demons, as pursuing knowledge and truth in the spirit of Enlightenment. The ending is inconclusive; it seems Lessing may have intended Faust’s spiritual journey and eventual damnation to be only a dream — a stern warning from Providence for desiring to know too much. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832), a member of the Sturm und Drang movement, bridged the gap between Enlightenment and Romanticism with his play Faust. The subject haunted him for most of his life, producing a drama in two stages (1808, 1832). It opens with a wager between God and Mephistopheles: Faust’s clouded ways give the Lord much concern, and Mephistopheles bets he can sway Faust completely to the dark side. The learned philosopher is clearly disillusioned with his science and is tempted by youth and the possibility of adventure (“Too old for play; too young to be without love”). The tragedy devoted to Gretchen is secondary and their meeting almost accidental. Other elements — her unwanted pregnancy, abandonment and eventual salvation — occur similarly as in the plot of Gounod’s opera, although in Goethe’s story, Gretchen stands trial for her mother’s murder as well. (Hoping to drug her mother so that she can meet Faust on the sly, Gretchen accidentally administers a lethal dosage.) Part II concerns itself with Faust’s spiritual journey and infatuation with Helen of Troy. Some 12,000 lines later, he himself is redeemed, rescued from the moral consequences of his sinful acts. French playwright Michel Carré transformed Goethe’s epic drama into a boulevard drama for the Gymnase-Dramatique via a translation by Gérard de Nerval. He took several liberties to make the piece suit the palate of his bourgeois audience. Siébel, only one of several students in Goethe’s story, assumes a more prominent role as Marguerite’s suitor and Faust’s rival. Valentin also is given more dialogue — an earlier entrance establishes him as Marguerite’s guardian and protector, eliminating the unseen role of Marguerite’s mother. Marguerite is not imprisoned for murder and is punished only for her adulterous affair with Faust. When Théâtre Lyrique director Léon Carvalho got hold of the play, he pushed for further changes. To keep in strict competition with his main rival, the Opéra, the drama had to have a more tragic and grandiose denouement. Thus, the Walpurgisnacht scene, which has little bearing on the action of the story, was reintroduced from Goethe to provide that extra element of spectacle. Marguerite is tormented for her crime of infanticide but is forgiven — the apotheosis of her ascension to the heavens being yet another scene right out of grand opéra. (It’s hardly surprising that when Gounod’s Faust plays in Germany, it is invariably titled Margarete, to remind the unwitting viewer that the opera has only a passing similarity to Goethe’s treasured masterpiece.) The Faust saga was especially enticing to composers of the Romantic period. In addition to Gounod’s opus, a contemporary, Hector Berlioz (1803-1869), composed a staged concert work, La damnation de Faust (1846), truer to Goethe in many respects but still customized to suit the composer’s whims and the artistic trends of the day. As in Gounod’s opera, Faust contemplates drinking poison when Méphistophélès first visits (as a poodle in this particular instance) and offers to fulfill all his desires. Faust and Marguerite appear to one another in a sequence of dreams. Their union proves childless, but Marguerite is still imprisoned for killing her mother. A deal is struck when Méphistophélès offers to exchange Marguerite’s soul for Faust’s, and as she ascends to heaven, Faust is spirited to hell by horseback. As one who achieved fame during an era when virtuosi were thought to have acquired technique by way of a deal with the dark side, pianist/composer Franz Liszt (1811-1886) did nothing to dissuade the supposition. His Mephisto Waltz No. 1 shocked audiences with its musical portrayal of Mephistopheles’s violin solo from Nikolaus Lenau’s “The Dance at the Village Inn.” The poet Lenau (1802-1850) was dissatisfied with the conclusion of Goethe’s Part II, and undaunted by the challenge posed by the great master, wrote his own Faust, audaciously proclaiming, “Faust is a common property of mankind, not a monopoly of Goethe.” Liszt composed program music to another episode from Lenau, “The Nocturnal Procession,” as well as several more Mephisto Waltzes, a Mephisto Polka and A Faust Symphony in Three Characteristic Pictures, a series of tone poems