![Franco Corelli photographed in front of the immense auditorium of the Arena di Verona. To applaud the tenor, on the first evening, there were twenty thousand people. Franco Corelli made his debut with Carmen in Spoleto in 1952 [1951]. Four years later he performed the same opera at the Arena of Verona.](https://s3-us-west-2.amazonaws.com/secure.notion-static.com/42b209e6-d19d-4c93-8e30-0f78e8efda96/Untitled.png)
EPOCA, July 26, 1970 — by Giuliano Ranieri, photos by Giorgio Lotti
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*Comment on Facebook*“...you see, I was lucky, I always say that. Even if I don't share a judgement that a critic made of me. You know, he said: 'Corelli had everything, he had too much. The voice, the looks, the success.' He forgot the study, the doubts, the fears; he forgot that I no longer belong to myself, but to the public. Success always has a price, always”.
The tenor, apparently so sure of himself, fears above all colds, anonymous letters and the anguish that precedes the performance.
Verona, July
The Americans have decreed that he is the most beautiful and best tenor in the world, he has thanked them for their kindness and, as a serious professional, he has committed himself to defending himself, keeping himself young, heedless of the time that passes (very slowly for tenors), worried about the air he breathes, because the slightest difference in temperature could harm his precious throat, could disturb his lungs or simply put him in a state of anxiety that would alter his nervous system. The ideal, for him, would be to immerse himself in a disinfected atmosphere, in an eternal spring without winds or rain: instead, he has to endure long winters, fogs and smog.
Franco Corelli photographed in front of the immense auditorium of the Arena di Verona. To applaud the tenor, on the first evening, there were twenty thousand people. Franco Corelli made his debut with Carmen in Spoleto in 1952 [1951]. Four years later he performed the same opera at the Arena of Verona.
A continuous struggle to preserve the powerful voice, as fresh as that of a beginner, controlled with wisdom and love in every moment of the day. He sings mentally even when he is silent, rehearsing the "passaggio", studying the " smorzature " and intonations. The others, those around him, can talk all they want. They think he is interested in the conversation, instead he is absorbed and thinks about his throat and the nose-barometer sniffs the air.
Franco Corelli, the biggest of tenors, the singer who can still ensure with his name the "sold out" in a period of serious crisis for melodrama, is a lonely and shy man who has a few moments of true happiness: when he manages to get away from his "court" and remain alone with his wife, and when he has overcome the tension of the entrance on stage. There, between the thunder of the orchestra and the unfolding of the action, the heart begins to beat again with a perfect rhythm: the first note comes out, it is clear, clean. One can go on, sure of living up to one's name and to the public's expectations. The torment of every eve is over. The heavy anguish of the two hours spent in the dressing room to perfect the make-up, to make even more attractive the face that the American ladies like so much, is forgotten, it shatters on the wall of the first applause.
It was difficult to approach Franco Corelli, back in Verona after eight years of absence to interpret Carmen at the Arena. A day of postponements and then, thanks to the thunderstorm that suspended the dress rehearsal of the opera, an evening and part of the night dedicated to a strange interview, in which the "usual questions" had to be banned, but we were to "chat among friends" in the hotel lobby. Franco Corelli was locked up, in complete silence, in the wooden dressing room created within the walls of the Arena. They said he was "green" because it was raining and he felt a "little burn" in his nose. He was tense. Perhaps he had to make his voice heard again by people who had forgotten him. There were many critics, many colleagues who were very nice, but ready to "fish" for the slightest vocal uncertainty. One had to remain vigilant. Loretta, his small and fragile wife, withstood the onslaught of admirers by keeping the ever-present poodle Romeo on a leash.
Then, the voice of the loudspeaker: "Due to the continuing bad weather, the dress rehearsal is postponed... ". Corelli could now leave his bunker. His grey summer suit and blue silk shirt could not protect him from the humidity. An admirer was ready to sacrifice her amaranth shawl, and the tenor made his way to the restaurant, protecting his ample chest on the few meters to the cab.
In front of a risotto alla parmigiana and half a glass of wine, the tenor returned to being the ex-employee Franco Corelli, a reserved and simple gentleman. At least in appearance. We know that inside he is already thinking about the new venture that awaits him; and the bad weather worries him greatly. Every now and then he turns around. He asks: "Do you feel a draft too? ". Actually, none of those present felt it. But he is right. There is a window open and three or four waiters rush to close it: a race to see who arrives first. It would be a disaster for the restaurant and for the Arena of Verona. Corelli seems to want to apologize for the inconvenience he is causing. He also seems to endure, as a professional and not a missionary, this cross and delight of his career.
