My Favourite Things – Verdi’s ‘Otello’
It’s now 52 years since I first heard and saw Verdi’s penultimate opera, ‘Otello’, in the Scottish Opera production by Anthony Besch, conducted by Alberto Erede. It has stayed in my memory ever since, and I remember becoming slightly obsessed by it in my last two years at school. I can still remember many of the lines of the libretto, so engraved in my consciousness did it become, and, although I never appeared in it during my career, it has long remained one of my favourite operas of all time, and I return to my recording over and over again. My obsession is slightly unusual, because, even if I had sung in it, there is not much of a role in it for me. I would have sung Lodovico, who appears in Act 3, but the opera is essentially a three hander, with Otello (tenor), Iago (baritone) and Desdemona (soprano) as the main protagonists. My first experience, at the King’s Theatre, Edinburgh, had a fantastic cast, with Charles Craig, Peter Glossop and Kiri te Kanawa as the three stars. More of that cast later.
Verdi was an admirer of William Shakespeare, although, not speaking English, he knew the plays only in translation. His second wife, Giuseppina Strepponi, did speak English, and it appears that she helped the composer with direct translations. Even before the premiere of ‘Aida’ in 1871, after which he ‘retired’ from composition, Verdi’s publisher, Ricordi, had been trying to tempt the composer to write another Shakespeare opera. His ‘Macbeth’ of 1847 had been a partial success, but his revised French version in 1865 was something of a flop, and the opera disappeared from the repertoire until the middle of the 20th century. I actually sang in several performances of ‘Macbeth’ at the Coliseum in London with ENO, as Banquo, in David Pountney’s eccentric production, conducted by Mark Elder. I never felt the role suited me, but there is some fine music in it (as well as some dross – the chorus of witches is particularly silly!).
After ‘Aida,’ which was a complete triumph, Verdi made it quite clear to the world that he was retiring to his estate and was finished with opera. His Requiem, premiered in 1874, in honour of Alessandro Manzoni, was widely seen as his last work, but the efforts of Ricordi and the intervention of the hugely talented composer and librettist, Arrigo Boito, firstly to revise ‘Simon Boccanegra’ and then to consider a new opera, based on Shakespeare’s ‘Othello,’ began to take shape. Even so, after the first serious conversations about a new Shakespeare opera in 1879, it took another eight years until ‘Otello’ was given its first performance on February 5th 1887 at the Teatro alla Scala, in Milan, to universal acclaim.
Verdi had worked with Boito on the revision of ‘Simon Boccanegra’ as a sort of tester to see how the two men would get on, and with the premiere of the revised opera at La Scala in 1881, it was clear to the older composer that the partnership was going to succeed. Little did he and the world suspect that the partnership would produce two of the greatest operas ever written, both based on Shakespeare, ‘Otello’ and ‘Falstaff’.
Arrigo Boito, born in 1842 in Padua, studied music at the Milan Conservatory until 1861, after which he joined with many others to fight in the Seven Weeks War in 1866, under Garibaldi, with Prussia against the Austrian Empire, on behalf of the Kingdom of Italy. This war resulted in, among other things, the ceding of Venice to Italy! Two years later, his only surviving opera ‘Mefistofele’, based on Goethe’s ‘Faust’ opened at La Scala. It was a huge flop, resulting in riots and duels over its alleged ‘Wagnerism’ and was closed by the police after two performances!
Ricordi was convinced that Boito should collaborate with Verdi, arranged for the two men to work on ‘Boccanegra’ and pushed them to start work on a Shakespeare opera, which turned out to be ‘Otello’. Verdi had not been impressed by ‘Mefistofele’ (he commented: “He aspires to originality but succeeds only at being strange!”) but realised that the young man was a literary genius, and their work on ‘Otello’ proceeded apace.