based on the story’s three main characters. Obsessed with the legend for most of his life, Liszt had hoped to write his own opera to a text by Nerval and Alexandre Dumas père, but the project never got off the ground. The next great opera devoted to Faust was Arrigo Boito’s Mefistofele (1868). Boito (1842-1918) at first produced a six-hour opera (to be performed in two successive nights), incorporating material from both parts of Goethe’s drama. After one of the more notable fiascos of the 19th century, the composer/librettist withdrew his work and revised it extensively. The version that exists today emphasizes the struggle between Mefistofele and Faust for the latter’s soul, with less attention devoted to the tragedy of Margherita. She and Helen of Troy are juxtaposed in a duality of cosmic proportions — Margherita being the real and Helen the ideal. Faust becomes the victim of the Devil rather than the instigator of his appearance (in this case he first stalks Faust dressed as a friar), and Margherita plays no part in his eventual salvation (as she does in Goethe). Other significant operatic and choral adaptations styled after the legend include Ignaz Walter’s Doktor Faust (1787) and Louis Spohr’s Faust (1816), both of which owe their inspiration not to Goethe but to earlier works; Felix Mendelssohn’s Die erste Walpurgisnacht (1831); Richard Wagner’s Faust Overture (1840); and Robert Schumann’s Szenen aus Goethes Faust (1853). Twentieth-century literary treatments extended, among others, to the Czech and Russian traditions, with versions of the story written by Vaclav Havel (Temptation) and Mikhail Bulgakov (The Master and Margarita). And contemporary musical treatments include Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No. 8 (1909), the second movement being based on the end of Part II; Faust et Helena(1913), a secular cantata by Lili Boulanger; Doktor Faust (1925) by Ferruccio Busoni, based on the 16th-century puppet plays;Votre Faust (1969) by Henri Pousseur; and Giacomo Manzoni’s Doktor Faustus (1989), inspired by the novel by Thomas Mann. Courtesy of The Minnesota Opera |
Cultural life in Paris during the 19th century evolved significantly amidst a whirlwind of improbable events. Tossed back and forth between democracy and autocracy, and transformed by an unlikely and unloved emperor from a medieval maze to well-ordered metropolis, the city’s turbulent history was reflected in its arts. Theaters were especially vulnerable; plagued with closures, relocations, bankruptcies and deadly fires, each competed aggressively for their piece of an upwardly mobile middle class. Out of the chaos emerged such disparate musical forces as Meyerbeer, Verdi, Wagner, Gounod, Bizet and Offenbach, all vying for the opera dollar.
A little political history might be in order. Following the revolution of 1789, which displaced Louis XVI and the ancien régime, the Jacobin Republic was established by 1791, followed by the Thermidorian Republic in 1794. As war was declared on the new government by Europe’s other powers (especially Austria, whose royal family member, Marie-Antoinette, had been executed by the rebels) France began to push beyond its national boundaries, and the new government found among its generals one of stellar quality. Little did they know young Napoleon Bonaparte would seize enough power to install his own Consulate in 1799 and crown himself emperor in 1804. His glory was short-lived, however, as his expansionist designs turned back at him — by 1814 he was ousted and exiled, and Louis XVI’s brothers, first Louis XVIII then Charles X, were restored to power.
But the people (dominated by the now-powerful bourgeoisie) had had enough of the Bourbon despots, and by 1830 they had overthrown their ruler in favor of his cousin, Louis-Philippe d’Orléans, France’s first (and only) “citizen king.” Not really being all they hoped for, Louis-Philippe himself was deposed 18 years later, and a brief Republic, the second, was offered in his place. Elected president was a dubious candidate, Louis-Napoleon, nephew to his great predecessor. Louis-Napoleon had already been jailed twice for trying to overthrow the Citizen King (in 1836 and 1846), but no one seemed to pay it much mind until he staged his own brief, albeit bloody, coup in 1851, proclaiming himself Emperor Napoleon III. (Napoleon II, for the sake of reference, was the son of the first Napoleon, crowned in absentia by the imperialists following his father’s removal from office. He had conveniently died in 1832.)
