More Role Preperation

Our Spanish speakers, no doubt, have the Spanish keyboard already loaded into their computers. If so, could you please print out the letters of the alphabet and e-mail them to me. They will include the accented letters. I will make multiple copies. I would suggest that you all have a pen or pencil handy when we are receiving advice on the pronunciation. Nothing could be worse for the Uptown Treasure Day Concert at the Hispanic Society than some of the singers sounding like complete foreigners when singing a Spanish piece. Whatever language you sing in, whether it be Czech, French, Russian etc., you must sound completely natural and fluent in your pronunciation. For many a listener, it is off-putting when there is a heavy foreign accent. Gigli never sang well in English and consequently could never give his English speaking audiences some of the songs that were dear to their hearts. Bjoerling, on the other hand sang clearly in any language and delighted audiences of all nationalities. Most good singers sing a foreign language without any noticable accent (e.g. Thomas Hampson, Maria Callas). Some singers cannot sing any language at all intelligibly and just produce tone, (e.g. Joan Sutherland). I don't call the latter, "Art" and, in fact, i just can't take more than five minutes of the latter, because after the fireworks, there is nothing that is actually being said. After 10 minutes, it is really starting to become boring because there is no soul in the performance.

Last week, I drew your attention to Gigli's remark: "When Gatti-Casazza asked me to take the part of Romeo in Gounod’s opera ‘Romeo et Juliette’, I did more in the way of preparation than study the music and go on a slimming cure. First of all, I went to the theatre to see Shakespeare’s play, on which of course the opera is based ; but although I enjoyed it, the requirements of opera are so different that the fact of having seen it did not really help me very much. I read books about the history of the time period, studied costumes of the period in the art galleries, and pondered over photographs of Verona. Above all, I tried to feel with Romeo’s heart. Only then did I consider myself ready to ask Maestro Rosati to come to the piano and start going over the score."

The key words of the above passage are: Above all, I tried to feel with Romeo’s heart. Only then did I consider myself ready to ask Maestro Rosati to come to the piano and start going over the score."

In short, Gigli didn't attempt to bring in his pianist and study the music until he was certain he was able to feel with Romeo's heart. Music was secondary to the overall preparation, which, in opera, is primarily the character, the character's part within the story, what prompts the character to do what he does and how he interfaces with each and every other character. Gigli was a great - one of the greatest - operatic singers. To help himself toward that goal, he researched the history, the costumes and the backdrop of the city of Verona that helped form Romeo. All elements play a part in developing a character. Geography plays a vital part. A man of the steppes of a few hundred years ago was not unlike an Indian of the plains. He thought in distance and what would seem vast distances to a city dweller was only a small distance to him. A man of the city of Bruges is far more like a man of the densest part of Brooklyn than he is like a man of Great Neck, New York. In some operas such as la Wally, geography is everything. I believe much time is wasted in learning music before any attention is given to the words. It should be the words, the geography, the actual place in time and space, the scenery backdrop and circumstances that are evoked by those words that are the prime motivators. Get that right, and the music comes easily. Ignore it and, sooner or later, you will ask yourself why no-one seems to be enthused about your performance no matter how well you might judge yourself vocally.

Now let's look at the greatest of all actors on the operatic and concert stage, Chaliapin. For most of you, this is new. Let's see how he prepared for a role:

My Method of Work

The paragraphs that follow on my method of study concern exclusively the conscious side of creative work. I say nothing about the mystic element, which, if I feel in my most sublime moments of inspiration, I feel confusedly; it would be impossible for me to analyse it.

I am given score and script of an opera in which I am to sing. It is obvious that I must begin by studying the character I am to represent on the stage. I read the script, and ask myself: What sort of a man is this supposed to be — is he good or bad, handsome or hideous, intelligent or stupid, honest or cunning? Is he a mixture of all these things? If the character has been conceived in a spirit of genius, all the attributes will be understandable. I have the script and score in front of me; if the language is descriptive, if the score is expressive, the character in whom I am interested will take shape of itself. It appears in its entirety in the opera, and all I have to do is to give an exact rendering.

To do this, I must learn, not only my own part, but all the parts without exception — not only the principal part, but even the most trifling parts, including the cue of the chorus. This cue would hardly appear to concern me but it does. I must feel at home in a part — I must make it even more familiar than my home. It does not matter if I am uncertain of the position of a chair in my own room — I must be sure of it on the stage in order that nothing untoward can occur, in order that I may feel perfectly at ease.

If I do not know an opera from the opening to the closing bar, I cannot feel the style in which it has been conceived and composed; it follows, therefore, that I cannot feel the character I am to present. Consequently, I can have no definite idea of him until I have thoroughly studied the environment in which he moves and the atmosphere which surrounds him. It sometimes happens that an apparently insignificant phrase sung by a supernumerary — the second guard of the palace, for instance — throws an unexpected light on an important incident which is taking place in the hall of state or in a bedroom of the palace. No detail can be meaningless to me, provided that it has not been superfluously introduced by the author without rhyme or reason.