His face is pale. The face of someone who has to avoid the sun, who has to spend his days locked in a hotel or, in the best of cases and rarely, in his Milanese home, among record players, magnetic tapes, opera scores. Every note that comes out of his throat also has the sound of precious metal, a metal that means wealth, yet in the bewildered look of this singer, a "star" in spite of himself, one senses the regret for a normal youth that was interrupted by sudden success, for the Marche countryside, his land, where he could run around with his friends singing without fear, under the sun, and under the stars. But he allows himself no particular regrets. "Don't you," he asks, "have any regrets? We can all have them. And then, you see, I was lucky, I always say that. Even if I don't share a judgement that a critic made of me. You know, he said: 'Corelli had everything, he had too much. The voice, the looks, the success.' He forgot the study, the doubts, the fears; he forgot that I no longer belong to myself, but to the public. Success always has a price, always".
Now he is signing autographs. "To my friend... in memory of Carmen". It's time to go back to the hotel. The shawl is gone. But there is another young lady offering her nylon summer raincoat. Corelli puts it on over his shirt, then puts some newspapers on his chest, completes the strange attire with his jacket and goes out to challenge the rain. The car of some Milanese admirers is waiting for him. It is one o'clock in the morning and he resumes his "chat" in the hotel. The debut was not one of tenors. "The truth, perhaps, is that I was not born to sing. They took me by force and put me on a stage. The voice was there, and plenty of it. But raw, you know, ugly, insecure, even goaty. Now, sure, it is something else. But let's not talk about vocation, for heaven's sake. Let's talk about profession, it's more right. " He sank into an armchair. Crossed his long legs, one hand busy checking the curly hair that falls on his neck. "You understand," he continues, "a young man six feet tall, handsome, they say, with a powerful voice had to make an impression. The modern tenor was born, the one who can impose himself also for his physique. I was supposed to do Aida in Spoleto in 1952 [1951], but I was still not convincing in the high notes, they said. So they decided to stage Carmen. It was a great success, at the last act many people cried, I cried too".
That Carmen was really a revelation, even if Corelli was full of defects. And so the tenor, who had not studied singing and who until a few months before had been a clerk in Ancona, found himself at the center of attention in the world of opera. No apprenticeship, no provincial theaters. He immediately went to the Rome Opera, and almost immediately to La Scala. Two years of second thoughts, of hasty studies and then, with the miracle of a voice that matured, expanded, found the highest notes, the responsibility of exhumations such as Poliuto, Huguenots, Pirata, Vestale, the sensational debut in Turandot (who had ever heard a similar Calaf, after Giacomo Lauri Volpi?), in Trovatore, Fanciulla del West, Andrea Chénier, Tosca, Norma, Fedora. Corelli and Callas, Corelli and Tebaldi. The ancient love for melodrama was rekindled around these newfound stars. Corelli was the youngest, the most inexperienced. He was the tenor who immediately arrived and had to consider himself a "student of singing". Always tense nerves, always the doubt of "you know how the opera begins, but you don't know how it ends". Everything is justified by the character. Shyness caused sudden outbursts and then came the great quarrel with the famous bass (in jerkin and sword in his fist, a threatening raised against his rival during a rehearsal), the altercation in the interval of a performance with a spectator who had silenced the applause at the San Carlo in Naples, the clashes with some eccentric or unsympathetic soprano.
"You see, I am patient", says Corelli in a low but clear voice, like that of a young boy, "I am always willing to turn the other cheek. If you knew how many things I can bear. Sometimes I feel transformed, the blood rushes to my head. Then I regret it. I would like to disappear. It's the accumulated tension in me that occasionally comes out. It would be so nice if all the singers would mind their own business. It is impossible. Really impossible".
Franco Corelli in a moment of his interpretation of Bizet's Carmen.