Napoleon III’s interest in the arts was more than passing, but his true passion lay in positioning France as a major world player (especially in Italy, which was experiencing its own Risorgimento), and rebuilding the capital city to be the darling of Europe. With newly appointed Prefect of Paris Baron Georges Eugène Hausmann, he redrew the map, smashing through old neighborhoods to create wide promenades (boulevards) that were both attractive and useful — an army could be quickly mobilized during times of civil distress. Napoleon took ample opportunity to show off his new jewel with two world’s fairs, both of which would figure prominently in the city’s artistic growth.
In the first decade of the 19th century, Napoleon I had decreed that Paris would have only eight theaters — four primary (Académie Impériale de Musique, known informally as the Opéra, Opéra-Comique, Théâtre Italien and Théâtre Français) and four secondary (Théâtre du Vaudeville, Théâtre des Variétés, Théâtre de la Gaîté and Théâtre de l’Ambigu-Comique). By 1820, two more theaters (Théâtre de la Porte-St-Martin and Gymnase-Dramatique) had surreptitiously joined the pack. During the reign of Louis-Philippe, as restrictions relaxed, there was demand for another opera house to spotlight younger, untested talent generally refused admittance to the existing institutions. Nothing permanent was in place until the Opéra-National (later renamed Théâtre Lyrique) opened in 1847.
The Opéra was in its prime the 1830s as French Grand Opera exploded on the scene with the sensational eruption of Mount Vesuvius. La muette de Portici (1828), by Daniel-François-Esprit Auber, exploited the spectacular stage effects already known to French audiences (a trait dating back, along with the Opéra’s lineage, to the days of Louis XIV). Soon to follow was the genius of the German expatriate Giacomo Meyerbeer, first with Robert le diable (1831), then with Les Huguenots (1836). Auber’s Gustave III, ou Le bal masqueé (1833) and Fromental Halévy’s La Juive (1835) soon followed. Romanticism had opened up the possibilities of historical and supernatural worlds, and within those settings, the five-act grand opera offered a unique collaboration between composer, librettist, stage and costume artisans and choreographer (a ballet, of course, being mandatory). The commercial demand for mind-numbing special effects (spectacles d’optique), each designed to outdo the last, was enormous. (One can easily draw a parallel to the modern motion-picture industry.) Louis Véron, director of the Opéra during its heyday, was the first to turn a profit since the days of Lully.
Grand opera was performed at the Salle Le Peletier, home of the Opéra since 1821. Previously it had been housed at the first Salle Favart, but the theater was leveled after the heir to the Bourbon dynasty, the Duc du Berry, was assassinated on its steps. In 1858 a bomb was tossed at Napoleon III as he was about to enter Le Peletier, and yet another opera house (with better security) was immediately commissioned. Charles Garnier won the contest, and the new Opéra became a centerpiece in the new Parisian landscape, eventually opening in 1875, ironically after Emperor Napoleon III’s fall from grace.
Not far away was the Théâtre Italien, the point of entry for Italian composers hoping to make it big in the French capital. Operas were routinely performed there in their original language unlike at other theaters, where they were invariably sung in French. Rossini’s works became a staple of the house and the “Swan of Pesaro” became director for a short time (1824-26). Eventually settling in Paris, Rossini reconfigured two of his Italian works for the Opéra [Le siège de Corinthe (1826) and Moïse et Pharaon (1827)] and wrote two new pieces — Le Comte Ory (1828) and Guillaume Tell (1829) — the latter of which was cast as a grand opéra. His arrival greatly invigorated the style of French singing and stagecraft. The younger generation, Vincenzo Bellini and Gaetano Donizetti, followed suit — most of their major Italian works were seen at the Théâtre Italien, and several received their world premieres: Marino Faliero (1835) and Don Pasquale (1843) by Donizetti and I puritani (1835) by Bellini. For the Opéra Donizetti produced Les martyrs (1840 — reworked from an earlier work Poliuto), La favorite (1840) andDom Sébastien (1843), and for the Opéra-Comique, La fille du régiment (1840).