When I have mastered every word and every note, when I have pondered over the acts of all the characters, great and small, and noted their reactions to one another; when I have realized time, place, and atmosphere — then I have an adequate understanding of the part I am to play. The character has a bass voice, is intelligent and passionate; I am aware of impatience and rashness in his emotions and contacts, or, on the other hand, of his caution and reflection. He is impulsive and artless, or he is subtle and on the alert. Has he a definite individuality? Obviously, for otherwise he would talk and think entirely differently. To sum up, I know him as well as if he were an old school-friend, or a bridge-partner of many years’ standing.

If the character is a fictitious creation of the author’s mind, I know all that it is possible and essential to know about him from the script — he is to be found there in his entirety, I need no other light on his personality and do not look for it. If the character is historical, the foregoing does not apply. In this case I must unquestionably consult history. I must know the actual events that concerned him, or others through him; I must know in what way he differed from other men of his times, I must learn how his contemporaries saw him and how historians pictured him. Why must I acquire this knowledge? I am not writing a history-book, but representing a character in a work of art, and so much the worse if the work of art does not conform to historical truth. Yet such knowledge is essential, and the reason is this:

If the actor adheres strictly to historical truth, history will help me to a fuller and deeper comprehension of his intentions; if he is deliberately doing the reverse and deviating from actual fact, it is even more essential for me to know the true historical events. It is exactly in the actor’s refusal to conform to historical truth that the audience is able to grasp the most intimate essence of his thought. History hesitates, for instance, to state whether the Tzar Boris is guilty or innocent of the murder of the Tzarewitch Dmitri at Ouglitch. Poushkin holds him responsible; accepting Poushkin’s judgment, Moussorgski gives Boris a conscience in which his crime rages like a wild beast in a cage. I can understand Poushkin’s work and Moussorgski’s conception of Boris far better if I realize that it is not an incontestable historical fact that is in question, but a subjective interpretation of history. I remain faithful, I cannot be other than faithful, to Poushkin’s judgment and Moussorgski’s conception. I always create a criminal Boris, but my knowledge of history enables me to put light and shade into my creation that would otherwise be lacking. Although I cannot absolutely confirm it, I think it is very likely that because of my historical knowledge my interpretation of the Tzar gains in sympathy and tragedy.

This explains why I went to our eminent historian Khoutchevski while I was studying the part of Boris. I recall with grateful pleasure the marvellous pictures he painted of Boris, his times and environment. An artist in words, and gifted with a most powerful historical imagination, Khoutchevski was, in addition to being a historian, a most remarkable actor.

It was during the course of a walk in the forest in the province of Vladimir that he expounded the character of Prince Vasili Chouiski to me. How marvellously he did it! He stopped dead, took two steps sideways, held out his hand to me in a wheedling manner, and said in a timid and ingratiating voice:

"Thou know’st it well, the idiot populace
Is savage, superstitious, and inconstant,
And follows eagerly the wildest hope;
It readily obeys a new command;
To truth indifferent, and dull of heart,
It battens on most falsely fabulous tales
And dearly loves audacious cynicism;
Thus, when a nameless libertine appeared
Across the Lithuanian border"

As he recited Poushkin’s lines, he kept his eyes fixed on me with a cunning look, as if to discover the impression made on me — Boris — by his words: am I frightened, disturbed? It is essential that he should know for his political ends.

Thus incarnated by Khoutchevski, Chouiski rose before me as though he were living. And I realized that when so subtle and crafty a statesman speaks to me, I must listen as though he were a schemer and not a mere courtier making a straightforward report.

To be brief, it is the careful study of my part and its origin, a purely intellectual study, that enables me to get at the core of the character. Like the schoolboy and his text-book, I simply learn a lesson. But that, obviously, is only the beginning.

Visualization of a character: The part played by imaqination:

The mentality of a character and its outward appearance.. Boris Godounov's beard: Don Quixote: Don Basilio in The Barber of Seville

HOWEVER PERFECT THE written description of a character may be, a certain measure of doubt must exist in its visualization. No book or script gives the exact proportions of a character, there are no details as to the actual length to an inch of his nose.

The finest artist in words cannot draw a plastic picture of a face, cannot convey the tones of a voice or describe the gait of a character. Tolstoi was a superlative artist, but if ten celebrated painters were asked to outline the portrait of Anna Karenina in accordance with Tolstoi’s description, the result would be ten entirely different portraits, even though each contained the salient features of the heroine. Obviously, here is no question of objective truth, and, moreover, a written description is only of very slight interest. Nevertheless, if an actress is playing the part of Anna Karenina — for which may God forgive her! — the dramatic incarnation of Anna must in no way do violence to the Anna of Tolstoi’s story. A close approximation to the original is the most rudimentary lesson that the actress must learn. Let us extend this and say that a mere outward resemblance to Tolstoi’s Anna is not enough; over and above this, the physical characteristics must be in sympathy with the mental attributes of the heroine, so as to give these attributes more light and shade and convey more meaning to the audience. The closer the external picture of Anna corresponds with the inner conception of her character, the nearer the representation will approach to perfection. It goes without saying that by "external picture" I mean, not simply "make-up," colour of hair, etc., but personal touches such as the way in which the character walks, sits down, listens, talks, laughs, and weeps.

