The choice of language for an operatic performance is a matter of continuing debate, particularly in the anglophone world. Most of the standard operatic repertoire is written in languages other than English — notably Italian and German; for many years, it was standard practice to expect that the audience was made up of a cultivated multilingual elite (at least with regard to European languages), and to perform in the original language.
In England, performances in the local vernacular were hardly heard of in earlier days. During the 18th century, the German immigrant Handel wrote Italian operas for London audiences — "irrational and exotic entertainments" as Dr. Johnson famously had it. The fashionable consumers apparently pretty much ignored the recitatives, being there for the pyrotechnic performances of the stars in da capo arias, during which they peered at English-language word books by candlelight, dripping candle grease all over the place and threatening to set the theatres on fire.
The 20th century brought changes, of course — particularly in the makeup of opera audiences — but old Anglo-Saxon attitudes lingered on. In London, the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden, with its plush surroundings and gold monogrammed curtains, has always delivered operas in their original language. The more upstart English National Opera, from its earliest days in its previous incarnation as the Sadler's Wells Opera, has doggedly perpetrated opera sung in English only — in recent years in the decidedly tatty environs of the Coliseum.
Those who prefer the original language generally argue that this is the way it should be heard, as the composer intended, and that translations inevitably destroy the poetic and rhythmic fusion and balance of words and music. On the other hand, runs the counter argument, opera composers wanted their audience to understand the plot, grasp the nature of the characters, get the jokes and, in short, enjoy direct communication. One interesting advocate of the latter position was none other than Richard Wagner. In 1877, he received a letter from an admirer in Melbourne. In his unexpected response, the composer observed "may you endeavor to have my works performed to you in English; only then can they be understood intimately by the English-speaking public. We hope this will happen in London" (trans. Jennifer Marshall).
In the 1980s, surtitles arrived, courtesy of Lotfi Mansouri of the Canadian Opera Company. To many people they seemed the ideal compromise between the opposing positions — after all, they had worked well in the cinema for decades — and they spread rapidly, to the dismay of some. (A letter to the Weekly Guardian claimed that the surtitles at Covent Garden were a total failure: no one sang along all night.) The Metropolitan Opera in New York held out until the 1990s, and now has elegant seatback boxes that can be turned on or off and are out of the line of vision of the person in the next box.
Surtitling (or subtitling or back-of-seat-titling) is now an almost universal practice, but raises new questions and problems. Do surtitles distract attention from the action on the stage? Do they offer only an un-nuanced and blunt synopsis of the original words that detract from a full and subtle appreciation? Should works in the vernacular be surtitled on the grounds that singing in itself makes it hard to understand the words? Or is that just an excuse for lazy diction or (à la Joan Sutherland) the sacrifice of diction to tone and legato?
A few scattered observations from personal experience:
- Not long after surtitles were introduced to the opera house, I attended a performance of Lucia di Lammermoor in Hong Kong. The principals were all imported Americans, the comprimario parts and chorus were all Cantonese singers and the opera was sung in Italian. Surtitles, actually appearing on the walls flanking the proscenium (laterotitles?) of the old city hall, appeared in both English and Chinese characters. The rather less-than-concise nature of the latter meant that screeds and screeds of them went by; well after the relevant singing had come to a halt.
- Mozart operas seem to lend themselves to performance in English, although some translations are clearly better than others. Hearing Barbarina (in the last act of Le nozze di Figaro) sing "I have lost it, I have lost it, what will they do to me" in broad Australian, as I once did in Tasmania, did little to enhance one's appreciation for the work. On the other hand, the same opera as recently performed in Perth used an extremely clever translation by Jeremy Sams, derived from an English production of the 1980s. "You gaudy old parakeet, get back in your cage," sang Susanna to Marcellina.
- One solution for modern audiences at Baroque operas is to render the recitatives, which contain most of the narrative action, in English, and retain Italian for the arias. This was highly successful at a performance of Alcina in Perth by the West Australian Opera in 1986, but worked less well at a more recent performance by the same company of The Barber of Seville. There is probably a lot more going in between the recitatives in Rossini, especially in those ensemble finales, so the decision as to what is sung in what language is somewhat arbitrary.
Is there a place for English recordings of operas in other languages? The case seems less compelling, given that one can sit in comfort and follow along with the librettos and translations usually (although not always) provided with commercial recordings. The Peter Moores Foundation, in collaboration with the Chandos recording label, is dedicated to making a wide range of opera recordings available in English. One of their releases which makes a compelling case is the English language version of Wagner's Ring cycle. This was a originally a series of stage performances at the English National Opera in the late 1960s and early 1970s; the recordings were issued on LPs in 1978, then on CDs, and more recently in remastered form under the Peter Moores-Chandos aegis. In itself, this is a glorious performance, conducted by Reginald Goodall and with Alberto Remedios as Siegfried, Norman Bailey as Wotan and the late lamented Rita Hunter as Brünnhilde heading up a strong cast. Goodall takes it at a surprisingly slow pace (which is possible in English because you're not waiting around for the verb, as you are in German). The real payoff comes in Wagner's long stretches of recitative, particularly those in which Wotan expounds on his motives and past history. Hearing this in one's native tongue, no matter how familiar the original text nor how closely followed with a translation, is a completely different experience, enabling the immediate comprehension of Wotan's feelings rather than simply plodding along a narrative path. It suggests that perhaps Wagner himself knew best in enjoining English for the anglophones.
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