The Great Mark Reizen, People's Artist of the USSR

It is safe to say that Mark Reizen was one of the great singing basses of all time. Until recently, he has not been so well known outside Russia and the other countries of the former Soviet Union. Thanks to Youtube, and the web generally, the work of this magnificent singer is becoming much better known in the West.
Mark Reizen was born into a family of miners in Zaitsevo, in present-day Ukraine, in 1895. He was drafted into the Tsarist army at the outbreak of World War I, and greatly distinguished himself in battle. He was a very big man; strong, severe and courageous. He was twice decorated with the St. George Cross for Bravery, 4th class—the highest honor with which a regular soldier could be honored.

Encouraged by friends to try and develop his abilities as a singer, he began his studies after the war and made his operatic debut in 1921 as Pimen in Boris Godunov. At six foot three, and possessed of a very serious and dignified manner, he was a commanding presence on the stage. One success led quickly to another, and at the age of 35 he became a member of the Bolshoi, where he remained until his retirement in 1954. He had by that time received the Stalin Prize three times (1930, 1941, 1949) and had been named People's Artist of the USSR in 1937. These are extraordinary honors, especially considering the fact that Reizen was Jewish, and Stalin was known not to like Jews in general, and particularly on the stage portraying Slavic heroes. However, even with this prejudice, he could not resist honoring Reizen, whom he greatly admired as an artist. Reizen bore the honors with great and almost severe dignity. He was a private person, very formal and taciturn. He was certainly aware of the potential handicap of being Jewish, but his retreat into aloofness worked very well for him. (And of course it did not hurt that he was prodigiously gifted.) He continued to teach after retiring from the Bolshoi, and embarked on a long career of concertizing, singing brilliantly until he was very old. His last public appearance was at a gala at the Bolshoi in honor of his 90th birthday, at which occasion he sang Gremin's aria from Eugene Onegin. We will see that video shortly. It defies belief.

Reizen's voice was big, and he handled it well. He never barked or growled (a failing of some basses), but invariably bestowed grace, elegance and control—as well as drama—on the music he sang. He sang all the great bass parts, and sang them all well. The comparison with Chaliapin always arises, and I believe the simplest way to differentiate them is with the observation that where Chaliapin was a singing actor, Reizen was an acting singer. You will see what I mean.

Here is the great bass as Boris Godunov, singing the well known monologue:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JfTTj3nGLXM


The acting is wonderful, restrained and dignified, and the large voice, as always, is under perfect control. One has the impression that there is always much more available, in reserve, for use at moments of high drama. It is impossible to fault this interpretation, in any way.

Here is Reizen, at 85 years of age, singing Rachmaninov's "Do Not Depart," a song typical of those he sang in concert during this period of his life:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F6mUYXX4hj4&feature=related


Such singing at any age is admirable, and at 85 it is truly astonishing.

This is not, however, the most amazing of his performances. That would surely have to be his appearance in the Bolshoi gala production of Eugene Onegin. Reizen here is 90 years of age. I call your attention in advance to the reaction of the audience, and, even more telling, that of the other singers on the stage and in the wings, who realize they are seeing something absolutely unique: This video is well worth watching to the very end, (the aria is only 5 minutes) because it is one in a million. It is, for example, at the very end, when friends and family help him to a platform to accept applause, that one realizes just what it means to be singing an operatic aria at 90 years of age!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0hVOpCGAD4


The great, and unique, Mark Reizen.

Franco Corelli: Prince of Tenors

It is safe to say that Franco Corelli was one of the great tenors of the 20th century, and almost certainly of all time. Born in Ancona, in 1921, Corelli was encouraged as a young man in college to sing in a music competition, where he impressed the judges sufficiently to win their encouragement to study further. He did so, at least briefly, and then through self study and application was able to develop his voice to such an extent that he was hired by the Rome Opera in 1951 to sing Manrico. The Rome Opera became his base for the next several years, during which time he also started singing in regional theaters throughout Italy. He was a hard working and highly disciplined young singer, memorizing many roles, not only the standard bread and butter repertoire, but also roles seldom done. His voice was a natural spinto tenor, with a lovely and somewhat dark color. It was a thrilling voice, with a brilliant and ringing top that extended all the way up to and beyond the high C. This places him in a category distinct from that of the typical dramatic tenors of his day whose voices characteristically did not possess the range or the velvet-like color of Corelli's, and were essentially baritonal in nature. There was always something of a lyric smoothness and line to his singing that was not characteristic of the dramatic tenors who often tended to bark and shout, and who did not have much usable range beyond Bb. Corelli always sang (even if loudly) and never condescended to shouting or barking for dramatic effect. He was a consummate vocalist (if not always the greatest stylist) whose essential technique—and this will sound strange to some—was not that far from traditional bel canto singing. It is possible to sing in such a way and still have a big, darkish, powerful voice. One does not exclude the other. Lauri Volpi, the greatest of the bel canto tenors, considered him a great tenor and went so far as to say that Corelli was his natural heir. Taking into account the more than considerable opinion that Lauri Volpi had of his own reputation (deservedly so, I am forced to concede), this was a kind of ultimate compliment from one great tenor to another. Because Corelli never had much formal study of music, his style and musicianship can be faulted in some instances, but his natural musical instincts, coupled with what an intelligent and hard working young man can learn from great conductors world-wide, were more than sufficient to make him a perfectly acceptable musician. Also, importantly, he was extraordinarily handsome; so much so that had he not had a great voice, or an inclination to sing, he would have been a natural for the movies, a real matinee idol. Because of all these qualities, he found adoring audiences all over the world, especially at the Met, where he began singing in 1961, and where he remained a great favorite for the next 14 years.