As soon as he arrived in Verona, he found anonymous letters. Squalid phrases comparing him to another tenor (who is very good), announcing a barrage of whistles, blaming him for his good luck. The anonymous letters persecute him. Even at the Metropolitan of New York, where he has been applauded for eight years and where only a Gigli or Lauri Volpi have obtained consensus comparable to his, the threats are not lacking. His wife tries, when she can, to spare him these disturbances, because his nerves are fragile and going on stage knowing that in the dark of the hall there is some hostile spectator, does not allow Corelli to sing calmly.
"Envy is a bad thing," says the tenor, "but in New York I found many other important things. I was able to choose a less banal repertoire. It is enough to remember Romeo and Juliet, brought back to the stage after more than thirty years and which has been one of the great triumphs of the last seasons. They accuse me of snubbing Italian theaters, of being afraid of La Scala, of expecting astronomical fees. I recently returned to Italy to Florence and Parma. I would have joyfully returned to La Scala as well: those four or five loggionisti who prefer one of my colleagues do not really worry me. It was not possible. I offered three operas, to no avail; and then the dates never matched. You know, I have engagements until 1973, and I have to fulfill them, all over America and in various European countries. My salaries? They are proportionate to market values, of course. But I think I can also speak from the heart. For the Macerata Sferisterio, where I sang Turandot a few weeks ago, I didn't mind the fees. It was an unforgettable experience, a stupendous open-air theater, an audience comparable to that of the Arena even if less numerous. They came to listen to me even from Austria; now they are also coming to Verona. Someone is interested in making people believe that Franco Corelli is afraid, that Franco Corelli is venal. I can stand it. I know only one fear, the one that seizes me on the eve of every performance. But is it fear or a sense of responsibility? I have never trembled on stage. A Manrico, a Don Josè, a Radames, they cannot tremble. “
Now Corelli leaves the chair. He shows how Zeffirelli taught him to be a real Turiddu in the last Cavalleria Rusticana. He imitates the gait of a village bully. Tight strides, hands in pockets.... He amuses himself like a boy. The shyness, the anticipation of a trap interview, has disappeared. He remains young, inside, as if time had stopped that evening in the theater of Spoleto, when fate decided to turn him into a luxury prisoner, far from the air, the wind, the rain, the sun. Let's keep to our agreements: we won't ask the handsome tenor how old he is, we won't list his successes, we won't remember the million and more records sold, the complete operas recorded, the follies of his American admirers (from 12 to 90 years old), follies that only American women can do. It would take another night. The siege of women delights Corelli. " You know what? ", he tells me, lowering the tone of his voice even more, " they have organized three special planes for Verona. I am preparing for an onslaught of ladies and young ladies of all ages. “
Who knows how many times the tenor has thought that his voice and physique are not eternal. And yet he has never spoken of this to anyone, not even to his wife, who is everything to him. He is "officially" heedless of the passing years. But a shrewd reporter must avoid the subject. It is a "useless" subject. It is better to talk about the future, about the many years he still has to devote to the theater, about his upcoming debuts. The first of them, in the new season at the Metropolitan, will be sensational: the heroic tenor will become Werther, that is, he will sing an opera that is the workhorse of light or barely lyrical tenors. "If you want to do me a favor," he says, "write that I am neither a dramatic nor a lyric tenor. I am a voice. That is why I can range, now, after so much effort, after years of application, of rehearsals, of continuous training, in a vast repertoire. "In his affirmations, he recalls an illustrious artist of the past, his precious "advisor", that Lauri Volpi who managed to go from Massenet's Manon to William Tell, an opera over the tenor chord. But perhaps Corelli was thinking of Caruso, even if he did not dare mention that name. He will also sing Lucia di Lammermoor for the first time and is studying Rigoletto avidly.
" You ask me if I am finally ready for Otello. Let's put it off. It will be another chapter in my complete maturity. " The Moor of Venice thing has him a little annoyed. Everyone asks him when he will tackle Verdi's opera. We're getting out of the deal: no worn-out questions. It is four o'clock in the morning. "Dear, you're tired", is not a question, but a sweetly imperious statement by Ms Loretta. Now Franco Corelli must return to the tormented character of Don José, the dragoon ensnared and betrayed by Carmen. In these days he will think of nothing else, and every evening he will be a new, unpredictable Don Josè, in front of the twenty thousand people who have already sold out the Arena for all his performances. "No, dear, I'm not tired, but I feel a burning sensation in my nose. I need to take care of myself. Hopefully it will stop raining. "
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