![Milan. Tenor Franco Corelli goes over a score on a day of rest between two performances of "Ernani", which he interpreted with great success at La Scala. Corelli was born in Ancona, he has a lively and combative character and is exceptionally tall: one meter and eighty-three centimeters. This summer he will sing "Il Trovatore" at the Paris Opera, for the Italian opera season in which Maria Callas will also participate [unfortunately this did not happen]; then he will interpret a film [not even this].](https://s3-us-west-2.amazonaws.com/secure.notion-static.com/5767b6b0-199c-4751-b072-1d4482e9b2ff/Untitled.png)
Oggi, March 12, 1959
<aside> 🇮🇹 Clicca qui per il testo originale in italiano 🇮🇹
</aside>
*Comment on Facebook*"...a man who "arrives" has half to thank for his good fortune, a quarter for his appearance or the sympathy he can inspire, and the rest for the real merit. Is this scepticism? If so, it does not prevent me from studying hard, from working hard, from learning what is right to learn from those whom I admire and who, when they can, stand in my way. I have even worn out the record of "Testa adorata" from Leoncavallo's Bohème, recorded by Del Monaco, by dint of listening to it. “
In this article the opera singer FRANCO CORELLI, who has now established himself definitively at La Scala, tells about his life and the incidents of his career
Name: Franco
Surname: Corelli
Type: tall dramatic tenor (1 metre 83).
Performances: almost all the repertoire inherent to his type, with the provisional exception of Otello, Lohengrin, Manon Lescaut and a few other operas.
Specialities: he puts the 'C' in Turandot and other problematic high notes where they are needed, but this does not mean that he lacks 'mezzavoce'.
Faults: he lives too secluded, doesn't go out socially, hates flying, has a passion for cars, and doesn't hide the fact that he enjoys listening to Domenico Modugno.
Other characteristics: he makes films; he has rather hot Anconetan blood.
Milan. Tenor Franco Corelli goes over a score on a day of rest between two performances of "Ernani", which he interpreted with great success at La Scala. Corelli was born in Ancona, he has a lively and combative character and is exceptionally tall: one meter and eighty-three centimeters. This summer he will sing "Il Trovatore" at the Paris Opera, for the Italian opera season in which Maria Callas will also participate [unfortunately this did not happen]; then he will interpret a film [not even this].
This, more or less and joking to a certain extent, is the "card" that defines me, according to managers, opera house directors, colleagues who like to show goodwill or at least objectivity. According to other colleagues, however, my "card" would be completely different: I know it, but I cannot refer to it because it is obviously disparaging. One of them, the most illustrious, has even gone so far as to change my surname, applying a type of 'registry irony' that goes back, I believe, to Aristophanes: instead of Corelli he calls me Pecorelli. He alludes, by this, to a tremor in my voice that did indeed escape me a few times five years ago, when I was, one can say, a beginner and the excitement, i.e., "fear," of certain evenings could still play such tricks on me. I can speak of it now with the utmost peace of mind, and accept the joke, for it was merely accidental and now forgotten, as any critic will confirm.
It's the usual story in any environment where the "competition" is intense: young people who come forward and assert themselves are not exactly adored by the "kings" in charge, nor by their enthusiastic supporters. What happens in the gallery at La Scala, for example, is at least curious: I have been singing for five seasons now in this prestigious theatre, and I can say this with full knowledge of the facts. You hear one person shouting 'bravo' and another shouting 'bue!'; one shouting 'encore' and another shouting 'cane!'. I know these a priori opponents one by one, even by name: for example, Miss Margherita, Mr Antonio, and so on. I have been keeping an eye on one of them for some time. Just the other evening, coming out of La Scala after the "premiere" of Ernani (a complete success, acknowledged by many critics), I found him intent on writing, on the posters in the piazza, unseemly words next to my name and that of the prima donna. I couldn't help myself (see "index card" in the last entry: rather hot blood) and grabbed him by the lapels. Action, reaction, clapperboard. It was not, however, a very violent clash: not so violent as to constitute a crime, at least. At the end of the duel, while the nocturnal passers-by crowded around us, we both saw more clearly: then my adversary acknowledged his wrongdoing, and now we are at peace.
I had another, more important duel a year ago at the Teatro dell'Opera in Rome. We were rehearsing Don Carlo: I was the lead actor. Suddenly, the bass and I were arguing about our respective positions on stage. I had the phrase to sing at that moment, and I insisted. My colleague declared himself determined not to take into consideration the ideas of others. I did not move; to make me move he drew his sword and came at me with two swings. Of course I reacted, and from swordsmen we turned into boxers. The bass left shouting that he was not coming back. A few days later the intendant persuaded us to shake hands in front of everyone and we went on stage. That was an adventurous season. It had not been many evenings since the Norma with Maria Callas, which was sensationally interrupted. In that Norma I was 'Pollione'. It was the only time I received a cachet [fee] without singing. Another cachet, a bit different unfortunately [a pill], I had to take before going to bed.
