Elixir: spotlight on the tenor

Who saw Pavarotti in Elixir? ME!!.

(photo by Pirlouiilit)

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Quite a number of operas feature wonderful, star-making roles for the lead soprano. Many sopranos dream of being cast as Lucia, Aida, Violetta and countless others. It makes sense: many sopranos are glamorous. Their private love-lives (see "Callas, Maria") can be the stuff of tabloids. They wear gorgeous gowns. In opera, their entrances are often delayed well into the first act to create intense anticipation of their appearance.

But no soprano who ever phonated has EVER said this:
"It is my dream to someday sing the role of Adina in The Elixir of Love".
Look - Adina is a fine role; Donizetti gives her graceful, attractive music to sing. She even has an interesting arc of character development, starting as a capricious girl who takes nothing seriously and evolving into a mature woman ready for lifelong commitment.

But the opera isn't about her. It's about the lead tenor, Nemorino. And I believe that each and every tenor, upon being born, has one thought in mind about his future:

In other words, Nemorino is a GLORIOUS role that all tenors DO want to sing and it CAN be a star-making vehicle. Nemorino must have good comedic instincts; he must move well; he must exude charm and charisma; he must have the acting chops to make us fall in love with the character; and he must sing tirelessly and passionately with honeyed tone and elegant phrasing.

In the 1970's when I was an undergraduate music major (or in other words, about 80 pounds ago...), I managed to score a ticket to the Lyric Opera of Chicago's production of Elixir. The cast? Joan Sutherland and Luciano Pavarotti.

Yeah, pretty nice.

My memories of the evening, all these years later, are interesting in this regard: I don't really recall much about Dame Joan's singing. I'm sure she sang like the goddess she was. Really, my memory of her is a single visual image, like a GIF. She was a large-framed woman. Up in my balcony seat I couldn't really see her shoes from under her gown. So when she walked, or rather "proceeded" across the stage, she looked like a ship slowly sailing into port.

But Pavarotti? With him, my memories are vivid and visceral.

He too was a big, big dude. Late in his career, of course, his mobility was hampered by crumbling knees. But in the early 70's, though large in body size, he was incredibly light on his feet. As he cavorted around the stage in Nemorino's he was like those enormous linemen in pro football who may be big, but are also agile, spry and quick. His tipsy scene was one of balletic grace.

Another tip that Nemorino has a big night with tons of singing ahead of him: Donizetti gives him a warm-up number to open with. The cavatina "Quanto è bella, quanto è cara" is, for an operatic tenor, like batting practice before a major-league baseball game. The slugger gets a few easy pitches he can whack to get his juices flowing. Likewise, Nemorino's solo has no high C's or even B flats; the orchestral accompaniment is muted; there is no chorus to have to project over. 

You find these warm-up solos from time to time. Verdi gave the Duke of Mantua "Questa o quella" in Rigoletto. Puccini favored Des Grieux with "Tra voi, belle" in Manon Lescaut. Of course, Verdi pooped out on the concept by the time he got to Aida, in which the poor tenor essaying Radames has to crank out the excruciatingly difficult and exposed "Celeste Aida" at the top of the show. It's Verdi saying: Hey, you're a professional. Warm up at home, dammit".

Spoil-sport...

Adina? Nothing jaw-dropping like any of Lucia Ashton's big numbers in Lucia di Lammermoor that bring down the house even when sung only adequately. Nothing mesmerizing like any of Carmen's solos. Pleasant music that is eminently forgettable for the average opera-lover.

In fact, her final solo, "Prendi, per me sei libero" tends to come off as an anti-climax since it follows close on the heels of Nemorino's iconic moment of tenorial splendor "Una furtive lagrima". 

Yep - the success of any Elixir rests on the shoulders of the artist cast as Nemorino. As he goes, so goes the show. It's a big responsibility! It's a challenge. It's difficult. 

Tenors: you'd better bring your "A" game.

Udite O Rustici and the sons of Dr. Dulcamara

Donizetti's The Elixir of Love is the tenor's show; the success of any production rests on the shoulders of Nemorino and his ability to charm us, to show some comedy chops, to move well in his "tipsy" scene and, in the end, to make us melt into grease spots with his rendition of "Una furtive lagrima".

MGM's fast-talking Wizard in action

But if Nemorino doesn't watch his P's and Q's, Dr. Dulcamara is totally capable of stealing the show. It's a fabulous part. "Udiste, O rustici" is SO GREAT. Donizetti was not a genius, but "Dr. Bittersweet's" monologue is an inspired tour de force of fast-talking hucksterism for a charismatic buffo. (Here it is with Sesto Bruscantini.)

Some eight minutes in length, "Udite" could be called the first infomercial in advertising history. The remarkable thing about the number is that a modern-day audience quickly recognizes that, in the field of marketing, advertising and sales techniques, nothing has changed in nearly three centuries.