Giuseppe Verdi also made it to Paris by way of the Théâtre Italien — Nabucco was presented in 1845 and Ernani in 1846. But, like his compatriots before him, he was aware that, in order to be known as a composer of first rank, he had to go head-to-head with Meyerbeer at the Opéra. In his battle for the top, he intended to be on equal footing every step of the way and engaged Eugène Scribe, librettist for many a grand opera and noted author of “the well-made play.” Verdi had been at the Opéra before. Hastily approached in 1847 for a new commission, he instead reconfigured an older work, I Lombardi, into the French grand opera formula. Retitled Jérusalem and refitted with a new plot, new characters and a ballet, it scored a mediocre premiere. Verdi’s collaboration with Scribe yielded Les vêpres siciliennes (1855 — the work immediately following La traviata), based on France ‘s 13th-century domination of Sicily. Perhaps the grandiosity of this art form did not fit Verdi’s special attention to the intimate relationships of his characters. The opera failed to please, and Verdi began to develop a distaste for the flagship of French theaters.
Richard Wagner fared no better at the Opéra — his French premiere of Tannhäuser (1861) was one of the most notorious fiascos of the century. Also forced to provide the traditional ballet, the reluctant composer insisted on inserting it in the first act instead of the more customary placement in the second or third. One of the scions of Parisian “good taste,” the Jockey Club (formally the “Society for the Encouragement of the Improvement of Horse Breeding in France,” a holdover from the Restoration), frequented the Opéra but generally arrived after the second act had begun — their real purpose being to ogle the exposed legs of the ballerinas currently under or vying for their protection. The whistles and hisses virtually broughtTannhäuser to a standstill. Its detractors were persistent and similarly disrupted each of the three performances. Wagner was sent into a professional tailspin and decreed no work of his would be performed again at the Opéra until after his death.
As the century progressed, the Opéra’s repertoire began to stale. Grand opera had run its course, and a new competitor was rising to prominence. The Théâtre Lyrique, formed out of Adolphe Adam’s short-lived Opéra-National, filled a void by offering a place for untried young composers to premiere new works. Under the eventual guardianship of an astute impresario, Léon Carvalho, the theater mounted some of the Second Empire’s most memorable shows: Gounod’s Faust (1859), Mireille (1864) and Roméo et Juliette (1867), Verdi’s revised Macbeth (1865), Bizet’s Les pêcheurs de perles (1863) and La jolie fille de Perth(1867), Berlioz’s Les Troyens à Carthage (1863) and Wagner’s French premiere of Rienzi (1869). Carvalho’s repertoire was an intriguing combination of both the new and the unusual with a few standards (in French translation) by Mozart, Rossini and Verdi thrown in the mix. In spite of his clever programming, Carvalho fell into bankruptcy on several occasions. He gave up his directorship in 1860 only to be reappointed in 1862, then ousted for good in 1868 (but not out of the theater industry — he went on to run the Opéra-Comique from 1876 to 1887).
As “Hausmannization” continued, the Lyrique’s first home on the Boulevard du Temple found itself in the way of progress. Several other theaters also were located in the highly populated neighborhood (Napoleon III having rescinded his uncle’s restrictive theater licensing decree) — the street had become known informally to its denizens as the “Boulevard du Crime” for the tawdry melodramas frequenting its stages. Everyone scurried for new locales. The Lyrique, together with its neighbor, the Théâtre Impérial du Cirque (which at first focused on equestrian and acrobatic entertainment) found lodgings at the Place du Châtelet, just on the edge of the Seine. In 1862, two new theaters were designed and constructed by the same architect, Gabriel Davioud. Unfortunately, the Théâtre Lyrique officially ceased production in 1870 as a result of the Franco-Prussian war, its history spanning exactly that of the Second Empire, and its repertoire nearly eponymous with the regime. Symbolically the house was blasted during the Commune and burned to the ground (another theater has since taken its place). The Théâtre Impérial du Cirque still stands today as the Théâtre du Châtelet, offering a diverse program of opera, ballet and recitals.
