Conventional Wisdom: Expectation and Invention in Handel's Ariodante
by Richard Burke
The most successful new opera composer of the last couple of decades may very well be George Frideric Handel. Granted, his forty-or-so operas were written more than 250 years ago-the last in 1741-and were routinely performed in his lifetime. Still, until the great revival of interest in the last twenty years, his operas remained, except for an occasional performance at a festival or a rare staging at an opera house, completely neglected. In fact, there are no known performances of any of Handel's operas in the entire nineteenth century. The dozens of recent new productions all over the world are, then, for all intents and purposes, premieres.
One of the main reasons for the neglect of what is now seen as a remarkable series of works for the stage was the often-repeated idea that only an eighteenth-century operagoer would have the patience to sit through one. In a 1927 article called "The Revival of Handel," O. H. Gotch wrote:
We are told that no modern audience would tolerate the pettifogging plots and the da capo airs of the opera (if performed on the stage), and see the characters repeat their songs with some slight variation of gestures.
In an unusual, positive note, he adds:
This objection, however, is largely discounted by the fact that . . . not a single one of [Handel's] operas has been put to the test of performance since 1784; it is clearly absurd therefore to make this criticism.
Some critics of his day were not as enlightened; their view might be summed up by Louis C. Elson, who wrote in a 1920 article in Music and Letters that Handel's operas suffer from "the heavy hand of conventionality."
Although written by a German composer living in London and designed for an English-speaking audience, Handel's operas are thoroughly Italian in both words and music, and, as such, are indeed dominated by convention. A typical Italian opera of the early eighteenth century is no variety show, consisting largely of a relentless series of simple, unadorned recitatives-speech-like singing, accompanied only by a harpsichord. This chain of half-sung monologues and dialogues is interrupted only by what are largely solo arias. The relief provided by these song-like sections is, for some, questionable, since in a few important ways they all look alike. Almost every aria is in a three-part form, usually designated as ABA; the B-section contrasts with the A-section in both text and music. When the A-section is repeated, it is played from the top ("da capo" in Italian-hence the name "da capo aria"). This repetition of the A-section is not even written out by the composer, the only change being that the singer is expected to ornament the vocal line the second time around.
The libretto, too, is written mostly according to formula. The model comes from the work of poet Pietro Metastasio, whose own librettos were used over and over again in the eighteenth century. A Metastasian libretto is in inevitably in three acts, each one consisting of about a dozen scenes. There are six major roles-occasionally, an additional minor character may appear. The arias are carefully apportioned, with the two principal characters given not only the greatest number but also-just to be safe-an equal number of arias. Duets are scarce and usually much briefer than solos. Choruses are rarer still. In fact, at this point in time, many opera houses did not even employ choral singers. If necessary, whatever soloists were available could grab a spear or don a hat and, for a few moments, become a victorious army or group of happy subjects. The plots, although sometimes familiar and almost always predictable, were often complex-a simple synopsis is often daunting to the reader, requiring two or three close readings to be fully understood.
The most important feature of the Metastasian opera libretto, though, lies in the function of recitative and aria. The plot resides entirely in the recitative portion of the opera. The arias, although a result of the action, remain outside of it, in effect stopping it and allowing the characters to comment or reflect upon what has happened. They express emotion, but often they speak to themselves, not to others on the stage. Sometimes the text of the aria is nothing more than a general comment or metaphor, as in Polinesso's aria in the first act of Ariodante:
When deceit is covered in lowly wool,
We recoil, we disdain it, and call it a fraud.
If it is dressed in a more handsome costume,
We praise it as manly discretion.
Mentioning neither plot nor character and little more than a platitude, this aria could be sung in dozens of different operas. It's portable, like many of the songs from Broadway musicals, which, designed to make sense out of context, quickly became popular hits ("Tonight" from West Side Story or "Some Enchanted Evening" from South Pacific, to name but two of thousands of examples). The position of the aria is just as predictable as its form or content, usually at the end of a scene, where it is most often of the "exit" variety-that is, the character sings and walks off.