One of the roles with which Corelli is particularly associated is Manrico, the ill-fated troubadour. Here is a relatively young Corelli (36) in the famous "Di Quella Pira:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PXIElPNn-l4



This is the essential Corelli; the coloration of the voice is whiter than that of many dramatic tenors, and the top is simply magnificent. Those high C's take no prisoners! Very, very few tenors have ever had such splendid vocal endowments.

One of Corelli's truly noteworthy qualities is his ability to sing bel canto showpieces such as "A Te, o Cara," from Bellini's I Puritani. This was also a favorite showpiece for Lauri Volpi:



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ixEz4ta3u78



The high C is of course spectacular—it always is with Corelli, but that is not what I most notice in this piece; rather, it is the musical line. The length of Bellini's musical line is notorious, and everywhere commented upon, and it is precisely this stylistic quality which characterizes this famous aria. One cannot rely on high notes alone (Corelli actually sings it down one half tone); the aria will not work if the line is broken at any point. And he does not break it; it is one long, unbroken flow of sound, always coming to rest on the appropriate word, so that the grammatical period of the lyrics coincides exactly with the resolution of the musical phrase. I will say again that this is something few if any dramatic tenors can do properly. It is for that reason that I have never considered Corelli a dramatic tenor. He could sing all those roles, certainly, and he did—very well—but he never compromised musical line.

Here, finally, is a role with which the great tenor was also associated, Andrea Chenier. This video is from a 1971 Tokyo concert. I find it as thrilling today as I did then. I do not believe I have ever heard the "Improviso" sung more intensely or beautifully:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cW4jA8wIEKQ



Simply stunning!

Corelli does of course have his detractors; those who claim he was monochromatic (on the loud side), or who fault his musicianship and style, saying that he exaggerated the high notes and the big moments in an "old fashioned" way, like the divas of past ages; that he sang poorly in any language other than Italian (as if anyone cared) and so on. Rubbish. He was extremely popular because he was a great singer, physically beautiful, and an intense dramatic presence on the stage, and, hardly coincidentally, because he possessed a lovely voice with a wide range and an almost uniquely thrilling top. There have been few tenors like him, and there are no more in the works, at least not at the moment. In many ways, the day of that kind of grand singing has passed. Perhaps that is as it must be, evolutionarily, but it is missed by many.

The Great Tetrazzini

Luisa Tetrazzini was born in 1871, in Florence. She began to sing as a small child, and was trained at the Instituto Musicale in Florence. By the age of 19 she was ready to make her debut as Inez in Meyerbeer's L'Africaine. She sang around Italy, and then went to Russia, where she scored a big success in St. Petersburg. She was kept busy as a young lady, learning her craft and drawing increasing attention to herself by virtue of her superb voice. She was not beautiful, as was Patti, but was rather fat from early on. Her divine voice, however, spared her from any undue or cruel criticism for her appearance. From the earliest days, she displayed a flexible and high coloratura, of the kind that was very much in vogue in the lyric theater of the day. She commanded an extraordinary trill, easily produced, and was comfortable with extensive fioratura. There was a thrilling sound to her voice that won her acclaim early on in her career. Her American debut was in San Francisco in 1905. By this time, she was well known for her lyric coloratura roles, especially Violetta, Gilda and Lucia; roles in which her great vocal endowments could be shown to advantage. She auditioned at the Met, but they seemingly were not impressed, which is somewhat curious, as she was already famous. One suspects that something unknown outside the Met may have been in play. It makes no sense otherwise. She did sing for the Manhattan Opera in 1908, but never warmed to the Met, because of their inexplicable attitude, and only sang one season there, in 1911-12. She was in such demand world-wide that the Met was inconsequential in any case. She is reputed to have made a very large amount of money. Unwise associations over time, however, led to a sad end, characterized by poverty. Most scandalous was her victimization at the hands of a dreadful male gold-digger, thirty years her junior, who married her late in her career, and stole most of her money. In spite of such reckless errors of judgment, however, she was by all accounts a lovely person, outgoing and friendly, even to the extent of letting aspiring singers live in her home, at her expense, at least during the good years. Her last days in poverty and sickness anger and bewilder many people even today. It is so wretchedly unfair. One wonders where the charity of fellow performers was. Yes, times were hard in late 30's, but Gigli, to take but one example, managed to raise a huge amount of money during this period by the many charity concerts he gave. Were people wary of her because of her poor judgment in getting involved with such a vile (although doubtless "charming") man as the one who wrecked her life? Why did no one come to her aid at the end when she was so obviously in need? The State of Italy, at least, provided her with an appropriate funeral. It's just all too sad.