Courtesy of The Minnesota Opera
Indianapolis Opera Ensemble tenor, Jon Jurgens started cycling in 2001, before he was a singer of any sort (Jon is a latecomer to the world of opera and didn’t start singing at all, not even in choir, until he was almost 20 years old). Today singing and physical fitness are tied together in his life. The discipline that it requires to train for a long-distance bike ride carries into his practicing. Singing is a workout and being in good shape, physically, benefits Jon’s opera career as well as his physical health.
The last role that Jon sang was Ruggero from La Rondine. “That role is a marathon. Very physical. You need to be in shape for it,” Jon says. “Learning to manage a large operatic role is very similar to training for a long ride. Pacing yourself, for example. You don’t sing the entire role. You sing it in small sections. If I’m training for a 100-mile ride, I don’t just get on the bike and ride 100 miles. You break it down into small increments first. For example, if you give it all in the first 60 miles of a ride, you have nothing left for the last 40 miles. Similarly, the final aria in La Rondine is exhausting. If you give it all in Act II, you don’t have anything left for the final aria. ”
Jon’s interest in cycling started when he found an old road bike in a friend’s basement. His friend hadn’t cycled in years and Jon’s enthusiasm got them both biking again. The first ride they took together was 25 miles. Today Jon is training to do a double-century ride, with a goal of doing a 200 miles in just one day. His singing career is rather active right now as well – for the first five months of 2012, he will be Indianapolis Opera’s resident tenor. Immediately after that, he’ll travel to Des Moines, Iowa to be a part of the Des Moines Metro Opera young artist program. Being busy as a singer is both a blessing and a curse – it’s great to have consistent work, but that means that he’s too busy to do traditional cycling training programs or sign up for group races. Jon imagines that his double century ride will probably be solo, something he organizes when he has time between gigs; he’s looking forward to it.
So how will Jon train while he’s here in Indiana, busy taking the IO touring children’s opera all over the state? Jon laughs at this. First of all, it’s winter here. Secondly, Indiana is flat. He’ll cross-train indoors, he says. Runners make good cyclists, so he’ll hit the treadmill and then immediately get onto an exercise bike. He also owns a stationary training bike that he’s got set up in his house and he’s considering starting p90x, a regimented workout program, to strengthen his core. Even though cycling seems like a leg- centric exercise, core strength is essential and improves your riding ability. He’s going to get the rest of the Ensemble into it, too. So watch out! It’s not over till our fit ladies (and men) sing!
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Tags: Indianapolis Opera Ensemble, Jon Jurgens, Opera Insights
The more I learn about opera, and become immersed in this world, the more I realize opera is everywhere. You may think you don’t know anything about this art form, that you don’t like opera, that it’s stuffy and boring and for gray haired old ladies – but several Hollywood directors would disagree with you. If Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorsese and Elvis think opera is cool, I can get on board too.
1. The Habanera from Bizet’s Carmen
Carmen is one of the most performed operas in North America and the Habanera has been performed and recreated in everything from Disney cartoons to Walmart commercials.
The original: Maria Calla sings the Habanera
Movies you’ve heard it in: Trainspotting, Pixar’s UP, Hudsucker Proxy
2. Ride of the Valkyries from Wagner’s Ring Cycle
Ride of the Valkyries is perhaps Richard Wagner’s most famous piece (that’s VAG-ner, not WAG-ner). It was composed as part of four epic operas called Der Ring des Nibelungen (The Ring of the Nibelung, or more often Wagner’s Ring Cycle) which took twenty-six years to write. And by epic, I mean EPIC: the four operas, generally performed over four nights, have a total playing time of about 15 hours.
Opera misconception: Many people believe the Ring Cycle inspired J.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. While the two were inspired by the same Old Norse mythologies, Tolkien has once said, “Both rings are round, and there the resemblance ceases.”