It is fair to ask, then, if the restrictions that these conventions imposed on both composer and librettist stifled creativity. How can a poet hold an audience's interest when just about every scene climaxes with a character singing a song and making an exit? And how can a composer define and individualize a character when the only place for musical characterization is in the aria, and every aria looks essentially the same? Perhaps the demise and neglect of opera seria, "serious opera," of the eighteenth century was justified. Indeed, audiences needed to be protected from this musty, fossilized art form.
It is important to consider where the conventions of opera seria originated. Some began in theory, especially in the reliance on Aristotle to pull art through when all else failed. Thus, opera seria followed the Aristotelian unities of time, place, and action. But most of the conventions came from the needs and expectations of audiences and performers. This was, to a great extent, a singer's opera. Audiences came to hear great performers, and, of course, the most popular sopranos and altos, both male and female, could capitalize on this. Empowered by their box office potential, the performers demanded showpieces. The structure of the scene in opera seria, recitative climaxing in an exit aria, was the perfect vehicle.
Handel learned and mastered the conventions of opera seria in Italy and, throughout his life, recruited Italian singers to come to London and play the most important roles in his productions. In the 1720s, he had managed to engage Senesino, one of the finest castratos of his time, as well as rival divas Bordoni and Cuzzoni, who held the public's interest both on and off stage. But in the early 1730s, Handel was faced with stiff competition from the newly formed and royally patronized Opera of the Nobility. The new company not only took a good share of Handel's audience, but also lured away some of his singers (including Senesino) and brought in the most famous performer of the day, the sensational castrato Farinelli. Handel, always resourceful, formed a new company made up of both Italian and local singers and found a home at the recently built theater at Covent Garden. There, at least for a few years, Handel was able to continue staging opera. Covent Garden came with a few features that Handel would find useful, including a staff of extras capable of functioning as a chorus and a ballet company run by the popular French dancer Marie Sallé. Handel rose to the occasion with a series of new works, including two of his finest operas, Ariodante and Alcina, both of which had their premiere in 1735. It was perhaps the competition from the rival opera company, as well as features of the new theater, that encouraged Handel at this point to approach the conventions of opera seria with a slightly lighter touch.
Ariodante, Handel's first opera at the new house, is based on a story from Ariosto's 1516 epic poem Orlando furioso. The libretto that Handel used is an abridged version of an earlier one by Antonio Salvi. The plot concerns the love of Ariodante for the Princess Ginevra, a love that is mutual and even supported by the girl's father. Still, there are problems. Ginevra is also loved by Polinesso, the Duke of Albany, who is, in turn, loved by Ginevra's friend, Dalinda, who herself is loved by Ariodante's brother, Lurcanio. The evil Polinesso uses Dalinda's innocent affection for him to trick everyone into believing that Ginevra has been unfaithful to Ariodante. By the end of the second act, Ginevra is disgraced and Ariodante is believed to have taken his own life. In the third act, however, the truth comes out; Polinesso is killed, Dalinda offers hope to Lurcanio, and Ariodante and Ginevra achieve the happy ending that convention's "heavy hand" had promised.
Ariodante provides a perfect example of how the formulaic elements of opera seria could be used to dramatic purpose. The predictable formal aspects of the play and the music provide a backdrop against which the audience views the opera. Any deviation from the expected pattern, even something very slight, catches the viewer's attention, and provides poet and composer an opportunity to make a dramatic point. A good example of how this works can be seen in the two different types of recitative found in opera seria. Most recitative is of the semplice or simple variety. It resembles speech in its limited range and fast delivery and is usually accompanied only by the harpsichord. In almost every opera seria, however, there is at least one recitative in which the orchestra participates, causing this particular moment to stand out. If overused, such a device would have no effect at all, so it is always reserved for important moments, where the composer wants to underline the text. Such a spot occurs at the end of Act II of Ariodante. As Ginevra, nearly driven mad, reacts to her father's repudiation, the orchestra underscores the text with sharp rhythmic punctuation and rushing scales, mirroring her internal conflict. But this device is actually common to all opera seria and is itself almost a convention. In Ariodante, Handel uses the unconventional in a number of ways that are unique to this work.