Consider: like those commercials that "make it personal" ("Men: are you experiencing Low T? Would you like more energy and more bounce in the bedroom?"), Dulcamara zeroes in on his customer's individual problems: "You stiff matrons, would you like to feel young again?"

I frequently get Facebook and Instagram ads with, um, "impressive" claims. "Doing this once a day completely wipes out neuropathic pain! Doctors are amazed!" They are simply following the lead of Dulcamara, who boasts that his elixir "is emptying out hospitals!"

In virtually all stagings, there comes a moment when the con man pulls down a bogus chart depicting human anatomy, enabling the "doctor" to spew out some rapid-fire pseudo-scientific nonsense. This always reminds me of old-fashioned TV commercials for some medicine in which the announcer says "Here's proof" upon which we, the viewers, are shown an animated cartoon of stomach acid being exterminated. Yeah, right - "proof".

And Dulca-quack finishes with another trope of modern-day Madison Avenue: a jingle! This comes when his assistant breaks into a lively tune in 3/8. Here, Dulcamara is not "speaking" to the crowd (in a non-melodic patter while the orchestra plays the melodic material); he is actually singing to them, a device meant to "close the deal" and stick in their minds:

This number is so wonderful, and the character who sings it so vivid and entertaining, that Dr. Dulcamara has been re-born in stage and film. He's the gift to story-tellers that keeps on giving. Here's a summary of a few that spring to mind immediately.

PROFESSOR HAROLD HILL - The Music Man. Harold's version of "Udite" is the iconic patter song "Ya got trouble"  Hill’s “elixir” is music; specifically, the promise of a boys’ band in a sleepy midwestern town, a band that will keep the youth of River City out of trouble. Once having collected cash for instruments and uniforms, he’ll skip town.

Because Americans prefer sentiment in their stories, Prof. Hill (unlike Dulcamara) is redeemed by the love of a good woman. And, of course, the fake “elixir” of music, like that of the opera, ends up delivering what was promised. No more will the youth of River City, Iowa fall prey to the evils of the pool hall.

TOBY AND PIRELLI - Sweeney Todd. In one glorious scene entitled "The Contest", Stephen Sondheim has dazzled us with not one, but TWO! - COUNT THEM, TWO! - incarnations of Dr. Dulcamara. They, like Harold Hill, while borrowing the device of rapid-patter delivery of unlikely claims, each differ in technique and character from Donizetti's creation. And no: Pirelli is not a pricey Italian tire, he's Sweeney's rival for the barbering trade in London.

Toby, the apprentice first of Pirelli and then (following the latter's unfortunate demise) of Mrs. Lovett, is the most innocent of all the charlatans. Yes, he does an expert job of hawking "Pirelli's Miracle Elixir", but he proves to be a child-like naif, his sales pitch having been drilled into him by the evil Pirelli. It's worth noting that this elixir, unlike Dulcamara's, is NOT a panacea recommended for everything from killing bugs and mice to improving skin complexion and curing paralysis; nope, this stuff (which Todd decides is composed of "ink and piss") grows hair. That's it. Finito. Dulcamara doubtless would counsel Pirelli that he's needlessly limiting his revenue stream.

When Pirelli finally makes his dramatic appearance, the astute listener will notice a device stemming directly from "Udite O rustici": wild self-promotion to establish street cred. Whereas Dulcamara rashly says he's known throughout "the universe and... and... other places", Pirelli interrupts his rapid patter to boast, with great vocal flourish, that he has even shaved the Pope! 

Pirelli's big contrast from Dulcamara is this: whereas Donizetti's character gets away with his antics and clearly continues to rake in the scudi from gullible peasants, Pirelli's career comes to a crashing halt when Todd scores a TKO in the shaving contest. His mortal live comes to a halt shortly afterwards.

And one last "son of Dulcamara, perhaps the most like the original:

THE WIZARD - The Wizard of Oz. I never read the book (tsk), so my comments refer to the MGM musical. The Wizard has managed to con an entire populace of "peasants" on the other side of the rainbow that he is an all-powerful sorcerer. That's what he's "selling": an image, rather than a physical product in a bottle.

However, I would suggest that, for Dorothy and her friends, the Wicked Witch's broom functions as a counterpart to an elixir of love. It's "the thing that'll get you what you want". The love potion is the Thing that will bring Nemorino happiness. The broom is the Thing that will enable Dorothy to go home, in addition to giving the Lion courage, the Scarecrow a brain, and the Tin Man a heart.

In both cases, the "customer's" belief in their respective con men, and the trials they go through in following directions, are what bring about the actual results they were hoping for. Dr. Dulcamara and the Wizard stumbled upon an important truth of human nature (as well as Lion nature, etc. etc.); namely, that the mind is a powerful problem-solving force once it's engaged. Charlatans or not, both characters became the galvanizing motivation for their "victims" to change their lives for the better.