All in all, I'm not very impressed by dark faces, little or big hostilities, colleagues who don't greet me. I am a factual person. I have enough humility to recognise and affirm that I owe a lot to luck, like many others. In fact, I usually say that a man who "arrives" has half to thank for his good fortune, a quarter for his appearance or the sympathy he can inspire, and the rest for the real merit. Is this scepticism? If so, it does not prevent me from studying hard, from working hard, from learning what is right to learn from those whom I admire and who, when they can, stand in my way. I have even worn out the record of "Testa adorata" from Leoncavallo's Bohème, recorded by Del Monaco, by dint of listening to it.
I still advise perseverance and prudence. In my house, you will find notes written by myself stuck to the paintings. They say, for example: "Dear Franco, don't be an idiot, don't strain your throat doing C, C, C and C again for hours on end. A friend who loves you". I need them, I reread them when I'm studying, every day, or I'd risk straining my voice through too much zeal: now that I've found the high notes, I'd often let myself be carried away by enthusiasm.
But the results are there. A few years ago I was given a "journalistic label", that of the "third man" of Italian opera: third, it was understood, after Del Monaco and Di Stefano. Now this label is disappearing. This is no small thing. Thinking about this helps me when I "go on stage" and I am still afraid, at least at La Scala. "Don't be afraid", I also write to myself on those notes that I scatter around the house.
On this subject, a note: someone reproaches me for not attempting Otello, someone even challenges me to sing Otello. I could very well try my hand at this character, which is undoubtedly a point of arrival in a career: but if I don't do it, it is not because I am "afraid", but because I do not intend to renounce most of the operas in my high repertoire for such a demanding interpretation. I believe that it is also the variety and completeness of the repertoire that qualifies an artist.
I was saying: luck. I was saying that I owe it a lot. This is proven, moreover, by the short history of my life. I was born in Ancona, in a house thirty metres from the sea and leaning back against the Capodimonte hill. My father was employed at the United Shipyards, and as a boy I thought I would become a naval engineer. In the meantime, I was content to fight with the neighbourhood kids on the hill with stones and sticks: these are the scars on my forehead. I was content to take part in rowing and swimming championships: I was really cut out for it. Then I graduated as a surveyor and got my licence as a naval engineer. But in the years after the war, as a clerk in the reconstruction office at Ancona town hall, I had so much to do as a surveyor that I forgot about the sea. My house had been destroyed in an air raid. I promised myself to rebuild it, bigger and more beautiful, with my future earnings. I fulfilled this 'promise' last December: I was born there, my mother died there nine years ago. "The house is now rebuilt. But I still haven't stopped mourning my mother's death. I will only stop mourning when I have fulfilled a vow: to sing a mass for her on the anniversary of her death.
Until 1946 I had never sung, not even by chance, except "Fischia il sasso" in a chorus with the Balilla. One evening I went with friends to visit a piano teacher. I liked opera, so I started to sing an opera piece for fun. "You could try", they told me. I was sceptical. I thought that singers are born: I didn't believe that study could do so much, almost miracles, bringing out hidden qualities in a voice. They encouraged me. This is what I mean by 'luck'. I used to go three times a week to study in Pesaro, but for my own pleasure, for fun. Then chance led me to Florence: a group trip. During that brief stay I took part, without taking myself seriously, in a competition, and I won it. That's what I call luck again.
Then I made up my mind. I was accepted at the Experimental Centre, I took part in the Spoleto competitions, the first time in 1951 [1950], and I failed. Gigli was there, I remember, listening to me, I got excited, I lost my head, I don't know what I did. The next year I won. I prepared for two months in Rome to make my debut in Aida. But it turned out I didn't have the right voice for that opera, which was replaced with Carmen. So I made my debut in Spoleto: since then "Don José" in Carmen is my favourite character, I have performed him 103 times.
The following year was my debut in Rome, at the Teatro dell'Opera, in Romeo and Juliet. And in 1954, out of the blue, I came to La Scala as Licinio in La Vestale, with Maria Callas. I still don't know whether I have Callas herself, Maestro Votto or director Luchino Visconti to thank for this.
Since then I have led a chastened life, almost a recluse: in short, boring to talk about. The only "evasions" I allow myself are tennis, film work (I have a seven-year contract with a leading production company, and this summer I will play in a very demanding cinemascope), and finally long car trips.