Franco Corelli at the Met

In 1968, Corelli was at the pinnacle of his fame and in the full flood tide of his vocal glory. Tall, handsome and so athletic, the Italians called him "Golden Thighs", and pictures of him as "Werther" (Massenet), "Andrea Chenier" (Giordano), or "Poliuto"(Donizetti) make it easy to see why. He was a real stage animal. There was a palpable thrill about him, an incandescent vibration. He had a thoroughly masculine stage presence, a sense of a very strong, young man (although in 1968 he was already 45), but he created also the impression of great sensitivity and sadness. He was, in fact, the living image of the Romantic Hero, right out of Byron. He wasn't an actor in the sense that Norman Treigle or Jon Vickers or Teresa Stratas were actors. The role became Corelli, not the other way around. There was something beyond acting about his electric stage presence. When Franco Corelli made an entrance, you knew that something important was about to happen. He would have had a career even if he'd had a mediocre voice, just on looks and presence alone. But he also happened to have a very large, dark, gorgeous voice and stunning high notes. (He produces what may be the single most exciting tenor High C on records at the end of Act III of Gounod's "Romeo et Juliette", recorded by EMI in June and July 1968, and co-starring Mirella Freni.) Many commentators believe his was the greatest tenor voice of his time--certainly that's my belief--and some consider it the greatest tenor voice since Caruso.

It has to be admitted that there is another school of thought. In his live Met performances, Corelli often seems unmusical: note values are ignored, and his rhythm is often slack. Once he settles into a high pianissimo, he might be there a long time, and when he throws a forte high note into the auditorium, it can seem as if there's no conductor present at all. There are exceptions, such as his Calaf opposite Nilsson's Turandot, under Stokowski, in his first Met season. After he conquered the Met, he largely abandoned performing in Europe. Rudolf Bing needed Corelli, protected Corelli, and in a way, I think, damaged Corelli. Bing's Met was not a conductor's house. Corelli, Bing's biggest star, worked with few strong conductors, and he learned to get his way with weak ones, to his detriment. In a way, Corelli's triumph at the Met halted his growth as a serious artist. He became The Greatest Tenor in the World, something more than a working musician, but perhaps something less. In his later seasons at the Met his musical habits became sloppy and inelegant, but I can tell you from my own experience, they often produced a very exciting performance. There was a real sense of danger, of risk-taking, every minute he was onstage. This was often opera not as high art, but as blood sport.