How is this to be achieved? here, plainly, intellectual effort is not enough, and it is now that imagination enters the lists — imagination, one of the essential elements in artistic creation.

To imagine is to visualize. A swift, clear-cut, exact picture appears on the mental retina; at first the picture as a whole, later the typical details of the picture — facial expression, bearing, gesture. We must know the character intimately if we are to get a convincing picture. If we are aware of a man’s inner nature, we can almost accurately guess his physical aspect. The audience will grasp the hero’s personality the moment he steps on the boards if the actor has faithfully imagined and realized the character. The actor’s imagination must be in complete sympathy with the author’s imagination; it must strike the essential note of the character’s personality. How lifelike and true to type an impersonation is may be gauged by the measure of the audience’s conviction. Thus, we must assure ourselves that the character we are to create will carry conviction to an audience.

Let us take Boris Godounov. There are coins on which his head is engraved, and on these he is shown without a beard; he has a moustache only. His hair, I believe, has been cropped. This picture is probably historically correct, but, having thought the matter out, I became convinced that documentary evidence would be of no interest whatever. Let us admit that Boris was beardless. Does it necessarily follow that I must appear on the stage with a shorn face? Must I represent Boris with blond locks? Obviously not, for were I to do so, I should present an emasculated picture of Boris. He is of Mongol descent — the audience expects a black beard, and therefore I always give him a black beard. Those who have seen me in the part can judge how greatly this exterior detail has helped to produce an impression of power and strength.

Now let us turn to Don Quixote. I don’t know what he was really like, but having carefully read Cervantes, I can shut my eyes and make a picture of Don Quixote as much like him as the ten portraits were like Anna Karenina. I may say to myself, for instance, that this dreamer, sunk in his own dreams, must be slow in his movements, and that his eyes must not be cold and hard. I see plenty of varying characteristics and details, but this is not enough. What was his appearance as a whole? How can I make the audience, when they first catch sight of Don Quixote, say with sympathetic recognition: "Yes, that’s you all right, old friend and comrade . . ."? Clearly, the external picture must express imagination, candour, bravado, childish weakness, the pride of an ancient knight of Castile, and the simplicity of a saint. There must be a mingling of comedy and pathos.

It was Don Quixote’s inner nature that showed me his external appearance. I pictured it, detail by detail, and gradually evolved an image that was imposing when seen from afar, but both ludicrous and touching when seen from near. I have given him a pointed tuft on his chin, and a drooping lock over his forehead; I have made him long and lean and have set his frame on spindling, bony, tottering legs. I have also given him a moustache, laughable no doubt, but which is actually supposed to have I adorned the countenance of the Spanish knight. Swearing fidelity on shield and visor, he has an artless, innocent face on which smiles and tears and contortions of anguish have a particularly moving effect.

In the same way Don Basilio’s mentality has helped me to a conception of the part in The Barber of Seville. Don Basilio says: "Give me money and I’ll do anything you like for it." And his whole nature comes out in this single phrase. From his first appearance the audience must realize what sort of a rascal he is, to what depths he can sink, and this from his mere attitude, before he has uttered a word. My imagination told me that Don Basilio would be doubly effective if he were not realistically represented, and therefore I deviated from strict reality and turned to the grotesque. My Don Basilio is to some extent as pliable and elastic as his conscience. When he appears in the doorway, he is of dwarfish bearing, but suddenly, before the very eyes of the audience, he springs up to giant proportions. When occasion calls, the giant can become the dwarf again. He can assume any stature so long as money is laid in his itching palm.

For that reason Don Basilio is both ludicrous and terrifying. In company with him, the audience may expect anything to happen. His encomiums on slander are entirely in keeping with his character.

It must be understood that imagination must feed on observation of real life. If one is to delineate a Spanish organist, one must go to Spain.

At the time when I was creating the part of Don Basilio, I had not yet been to Spain. But I sometimes went to the French side of the Spanish frontier, and there I saw all types of clerics and priests, both fat and thin. . . Organist and abbé — they were as like as two peas.

One day I started off from Dijon to go to a château, Corman, as far as I remember. You know the French trains — on the main lines the train de luxe, the wonderful Blue Train, thunders past, but on the branch lines the engines puff along so sluggishly that you begin to wonder where you are going, why you are making such protracted halts, and when you are likely to reach your destination.

On this particular occasion my sluggard train was no exception. During the usual long wait at a station, whose name I have forgotten, a priest entered my compartment. He gazed at the other passengers, myself included, in an indifferent silence, huddled himself in a seat by the window, hunched his shoulders, pressed his hands together, and stared motionless through the pane.

I gave him a sidelong glance; he had a scarf round his throat and wore a hat. What sort of a man was he? Probably he was an excellent fellow, but I thought to myself:

"There sits Don Basilio!" and I modelled myself in his image."

For those of you who can receive the photos, I attach two of Chaliapin as Don Basilio in two productions.