The original: Ride of the Valkyries
Movies you’ve heard it in: Apocalypse Now, The Blues Brothers, Full Metal Jacket, What’s Opera, Doc?
3. Barcarolle from Offenbach’s Tales of Hoffmann
The Tales of Hoffmann, written by Jacques Offenbach, is based on the short storied of writer E.T.A. Hoffmann and the Barcarolle is the most famous aria in the opera.
Fun Fact: Barcarolle provided the tune for Elvis’s Tonight Is So Right For Love in G.I. Blues.
The Original: Barcarolle
Movies you’ve heard it in: Life is Beautiful, Titanic
4. Flower Duet in Delibes’ Lakme
Lakme duet is always used to evoke beauty and tranquility, although sometimes overlayed as a foil for violence like in Tomb Raider. Listen closely while you are watching TV and youll hear it helping sell you some of your favorite products. Its ubiquitous presence in films and popular music since the mid-1980s was inaugurated by its usage in the 1983 horror film The Hunger.
The original: The Flower Duet
Movies you’ve heard it in: Meet the Parents, The American President, Tomb Raider: Cradle of Life, The Hunger
5. Sull’aria from Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro
The Marriage of Figaro, an opera buffa (comic opera) – not to be confused with The Barber of Seville and the aria Largo al factotum – was originally banned in Vienna because of it’s satire of the aristocracy, but later became one of Mozart’s most successful works.
The original: Cecilia Bartoli and Renee Fleming
Movies you’ve heard it in: The Shawshank Redemption
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Tags: bizet, Carmen, delibe, figaro, habenara, lakme, mozart, offenbach, opera 101, ring cycle, wagner
“It’s not over till the fat lady sings!” Right?
This is what most people think of when called upon to envision opera. After the fur coats and cummerbunds, visions of horned-helmeted, buxom sopranos are right up there.
But young opera singers today are challenging that perception. The new phrase: “It’s not over till the FIT lady sings!”
Opera singers are required to be some of the most physically fit people in theater. In addition to needing dance training, stage movement and combat training, singers must be ready to climb up, down and over sets that are increasingly large, complex and imaginative. Check out the set the singers had to navigate during the Metropolitan Opera’s production of Das Rheingold.
Sometimes, they must manage costumes that are extremely heavy and unwieldy or wear costumes made of heavy, hot fabrics, such as these chefs from the Met’s production of Hansel and Gretel.
Dresses can weigh up to 20 lbs. Capes can be 10 feet long! Check out massive dress Angela Brown wore Indianapolis Opera’s production of Ariadne auf Naxos – imagine having that on for three or four hours!
In some cases, singers are even rigged to wiring so they can fly across the stage. This requires an immense amount of coordination!
In addition, modern opera singers have more diverse exposure to audiences. Singers nowadays can be featured in magazine, blogs, on a company’s website, in a newspaper or on TV. The Met Live in HD series has more fans than ever coming to see the opera for an up close and personal experience. You no longer need opera glasses to see an opera singer at work – they are 20-feet tall, live on the big screen. That means every part of their physique is visible and under scrutiny by audiences that are used to seeing movie stars on screen.
All this means that singers need to be increasingly agile, strong and physically fit. A fitness routine not only helps singers be prepared for a long rehearsal period, heavy costumes or tricky set design – it provides daily discipline that helps them to succeed in the art form.
As many people are working to fulfill their New Year’s resolution to be get into shape, we will share with you what it takes to be opera-singer fit.
To start off, meet our Indianapolis Opera Ensemble artists. This group of young artists have recently graduated from their respective master’s programs and will be training with IO January through May. Join us this Saturday, January 14th at the Basile Opera Center to see them in action in this season’s children’s opera Jack and the Beanstalk. The performance is free and open to the public and starts at 11:00 am. Full details can be found here.
Meet soprano Angela Gribble, a vegetarian who enjoys yoga and exercising on the elliptical.