Actually, it proceeded more at a snail’s pace, as Verdi was not pressed by any sort of deadline, and, since everything was hush hush, he wouldn’t be hurried. He was excited when Boito sent him the one major scene which had nothing to do with Shakespeare, Iago’s Credo. This text was a creation of the poet, written to give some sort of credibility to the unbelievably evil intent of Iago in his destruction of Otello, and shows how Iago was driven by hatred and jealousy to push Otello’s jealousy to the limit, with innuendo and falsehood. His Credo is a sort of anti-religious creed, the antithesis of the Christian creed, spoken to the cruel god in which he believes. The text is wonderful, and it clearly moved Verdi to write a fantastic aria, full of trills and brass entries. At the age of 17, I was fascinated by this overwhelming piece of music, which I first heard sung by the fabulous English baritone, Peter Glossop, in that life-changing performance by Scottish Opera I mentioned earlier. It was a vintage production by the great Anthony Besch, a director I never worked with but who was responsible for two of the best productions I ever saw, this ‘Otello’ and his ‘Tosca’, set in 1940s Italy, also with Glossop as a terrifying Scarpia. Charles Craig was an English dramatic tenor, who Scottish Opera had cast as Siegmund in their Ring Cycle around the same time, and his Otello was brilliant. Like Jon Vickers, his Canadian contemporary, who had made Otello his role ever since his iconic recording in 1963 with Tito Gobbi and Leonie Rysanek, conducted by Tullio Serafin, Craig was not a tall man, but on stage, both looked two feet taller, such were their personalities and commitment.
Kiri te Kanawa had arrived in the UK, from New Zealand, in 1966, and by 1971, she was making waves. Her Countess in Mozart’s ‘Marriage of Figaro’ at Santa Fe and Covent Garden that year had been a sensation, and Scottish Opera’s success in getting her as Desdemona in ‘Otello’ in 1972 was a fantastic coup for the company. Even as a 17 year old schoolboy, I could tell this girl was the real deal, and the fact that Scottish Opera had also managed to engage Alberto Erede, an Italian conductor noted for his ‘Otello’ recording with Mario del Monaco in 1954, was yet another pointer to a spectacular occasion. So overwhelmed was I that I learned Iago’s Credo, and sang it at a special Shakespeare gala in George Watson’s Ladies College in Edinburgh, put on by the two schools’ (Boys and Girls Colleges) Literary Club. My dear friend, now Professor, Hugh Pyper, played the piano, and I heard many years later that quite a few of the girls in the Sixth Form had been deeply moved by my singing! I was, of course, oblivious to such things! In reality, it must have been pretty terrible, because Iago is a baritone and it was very high for me, I had had no training in singing or in Italian, and my voice was at a very early stage in its development. However, the reaction in the room was spectacular, although I was more interested in impressing my sporty classmates to show I wasn’t just a wimpish aesthete who happened to play cricket well, but also a man of distinction and style!
Most of the work on ‘Otello’ was done by 1885, but Verdi insisted on complete secrecy, working with the dramatic tenor, Francesco Tamagno (Otello), the French singing actor, Victor Maurel (Iago) and the soprano, Romilda Pantaleoni (Desdemona). Despite worries about Tamagno’s soft singing – basically no Italian tenor role had ever been written like Otello, with fierce fortes and subtle piannisimi – Verdi was finally happy to allow the first performance to take place at Teatro alla Scala in Milan on 5th February 1887, conducted by Franco Faccio. It was one of the great triumphs in history, with ovations after every act, and over 20 curtain calls at the end. Verdi and Boito were called back over and over again, and a huge crowd followed Verdi back to his hotel. The 74 year old composer had capped everything he had written before, in an opera the like of which had never been seen or heard before.
