Eva Marton Communicates

Back in the Ancient Times, less-than-knowledgeable young opera buffs, like myself, were strongly admonished to "prepare" for an opera performance. Reading the libretto while listening to a complete recording—no cheating, listen to every bit of it, and then do that again a couple of times—was an absolute minimum. Since there is no such thing as a "definitive"recording, listen to two. Three would be better. Studying the original source material of the libretto was strongly recommended. In fact, the first issue of the EMI Callas recording of "Carmen" included not one but three booklets, "Bizet's Carmen", "The Callas Carmen", and "Merimee's Carmen", the full text of Merimee's story.

That could begin to seem time-consuming. Life got busier, and eventually an alternative was invented: super titles ("titles above"). You didn't need to know anything, just sit down and read the translation projected above the proscenium. You'll understand everything, no problem. James Levine refused to allow titles at the Met for many years, but even he finally gave in when a new system was invented and installed on the back of every seat in the house, not over the proscenium. You're supposed to look at the stage, not the words flashing above it. And that's just about ideal. But with super titles a lot hinges on the quality of the writing—because you're reading the libretto, right?--and even more, on the timing.

This was made abundantly clear to a full house at the San Francisco Opera sometime in the 90's. The opera was "La Gioconda", and the star was the Hungarian Diva Eva Marton, a no-nonsense, take-charge singer who had been a protege of Birgit Nilsson. In Act III, Gioconda's been deserted by her lover, she's just rescued her rival, Laura, from certain death, her blind old mother's been missing for a couple of days, and she's had it. In the gloom of a dead Venetian canal she sings the aria "Suicidio", which I think speaks for itself. The audience is hanging on every word as it unscrolls above the stage, and really feeling for Marton, who has a big, warm, interesting voice, plenty of stage presence, and palpable guts. Unfortunately, as she sings "Io piomba esausta fra le tenebre"--"I fall down exhausted in the darkness", something goes wrong with the titles: they speed up, get out of synch with the stage action, and go on to something that doesn't have anything to do with the suicidal Marton. Which raises something you don't want to hear in a performance of "La Gioconda", especially if you're a soprano lying on the floor in Act III. A laugh. A large, spreading, prolonged laugh.

Marton stops singing, for a second she just looks amazed. Then she gets up angrily, shakes her fist, and shouts into the auditorium, "Hey! I'm working here!". The orchestra peters out, the audience breaks into a disbelieving buzz, and a pause ensues. Marton stands there staring at the audience for a beat, and then exits briskly stage right. The buzz grows, and nobody's laughing. After what feels like a long time, Marton abruptly re-enters, glares into the house, returns to center stage, lies down on the floor. She gestures imperiously to the conductor, "La Gioconda" by Amilcare Ponchielli, first performed in 1876, starts up again, and Eva Marton sings "Suicidio." She sings it very, very well.

And when she finished, about 4,000 people in the War Memorial Opera House, reminded suddenly of how this sensational, extravagant, bastard art form can create a moment nobody present will ever forget, screamed "Brava" for a Hungarian with a hot temper and a lot of guts, who could really sing. Super titles be damned, she communicated with her audience.