by Alan Rich, The New York Times, February 11, 1962
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*Comment on Facebook*Several current legends about Italian operatic tenors in general and one tenor in particular, were demolished recently in the course of an afternoon's visit with Franco Corelli.
Legend the First has it that all Italian tenors are squat in contour and graceless in motion. Mr. Corelli dispelled this one for American audiences at his first Metropolitan Opera appearance a year ago, and did so even more emphatically at close range. He is tall, exceedingly well-built, and stalks the room as he talks with feline grace.
(The photo is unrelated to the article)
Legend the Second is that they care little about music, except what they themselves are singing, that they are vain and manifestly uncultured. Mr. Corelli was no shrinking violet when it came to discussing his own accomplishments, nor does he have any reason to be. But the conversation touched constantly on what he cannot do, what he feels himself unequipped to do at this stage of the game, and why.
Legend the Third concerns Mr. Corelli himself; his belligerence on and off stage, and his burning desire to flay and eat alive any members of the press who cross his path. Mr. Corelli greeted this visitor genially and with bubbling good humor, spoke quietly and with charm throughout the afternoon. Even the occasional need for an Italian-English interpreter did not stifle the zest of the occasion.
Early Recognition
Life has been good to him. Only eighteen months after his arrival on the Italian musical scene, the winning of a contest held in Spoleto in the summer of 1952 [1951], he found himself singing opposite Maria Callas in a performance of Spontini's "La vestale" on a La Scala opening night. "This was pure good luck," he said.
"I didn't really deserve that success, according to the rules. For one thing I was self-taught. After Spoleto I realized that it was high time to begin serious study, and I really got down to work.
"My favourite role? Don José in 'Carmen,' the one I sang at my debut. This part, to me, is the ideal blend of bel canto and temperament. This seems to be my Cavaradossi year, but really anyone can bring down the house with those high C's in 'Vittoria,' even if he's stupid. There are plenty of roles I sing that are vocally stupendous but dramatically absurd, but I hope I can get away from them sooner or later. I had a huge success last year as Poliuto, but..." (Mr. Corelli's look of helplessness at this point eluded the ingenuity of his interpreter.)
Gadabouts
A new breed of opera singer, of which Mr. Corelli is a prime example, is developing these days. The ease of global travel has brought with it the rise of the "international star" who can be a full-fledged member of widely separated opera houses. "Does this constant shifting from stage to stage, in houses of varying sizes, have much effect on the way one sings?" he was asked.
"No, the voice remains the same, although you learn instinctively to change the 'dosage,'" he replied. "The main difference comes in the matter of gesture. At La Fenice in Venice, for example, a very small house, I can act with my face. At the open-air opera in Verona, where 25,000 people come for an average performance, I have to spread myself.
"Certain customs vary from house to house, too. At La Scala, as at the Metropolitan, we never sing encores. Good. In Berlin, however, the audience simply refused to go home after 'Trovatore' last fall, so we wheeled a piano onto the stage and I sang Neapolitan folk songs until long after midnight. In Verona the audience got so furious at my refusal to sing encores that they began to throw things — hats, programs, everything. One lady threw both her shoes at me, and it took a half hour after the final curtain to find them again."
Does he fancy himself more a Verdi or a Puccini tenor?
Puccini Problems
"Vocally, Verdi; temperamentally, Puccini," was his reply. "But there again, I'm wrong for many roles; I would make a bad Rodolfo in 'La Bohème,', because my voice is too big, and you would have to use some sort of Wagnerian soprano as Mimì."
A vivacious and decorative participant in the conversation had been Mrs. Corelli. Talk turned at one point to the hundred-or-so love letters the singer receives each week from his female admirers. "Charming, we read them all together and are delighted.“
"But please, don't talk about me," she went on. (Mr. Corelli's look clearly said "pay no attention to her.") "This is Franco's interview, and it's his career."
It was suggested that if no mention were made of Mrs. Corelli the number of love letters might double. "So much the better," said she.