From the start, Boito and Verdi came up with a staggering opening. The first act of the play was abandoned, and the opera opens, without an overture or even a prelude, in a great storm at sea, watched from the Cyprus shore. Crowds have gathered to see the arrival of the new Governor, the Moor, Otello. This is all happening in 1570, and the storm has scuppered the Turkish fleet while massing to recover Cyprus from the Venetian republic, which had held the island since 1489. Otello and Desdemona, his new wife, manage to sail through the storm, although there is a moment of panic during the first scene when the crowd think their ship has foundered. However, all is well, and Otello steps ashore to announce, in one of the most exciting first lines of any character in any opera - “Esultate! L’orgoglio musulmano sepolto è in mar!” (Rejoice! The pride of the Muslims is buried in the sea!). With this first phrase, we learn much of what we need to know about our hero. This phrase needs a big voice, and ringing high notes, making it a role that is famously difficult to cast. Like Wagner’s Siegfried 11 years earlier, the two greatest opera composers wrote roles that few mortals could aspire to, although at least Otello sings many fewer notes!
Having arrived safely, he and Desdemona go off to do what newly married couples do, leaving Iago, his ensign, to begin the evil machinations which will evolve over the course of the opera and will result in Otello’s eventual downfall and death. The first part of the plot is to turn Otello against his captain, Cassio. Iago and his spineless lackey, Rodrigo, get Cassio drunk during the celebrations which follow Otello’s arrival, and they engineer a fight between Cassio and Montano, the former Governor. Boito skilfully uses Shakespeare’s drinking song, “And let me the Canakin clink” and turns it into a brindisi (Italian drinking song) which Verdi sets sublimely- “Inaffia l’ugola” (wet your throat!). Otello is roused from his bedchamber by the noise of fighting and when he discovers Montano has been wounded, he declares Cassio no longer his captain. The first part of Iago’s plot has succeeded. When the crowds have dispersed, Otello and Desdemona sing one of the greatest of all love duets - “Già nella notte densa s’estingue ogni clamor” (now in the dark night, all noise is silenced).
Act 2 opens with Iago duplicitously telling Cassio to ask Desdemona if she will help him challenge his demotion, but as he watches the two in conversation, he breaks out in his great soliloquy “Credo in un Dio crudel”, in which he expresses his nihilistic views and his hatred of mankind. When Otello enters, Iago draws attention to Cassio’s furtive behaviour, hinting at a secret affair with Desdemona. When Desdemona comes over to Otello, the first thing she asks is for a pardon for Cassio. Otello shrugs her off, and she tries to soothe him with her handkerchief (il fazzoletto), which he throws to the ground. Desdemona’s maid, Emilia, Iago’s wife, picks it up but Iago grabs it roughly from her. When Otello returns, Iago makes a great play of Cassio’s secret longing for Desdemona, and hints at disloyalty and dishonour.. He invents a recent evening when he and Cassio were sleeping in the barracks and he overheard Cassio dreaming about his love for Desdemona, and the very next day, he saw Cassio with the strawberry-embroidered handkerchief which Otello had given his wife (the time- line for this is somewhat awry – the assumption is that Otello is so obsessed with possible treachery and betrayal that his memory has deserted him). Mention of the fazzolettosets Otello off on a rage - “Si, per ciel marmoreo giuro” (yes, by the marble heavens I swear it!), and Iago joins him in a fantastic duet of vengeance, which ends the act with a bang!
Many commentators have blamed Shakespeare for the ludicrous haste with which Othello goes from deep sensual love and affection for his wife to a swift desperation for vengeance and an utter conviction about Desdemona’s faithlessness. It is hard to swallow, and whenever I have seen the play, I cringe somewhat at the stupidity of this very successful general and politician to be so simply duped. There is a slight uneasiness about the depiction of this African character who displays a simple inability to see through Iago’s evil plotting, a gullible man of limited imagination, and, it is hinted, intelligence. There is something rather distasteful about this portrayal, which is, it must be said, of its time and place, historically. The early 17thcentury was not a period when Europeans had much sympathy for or understanding of black people, and I think we must just accept Shakespeare and Boito’s reasons for making Otello so gullible, in the interests of the plot.
Once we accept that attitude, there is no doubt that Iago’s devious plotting is marvellously successful and truly diabolical. Machiavelli would have been proud of his insidious hints and allegations, and I think that Boito’s addition of Iago’s evil Credo to the original play is brilliant, showing that it is more than just jealousy of Cassio and Otello that prompts him to his foul calumnies. His whole being is bound up in hatred and spitefulness.