Mezzo Davia Bandy, weight trains and uses Jillian Michael’s workout videos when on the road for auditions and gigs.
Tenor Jon Jurgens, extreme cyclist (he’s training to do a double century ride, which is cyclist jargon for 200 miles!).
Last, but not least, baritone Elliot Brown, who is training for a half-marathon this May.
In the next 3 weeks, you’ll learn a little bit about each of our singers, their take on physical fitness and what they do to stay in shape. Get some inspiration from our dedicated young artists and let it help you to stick to your New Year’s resolution to hit the gym!
Tags: angela brown, Ariadne Auf Naxos, Hansel and Gretel, Indianapolis Opera Ensemble, Physical fitness
by Lou Harry
Indianapolis Business Journal
The sole on-stage character in Dominick Argento’s one-act opera “A Water Bird Talk” isn’t given a name. He’s just “The Lecturer,” an anonymous gent whose off-stage wife has somehow made him the guest speaker at a ladies’ social club event.
The Lecturer’s subject: water birds (although he would have preferred to speak of spiders). And he’s got some notes and slides to share.
But the Lecturer shares more than his knowledge of our feathered friends. He shares his discomfort. He shares his awkwardness. And, when his wife temporarily leaves her vantage point offstage, he shares his deep sadness about the state of his home life.
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Tags: A Water Bird Talk, Basile Opera Center, Bob Orth, Bon Appetit!, IBJ, Indianapolis Business Journal, Julia Child, Lou Harry, Reviews
by Jay Harvey, Indianapolis Star
The popular image of opera as something large-scale and grandiose doesn’t tell the whole story.
Chamber opera manages to convey many of the thrills of its magnified cousin, but with the advantage of musical and emotional intimacy.
Indianapolis Opera’s current production of Lee Hoiby’s “Bon Appetit!” and Dominick Argento’s “A Water Bird Talk” take the genre down to practically the onstage minimum.
Only one singer in each show carries the dramatic and musical burden, though both are supported by apt, colorful orchestration.
“Bon Appetit!” captures the ebullience of Julia Child’s cooking show in its lively early days. Emily Lodine portrays America’s own camera-ready French chef, who’s assisted by a pair of tidy but sometimes a little unrestrained sous-chefs in preparing a chocolate cake.
In the second performance Saturday night, Lodine followed Hoiby’s nimble setting of Child’s own words (adapted by Mark Shulgasser) with exquisite timing and understated drollery. She swayed between insouciance and detailed warnings as the cake took shape. When puffs of flour escaped the pans and floated to the floor, Child praised her “self-cleaning kitchen” as her dutiful assistants swiftly took care of the spillage.
With members of the Indianapolis Chamber Orchestra supplying light-textured accompaniment under the baton of James Caraher, Lodine reflected the down-to-earth zest Child was noted for. If “Bon Appetit!” could be said to have had a dramatic climax, it was the jovial contest between the mixer and the wire whisk, resulting in a tasty tie.
“A Water Bird Talk” posed a greater test of the potential of one-singer opera. Argento’s orchestral palette here is considerably more variegated than Hoiby’s; it has to be, because the character of the Lecturer is going through a soul-searing conflict about the meaning of his life. The monologue is laced with wit and anguish, and requires virtuoso vocal security to deliver.
Robert Orth turned in a first-class impersonation of an amateur expert on his subject lecturing to a ladies’ club — a man tormented by unhappiness into digressions of Wagnerian scope. His miserable marriage is the source of most of these wanderings. Orth’s versatile baritone was supplemented by a turn at the piano, where the Lecturer lovingly reproduces bird calls, then is moved by the thought of his anti-musical wife to launch into the stirring old hymn “Once to Every Man and Nation.”
A screen behind Orth was filled with a selection of Audubon slides of waterfowl, including the pied-billed grebe, whose woebegone existence the Lecturer readily identifies with. It also incorporated thevideo designs of Barry Steele, most movingly when Orth-as-Lecturer appears to soar against a blue sky flecked with clouds, free at last from earthbound woes.
