CALLAS Puccini: Tosca (1953) - PACO080

Puccini’s Tosca has been described as a “shabby, little shocker” but the public and performers have made it one of opera’s biggest hits and the recordings keep coming out. Tosca isn’t Salome but I can imagine that the audiences of a century or so ago might have been a little uncomfortable with Sardou’s play, La Tosca, and the opera Puccini and his librettists fashioned from it. After all, after exulting about the joys of taking women by force, the principal villain attempts to rape the star soprano right up there on stage. There are many who consider this particular performance to be the greatest opera recording ever made. I might not go that far but I do believe it’s the greatest recording of Tosca and has remained so for more than 50 years despite some impressive challenges, the most formidable of which comes from a Decca recording that was originally issued here on LP by RCA Victor. Imaginatively produced (John Culshaw), beautifully played (the Vienna Philharmonic), dramatically conducted (Herbert Von Karajan), and splendidly sung (Leontyne Price, Giuseppe di Stefano, Giuseppe Taddei), it compensates in dramatic power for what it lacks in white heat. If it falls just short of this classic EMI recording, it’s because of Maria Callas. First of all, I don’t see how Andrew Rose has managed, without access to EMI’s master tape, to give the original a slightly fuller sound and seemingly pull the voices just a bit closer than they were on my EMI CDs. If it should turn up in a used CD bin, avoid the EMI set with the close-up of Callas’s face on the cover, which lacked interior cueing! The later issues almost certainly do have it but, given this excellent Pristine release, maybe the point is moot. My Pristine CDs came in a narrow double jewel box that has no accompanying libretto but I imagine most likely purchasers won’t need one.

I have, at times, suggested that, if a soprano can convey three emotions: “I am happy” (without laughing), “I am sad” (without sobbing), and “I am angry” (without shouting), she will be accounted a great singing actress. Price, with her beautiful voice (Karajan once said it gave him goose pimples!) could convey these emotions. Callas, with her flawed but flexible voice, could convey nuances like “I am suspicious,” “I am indifferent,” “I am nervous,” and so on. Looking at my score of Tosca, just in act II, I see directions like “pretending calm,” “with simulated indifference,” “with conviction,” “desperately,” “warmly,” “full of hatred and contempt,” “in despair,” and “humbly.” Granted, these directions may come from an editor, rather than Puccini, but they are appropriate and she pretty much nails them. She really was the greatest singing actress of her time. Since I’m in act II, I might as well mention that de Sabata, like most of his colleagues, cuts the three bars that immediately follow “Vissi d’arte” (Scarpia says “Your answer?” She replies “On my knees I beg for mercy.” I have no idea why it gets cut). Di Stefano, as one might expect, is a spirited, impassioned Cavaradossi—there were signs that vocal problems were brewing but, at this stage, they hardly detract from his performance. On the later Karajan recording, his top notes have hardened and have little ring to them but he has the role down pat and most of the di Stefano charm still comes through. De Sabata’s Scarpia, Tito Gobbi was, by acclamation, the world’s champion Scarpia for most of his career. In addition to his intelligence, his lack of a conventionally beautiful sound was probably a contributing factor; the voice was sizeable and dark, with a rough edge to it but he could, when necessary, modulate it and sound ingratiating. At last I get a chance to write something other than conventional wisdom: I think Karajan’s Giuseppe Taddei matches him—he’s just as slimy and menacing but is capable of more smoothness and has adequate power when he needs it and was, himself, an imaginative, versatile performer. Karajan paces the music more slowly than the more volatile de Sabata but punctuates—it’s not a mere reading, and the production, with the usual Culshaw bells and whistles, really does enhance the performance. It’s “staged,” almost as if it’s taking place right before your eyes. You really couldn’t go wrong with either recording or with both of them, for that matter.

There are other worthy recordings too, including an inevitable stereo remake by Callas and Gobbi, with Carlo Bergonzi and Georges Prêtre replacing di Stefano and de Sabata. Their renditions have coarsened a bit, probably due to some vocal wear-and-tear but Callas and Gobbi operating at 90 percent are nothing to sneeze at and Bergonzi, if he lacks Di Stefano’s charisma, nevertheless sings quite beautifully and Prêtre, if he’s no de Sabata, has the measure of the score.

Francesco Molinari-Pradelli leads the almost inevitable Renata Tebaldi/Mario del Monaco recording. It’s well recorded if not as imaginatively as the Culshaw production. Tebaldi is not a strong Tosca (more of a vulnerable one) but her singing was more about making beautiful sounds than projecting character and at that stage of her career, she could still do it—it’s a gorgeous piece of singing, per se. The producer seems to have kept Del Monaco a bit of a distance from the microphones much of the time—a good decision since, up close, his singing could take on a hectoring quality. He sounds more like a warrior than a painter since, when in doubt, he simply turns up the volume as few contemporaries could. With his ringing trumpet of a voice, he was more effective in person but he certainly has his good moments here. Unfortunately, with his imposing stage presence, George London was a singer who had to be seen as well as heard, as Scarpia or just about anything else this versatile bass/baritone performed. The possessor of a big, dark, somewhat unwieldy voice, he’s terrific when Scarpia is at his most menacing, which, granted, is a good bit of the time, but he’s less successful at turning on the charm—we hear the wolf but can’t see the sheep’s clothing. I also have some affection for the 1938 Rome Tosca of Maria Caniglia, Beniamino Gigli, and Armando Borgioli, led with authority by Oliviero de Fabritiis. It gives “routine” a good name. These people know what they’re doing and, basically, deliver the goods. If the result isn’t especially notable for imaginative singing, it’s still a satisfying piece of pour-it-on verismo and Gigli can still utter some ravishing sounds.

James Miller
This article originally appeared in Issue 36:3 (Jan/Feb 2013) of Fanfare Magazine.