Act 3 is a tremendous mixture of public spectacle and private turmoil, in many ways resembling ‘Aida’ in its juxtapositions, with the slow unwinding of Otello’s groundless suspicions about Desdemona in the midst of a grand event when the Venetian ambassador, Lodovico, announces Otello’s recall to Venice and Cassio’s promotion to Governor. The culmination of these different strands is the huge ensemble towards the end of the act, when all the characters express their inner thoughts in a magical piece of writing, sometimes unaccompanied, but finally ending up with full orchestra and chorus, from which Otello emerges in a mad fury, sending everyone away and cursing Desdemona. Left alone, he raves about everything and collapses. The offstage chorus praises the Lion of Venice, while Iago steps on the comatose body of Otello, proclaiming “Ecco il Leone!” (So, here’s the Lion!).
Act 4 opens in Otello’s and Desdemona’s bedchamber. She is fearful and distraught, suspecting the worst but unable to understand what is going on. Attended by her faithful maid, Emilia, she sings the sad tale of the Willow Tree, and prays to the Virgin Mary in a beautiful Ave Maria, suspecting that this night will be her last. So it proves, as Otello comes in, and eventually throttles her. He has been goaded to kill her himself by Iago, while the hapless Rodrigo has been assigned by the evil plotter to despatch Cassio. Emilia discovers the plot too late, Iago is unmasked but escapes, and Otello, learning the truth at last and realising he has been betrayed by his ‘honest’ lieutenant, sings the great final confession “Niun mi tema” (That none fear me!), before producing a dagger and stabbing himself. In a direct echo of the love duet at the end of Act 1, he dies asking for a final kiss from his dead wife and falls dead himself beside her.
Despite the unbelievable stupidity and gullibility of Otello, Verdi and Boito created an opera of wondrous magnificence, which would have perfectly crowned the composer’s career with a shining diadem had it not been capped, incredibly, six years later, in 1893, by ‘Falstaff’. These last two operas are, to me, the greatest glories of a glorious career, although the public at large, and audiences to this day, have proved less certain. ‘Otello’ and ‘Falstaff’, largely due to their more advanced structure, veering away from Verdi’s tried and trusted earlier formula of arias, duets, ensembles and choruses, have proved less popular in the public’s eyes than the earlier successes of ‘Rigoletto’, ‘La Traviata’ and ‘Il Trovatore,’ not to mention the blockbusters, ‘Don Carlos’ and ‘Aida’.
Verdi’s place in the pantheon of operatic composers is assured nonetheless, along with Wagner, Mozart, Puccini and Strauss, and I am still as attached to ‘Otello’ as I was over 50 years ago, when I first saw it at the King’s Theatre in Edinburgh in 1972. I have spent most of the intervening years listening to the 1963 recording I wrote about earlier, released by RCA, which, for me, is still the definitive recording of this opera. Some people have objected to Rysanek’s non-Italian and mature sound, but I find her strangely compelling, and Vickers and Gobbi are peerless. It’s worth looking for Alberto Erede’s 1954 Decca set with Mario del Monaco and Renata Tebaldi (you will remember that it was Erede who conducted that Scottish Opera performance in 1972, so there’s an added Scottish context) and James Levine’s 1978 RCA recording with Placido Domingo (who I heard singing Otello at Covent Garden – stunning), Renata Scotto and Sherrill Milnes.
It is also worth finding the recording of the Metropolitan Opera Gala in 1972 in honour of Rudolf Bing on DG for a glimpse of what Franco Corelli, my favourite Italian tenor, might have brought to the whole role. He sings the love duet with Teresa Zylis-Gara, and you can hear what this great dramatic tenor would have sounded like, singing a role for which he was made but never sang!
Cover photo: Francesco Tamagno (Otello), La Scala, 1887