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Tags: Bon Appetit! A Water Bird Talk, Dominick Argento, Indianapolis Star, Jay Harvey, Julia Child, Lee Hoiby, Robert Orth
Le Gateau au Chocolat ‘Eminence Brune’
Adapted from ”Julia Child’s Kitchen,” Alfred Knopf, 1975
2 teaspoons instant espresso
1/4 cup boiling water
7 ounces semisweet chocolate
2 ounces unsweetened chocolate
4 large eggs, separated
1 cup extra fine sugar plus 2 tablespoons
4 ounces soft unsalted butter
1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
Pinch of salt
3/4 cup cornstarch
Filling and frosting (see recipe below).
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter two 8-inch cake pans; place wax paper in bottom of each, and then butter and flour.
2. Blend coffee and water in top of double boiler over simmering water. Remove from heat. Add chocolates; cover and set aside to melt.
3. Beat yolks and gradually add 1 cup sugar. Continue beating until yolks are thick, pale yellow.
4. Beat melted chocolate until smooth. Beat in butter, 2 tablespoons at a time; gradually beat chocolate and butter into yolk mixture.
5. Beat whites until foamy; beat in cream of tartar and salt. Continue beating until whites form soft peaks; gradually beat in 2 tablespoons of sugar and beat until whites form stiff, shiny peaks. Sift on 1/4 of cornstarch and scoop on 1/4 of whites; stir with spatula. Scoop rest of whites on top; sift on 2 of remaining cornstach and fold. Sift half of remaining cornstach on top and fold in; sift on remaining cornstarch and fold to blend.
6. Spoon batter into pans and smooth. Bang once on work surface to settle batter, then bake for 15 minutes. A cake tester inserted near the edges should come out clean. Cool pans on racks. Wrap and chill for an hour before unmolding.
Chocolate Filling and Glaze
4 ounces semisweet chocolate
1 ounce unsweetened chocolate
1 teaspoon instant espresso
2 tablespoons boiling water
2 ounces unsalted butter.
1. Melt chocolates with coffee and water; beat in butter. If mixture is too liquid to spread, beat over cold water until lightly thickened.
2. Unmold one layer of cake onto serving plate and spread top with 1/4 inch of icing. Unmold second layer on top of first and cover top and sides with remaining frosting. Serve, refrigerate or freeze. Return to room temperature before serving.
Yield: 8 servings.
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Tags: Bon Appetit!, Chocolate Cake, Julia Child
ROBERT ORTH is the best baritone in his price range. A man of average looks and more than adequate vocal skills, he has somehow made the difficult climb from Chicago Opera Theater (his first operatic engagement) to Opera Grand Rapids (his most recent). It has often been said of him, “He has clawed his way to the middle.” A high baritone, he has been referred to as “half man, half tenor.” But it’s Mr. Orth’s abilities as an actor, not as a singer, that have put him in demand to sing Figaro in THE BARBER OF SEVILLE in such cities as Syracuse, Toledo, Corning, and Wilmington. Critics have often commented on his “windmill arms,” his “toothy smile,” and his general tendency to “overact.” Nevertheless, audiences have tolerated him in roles from Morales in CARMEN to Mr. Gobineau in THE MEDIUM. The Metropolitan Opera may not be interested in him. (“We don’t think you’d hear him in our large theater.”) But he is a regular in Indianapolis and Memphis, where the big stars seldom shine. Last year Mr. Orth created the role of Harvey Milk in the opera HARVEY MILK, based on the life of the famous dead homosexual. Though a few critics did not like the opera, most noticed that Mr. Orth tried really hard. A devoted family man, he is away from his wife and children for 7 to 8 months each year. So it’s probably just as well that he has no work for 3 months this summer. But next January he will spend his 50th birthday freezing in Calgary, Alberta, and after that he will make a triumphant return to Grand Rapids, Michigan. His career may be nearly over, but he refuses to give in, a trooper to the end.
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Tags: A Water Bird Talk, Baritone, Bob Orth, Opera Humor, Robert Orth