Each act of Ariodante follows a slightly different design. Twice in the first act, the expected scene structure, recitative followed by aria, is altered. In each case, a character sings an aria as the scene opens. What's more, the aria itself is not the usual da capo type; it is a short, single-section aria usually called an "arioso." In this way we are introduced to the two principal characters, Ginevra, whose arioso opens the opera, and Ariodante, who is first encountered in the royal garden, singing of his love. These entrance (rather than exit) arias give prominence to the characters and link them together. But Ariodante and Ginevra are also connected in an unusual moment later in the act. Shortly after Ariodante's arioso, the couple sings a duet that is interrupted by the entrance of the king just as the da capo is about to begin. Since arias or duets are never interrupted in opera seria, the interruption has an immediate dramatic effect. This new character must be even more significant than the two principals, and indeed the drama will turn on the king's rejection and subsequent acceptance of Ginevra later on in the opera.
The design of the second act is at first sight far more conventional. The strategy has changed. Here, the formal structures are intact, but Handel raises the level of participation of the instrumental forces in the pit to the point where they contribute to the drama. The act itself opens with a brief orchestral introduction. The nine-measure Sinfonia, as Handel labels it, is a simple but wonderfully effective musical portrait of the rising of the moon. In this setting, Polinesso carries out his plan. Ariodante, convinced that Ginevra has been unfaithful sings one of Handel's greatest arias, "Scherza, infida," in which he laments his loss and swears that his ghost will take vengeance on the lovers after he is dead. Handel, once again in the simplest way, uses the orchestra to underscore the weight of Ariodante's grief. The strings are muted; bassoons are used both to suggest Ginevra's imagined dalliance with Polinesso (through an almost playful bass figure) and Aridodante's sorrow (through long, mournful lines that give the accompaniment a dark, rich coloring). In another masterful use of the orchestra, also taking advantage of the dance company at his disposal at Covent Garden, the act ends with a remarkable "dream ballet" in which Ginevra, nearly driven mad by the turn of events, experiences a battle between her pleasant dreams and her nightmares.
The third act has elements of both the first and second. There is a brief arioso for the title character as the act opens and another great virtuosic piece for him a bit later, "Dopo notte," at the turning point of the drama. But it is the wonderful sequence that precedes the finale that stands out. First, there is yet another duet, this time for the other pair of lovers, Lurcanio and Dalinda. In the ensuing scene, Ginevra is discovered alone. Having not yet learned of the turn of events, she laments her fate in a recitative and then begins a sad aria. The setup is so comfortably familiar that the audience never expects that the aria, barely begun, would be interrupted by a fanfare announcing the entrance of the king. Although a similarly startling change of direction has already been used in Act I, this time the interruption is much bolder: only a brief fragment of the aria is sung; the prima donna never gets to complete her final solo. All that remains of the opera is another duet for Ginevra and Ariodante, followed by a final chorus, with a chance to bring on the dancers one more time.
Ariodante was a modest success at its first performance in spite of the competition from the new opera company. This is not surprising. It gave both audience and singers exactly what they expected and required: a good solid plot based on a strong love interest and a bit of intrigue, and wonderful opportunities for the singers to display virtuosity and dramatic skill. But more importantly, Handel managed to invest scene after scene with a good tune and sometimes even a surprising turn-the heavy hand of conventionality tempered by the light touch of invention.
Richard Burke teaches music history at Hunter College in New York City. He is a frequent contributor to Opera News and other publications.
