Such an idea of opera was in part also the result of the fact that the works were sung in their original languages, or at times in other non-English languages. The idea was prevalent that English was a bad language to sing—and such an idea is not unnatural when it is considered that the singers were mainly of German, French, or Italian origin, background, or training. There were occasions on which singers sang different languages in the same performance: Chaliapin, for instance, sang Boris Godunoff in Russian, supported by an Italian cast.
Indisputably from every ideal standpoint an opera should be performed in the language in which it is written. But properly understood, opera is at least as much theater as music. Any drama—musical or otherwise—suffers through translation; yet no one would seriously suggest a performance in the United States, under any but exceptional circumstances, of a work by Chekhov, Ibsen, or Sartre in the original language. Even in regard to opera this problem is beginning to be understood; and anyone who has attended recent performances in English at the Metropolitan—or imagined, on the contrary, what might have been the result had Porgy and Bess or a work of Gian-Carlo Menotti always been sung in Italian or German—has an idea of the importance of this question. For a relatively inexperienced public like the American before the World War I, a public not well versed in opera in English and unfamiliar with the languages in which the works were sung, hence, in reality, with the works themselves, the foreign language becomes an obstacle. It fosters the sense of remoteness referred to above; not only the words, but in some cases even the titles of the works remain mysterious even when the plots may be familiar. The public, as a whole, remains in the dark not only as to what Isolde and Brangäne, Isolde and Tristan, or Tristan and Kurvenal are saying in the respective acts of Tristan, but also it cannot fully participate in the musical and dramatic unfolding of Otello, the infinitely delicate articulation of Falstaff, or in the complications of the last two scenes of Rigoletto. In such instances the drama is missed if the meaning of the words is not understood; and when the words are not completely understood in every detail, at least the experience of an enacted libretto can convey some of the power of the music.
It must be emphasized, however, that for any public a drama is drama only if it can become the reverse of remote. It must be truly and intimately felt; and a living theater cannot exist entirely on imported fare. In order really to live, an opera must be felt as drama; otherwise results different from those noted are scarcely obtained. Neither composer nor performer can breathe life into opera unless its drama is felt, and the public takes fire only from things it has lived. It remains basically indifferent if there is no point of contact with whatever is dramatic in its own world or age; from its own epoch the public learns what drama per se is, and only from this point of departure can it understand dramas of other periods. For this reason we speak of French, or German, or Italian, or Russian opera. With few exceptions, what was lacking at the Metropolitan of the period in question were operas written in English, in quantity and in quality sufficient to solve this problem and to lay the foundations for a vital operatic tradition.
Meanwhile the economic problems characterizing our music life are becoming more acute in the field of opera. Our nonoperatic theater is doubtless the weakest point in the whole of American cultural life; it may be, and often is, summarized in the words “Broadway” and “Hollywood.” The reciprocal action of the vast economic power of our theatrical and, above all, our motion picture enterprises, of increased prices and therefore increased risks, and, finally, of the huge American and even international market results in a kind of spiral: economic risks and caution operate constantly so as to keep standards at a low level. The same forces are at work, in a restricted way, in the operatic field. Little by little the operatic enterprises of which mention has been made, had to be abandoned, with the exception of the Metropolitan and the curtailed autumn season of the San Francisco Opera.
Under the pressure of rising prices, the fundamental limitations of the system became clear. The repertory remained facile, without novelties of consequence, without daring of any kind. Whatever new works were heard in the United States—Mavra, Lady Macbeth of Mzensk, Wozzeck—were performed under special auspices; and while later the performance of Peter Grimes, and still later, The Rake’s Progress seemed hopeful beginnings of a possible change, the fate of these two works served only to point up the real dilemma. Broadly stated, one must admit that the performance of any new work is a serious risk in a situation where rising costs have vastly increased the economic hazards to which the enterprise is subjected. This is true even under best conditions. On the other hand, if an institution is to survive, it is imperative that fresh blood be constantly injected, and for an institution like the Metropolitan this means freshness and novelty in repertory as in everything else. One cannot permanently live on the past; even revivals are not the answer.