Donizetti's Elixir: Of sugar pills and black feathers

The great paradox in Donizetti's The Elixir of Love is this: Dr. Dulcamara is a con man; a charlatan who sells cheap red wine as a cure-all for every medical condition known to man, yet in the end his fake "love potion" works. The nerdy boy (Nemorino) gets the "It Girl" (Adina) to fall in love with him.

This would come as no surprise to anyone in the medical profession.

In the venerable sitcom M*A*S*H, there was a memorable episode in Season 6. Hawkeye (Alan Alda) and the other doctors had a problem: they were out of morphine, and the hospital was full of injured soldiers in agony. Col. Potter suggested an old trick: placebos. They quickly made up some sugar pills. I don't have the teleplay available, but I remember Hawkeye at a patient's bed saying something like "Okay, son, this pain pill is so powerful I'm only going give you half of it. Take this, and you'll feeling much better very shortly."

Of course, it worked like a charm, and the patients rested comfortably until the real meds arrived.

The mind - even Nemorino's! - has an amazing ability to bring about drastic changes.

Here's another film reference: remember the Disney animated classic Dumbo? (Ah, the 1940's, when a children's movie could show the hero being so falling-down drunk he was hallucinating.  I recently heard that a new live-action remake is in the works. Think maybe that scene will be omitted in 2019?)

Anyway, Dumbo has his own placebo: that black feather. The little fellow with the gigantic ears flies without knowing how he did it. A kindly crow, to bolster his confidence, hands him one of his own feathers, promising that as long as he holds on to that feather, he can fly like a bird and be the star of the circus. The big moment comes when the feather blows away in mid-air, causing Dumbo to plummet like the value of my 401K lately. (But I digress.) Naturally, Dumbo realizes that he can fly, feather or no. Happy ending.

The point is that, ironically, the sugar pills worked. The black feather worked. 

And so does Dr. Dulcamara's elixir of love. I'm not sure the rest of the village can expect the same results in the areas of curing asthma, paralysis and diabetes. (I mean, come on - the human body turns alcohol into sugar. Give me a break on that one.) But for Nemorino's agenda, the elixir works right in front of our eyes.

There is a moment in which everything changes in the blink of an eye. Nemorino has chugged his bottole of "love potion" and, in his ill-educated bucolic innocence, believes he can feel it working. Adina happens by, startled to see the pathetic farm-boy acting strangely. Nemorino mis-interprets her attitude, and in response he makes a fateful decision:

He ignores her.

THIS catches the It Girl's attention. This is new. Why isn't he staring at her like an adoring puppy as usual? Now Nemorino gets into the spirit of the thing, "Go ahead, laugh at me", he thinks, "by tomorrow my suffering will be over!"

See what's happening? The illusion of magic is motivating him to behave as if the magic were real. He's exuding confidence. We in the audience understand that this confidence is foolish and that he's just tipsy, but hey - confidence is confidence, and Adina notices.

This forces her to reconsider who Nemorino is and re-evaluate how she feels about him. From this point on, nothing is the same. The irresistible force is going to conquer the immovable object.

And Donizetti lets us hear this sudden personality change in Nemorino's vocal writing. The opening cavatina "Quanto è bella" (sung here by Lawrence Brownlee) is in full "I'm so pathetic" mode. The vocal lines are wistful, full of hopeless longing, completely passive.

By the way, it's sort of cool that librettist Felice Romani's lyrics for this solo eerily predict pop songs from the mid-20th century. If you're of a certain generation, you'll remember Vic Damone and Sammy Davis Jr. singing The more I see you/The more I want you/Somehow this feeling/Just grows and grows. This is a match for Nemorino's Più la vedo, e più mi piace or The more I see her, the more I like her. And when the farm-boy sings about how great she is, then laments that he's incapable of inspiring affection in her, it makes me thing of "The Girl From Ipanema"

Now, compare that with the manifest cockiness exuding from his outburst in :Esulti pur la barbara" (beginning at 3:23 in this clip with Pavarotti and Battle). The vocal writing is resolute, determined and bold. Nemorino's voice repeatedly thrusts upward from dominant to tonic and even higher. 

He's a new person. When Adina finally realizes she has feelings for him and they become a couple, even Dulcamara does a double-take, allowing himself a fleeting second to wonder if somehow he stumbled upon The Real Thing. Of course, the moment passes and he's content to celebrate the epiphany that, with a "satisfied customer" in tow, he's sitting on a gold mine.

In short, the comedy is funny because the psychology is true.

Next week I'll survey "The Sons of Dulcamara" and examine other elixir-touting con men of music drama, with an eye toward seeing if the placebo effect is in evidence in any of them.