Much has been accomplished at the Metropolitan since 1950, the advent of Rudolf Bing as its director. In the period prior to his arrival, artistic quality had seriously declined, owing in part certainly to the steadily deteriorating economic situation, but in part also to ineffectual leadership. Inevitably, some of the preconceptions indicated were responsible for the decline which economic stresses threw into higher relief. The problem of creating a satisfying operatic ensemble from casts composed of singers drawn from different parts of the world, with different backgrounds and engaged as individual stars, is great; but when rehearsals are inadequate, as they assuredly were at the time, the results are disastrous. Surprisingly good performances were achieved on occasion, especially by Bruno Walter, Fritz Stiedry, and George Szell, and tentative beginnings were made in using English translations for some Mozart performances. In general, however, standards were lower than ever before.
Unquestionably, Bing has brought some changes for the better, both in repertory and standard of performance. The essential problems, however, remain, since they are not created by artistic directors, but by prevalent misconceptions. Composers, and, above all, the regulation of financial support can contribute to their solution. Certainly they are not insoluble, and there is reason for believing that forces are gradually working in the direction of a satisfactory solution. However, one must remain aware of problems and obstacles. They are formidable.
Numerous attempts are now being made in many parts of the country to further the production of opera by contemporary American composers. The response has been indeed surprising. For many years thinking in terms of what might be considered genuine American opera was the rule; one peered into the void for the “real” or the “great” American opera in much the same way as one looked for “the great American novel,” and one attempted to forecast its characteristics. This is not only an example of the bent toward abstraction discussed before, but also one of a primitive and mechanistic view. In other words, the search, less for truth or artistic necessity and more for a product most likely to make headway on the American market, was in the foreground. Sometimes the answer was found in the use of so-called “American” subjects—plots taken from our history, folklore, literature, or landscape. At other times, such efforts were combined with the use of folk tunes: the object was the creation of a kind of folk opera. A solution was sought in the evocation of American scenes and memories, a worthy aim only if not considered the final answer to the fundamental question. Some advocated the use of “contemporary” subject matter instead—texts seeking to incorporate characteristic aspects of modern life. Again, one cannot object, except to an irrelevant dogmatism. Solutions were sought, in fact, with reference to everything—contemporary drama, the spirit of Hollywood and Broadway, and, of course, jazz. At least one work of real value, Porgy and Bess, may be associated with these attempts, though it certainly represents them in the least self-conscious manner. However, no such program can ever be regarded as the answer to the problem.
The achievement of a genuine “national style” in any sphere whatever depends on something deeper than evocation, nostalgic or otherwise; and if what one seeks is timeliness, machines, ocean liners, or nightclubs on the stage do not suffice. What is required is drama, felt and communicated, whether it be comedy or tragedy; and this, if it is real, becomes both contemporary and national—just as Julius Caesar is both English and Elizabethan, and Tristan neither Irish nor medieval. So far as this author knows, no one has thought of reproaching Verdi for having written Egyptian, Spanish, French, or English—even American—opera in the various instances which come to mind. It is a heartening sign that American opera composers of today seem to be fully aware of this problem, however they differ as to outcome.
In any case, this is the central problem of American opera. How can one hope for the growth of an American opera tradition under the conditions prevailing in our established operatic institutions, and in view of the fact that throughout the country there are only three or four which continue to exist, and those not on a desirable economic basis? One must insist once and for all that a vital American music life cannot be confined to the established conventions of concert and opera. We have already given attention to radio and recordings, which play so decisive a role, and interest us for manifesting sharp contrasts with features discussed in connection with concert and theater. Later comment is reserved for what may well be regarded as the most noteworthy aspect of American music life today: the multitude of impulses all over the country, the yearning for musical experience our concert and opera life does not offer. These impulses center largely in educational institutions—in schools, conservatories, and universities. Above all, one here finds the beginnings of what may be called a different mode of opera life. In an already considerable and ever-increasing number of schools and opera departments, problems of opera production are being studied, with an undaunted willingness to experiment and, if necessary, even to fail, and with a vitality which amazes all who have the opportunity to watch it closely. At least one happy result has manifested itself, even within the framework of music life. It has shown Americans that satisfying results can be obtained in the operatic field without recourse to the luxury of stellar personalities or sumptuous modes of production. Notably at the City Center Opera in New York—an offshoot, in a sense, of the opera department of the Juilliard School—some performances provided even valid competition in quality of ensemble and vitality of interpretation to identical works at the Metropolitan.