Here is the great soprano in "Caro nome":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Zhang5VIx0



As the recording shows, the top part of her voice was quite extraordinary. Like virtually all sopranos of her age, she will scoop down into the lower registers, and that sound jolts us somewhat today, when all sopranos simply sing low notes very softly. It is possible that in Tetrazzini's time, when people actually paid more attention to the words, sopranos felt they needed the additional heft in the lower register, so that their voice, and the words they were singing, did not get lost in the orchestra. Another thing that is immediately apparent is the exceptional and easy nature of her trill. I don't think I have ever heard that many trills in "Caro nome" before. But she was just showing off one of her greatest natural endowments. Here is the famous "Ah non giunge," from La Sonnambula:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTYPRL5pdhY



Certainly an attractive rendition, although one must be honest and point out certain tendencies that are perhaps not up to today's standard: There is sometimes a lack of adequate articulation on the cadenzas that comes dangerously close to a glide, although she was not alone in that during her day. She also sacrifices the lower parts of her voice to the top, which is certainly common (and smart) because that is what people are paying to hear. From an aesthetic point of view, however, she lays herself open to criticism for making the bottom and(especially) middle register of the voice rather open, white, and somewhat blaring. The top is excellent.
Here is a sentimental view of Tetrazzini—the only moving pictures I am aware of—listening to a Caruso recording late in life, and bursting into song along with it. Her girly and giggly abandon at the end is most charming, and just makes one upset yet again that she was treated so badly by others, and did not have the dignified and comfortable retirement she deserved.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yBCwVCocENo&feature=related


Isn't that delightful? She seems a lovely person, and the fact that people speak of her so fondly even today, nearly 70 years after her death in 1940, is a fitting memorial to a magnificent artist, who literally gave it all.

Adelina Patti: An Enchanting Echo of a Distant Past

Ancient recordings provide a kind of evidence of the past that is at once fascinating and problematical. When written words alone are evidence of the past, our minds are free to construct a reality that is almost always fanciful, and one which bears at best a tenuous relationship to the real events or persons involved. In opera, the same forces are at work. The golden age, the locus amoenus, always rears its head and asks us to daydream about the bygone glory days of singing. It sometimes happens, however, that old recordings come to the rescue of sober assessment. There are not a few 19th century singers whose tenuous grip on what would today be called solid technique belie such fanciful idealizations of the past. Particularly in the case of sopranos, there is a lot of evidence of insufficiently supported top notes, inadequate cover, and perhaps most annoying of all, what I "register scoops." Some singers of that era had a clearly defined notion of different registers, but paid inadequate attention to smoothly blending them together. It can happen, therefore, that a modern listener can be carried aloft by floating high soprano tones, only to be jolted by a sudden unmediated drop into a husky, alto-like chest register, usually initiated by a crack in the voice. It can shatter what had been a lovely vocal image. It is all the more noteworthy then, and excites genuine admiration, when one looks at the soprano who may be the oldest recorded opera singer of note in the 19th century, the divine Adelina Patti, praised effusively by the great composers of her day, and celebrated everywhere as the acme of the opera singer's art.

Born 166 years ago (!) in 1843, Adelina Patti was the daughter of tenor Salvatore Patti. She was born in Spain, while her family was on tour there, but moved to New York as a child. She began singing when she was little more than a girl, making her debut at New York's Academy of Music at 16, as Lucia. I am not one who as a rule yearns for things past, but I have to admit I would give a lot to be able to go back in time and hear that! She was beautiful as a young woman, with what all contemporaries claim was a pure, sweet, lyric voice. Imagine a beautiful Lucia so near the age of her heroine! We have by now become accustomed to seeing very mature (and often rather large) women sing that role, and much is lost, dramatically . [In the 18th century, it would have been possible for a boy soprano to take the part, but, verismo and romanticism having done their work, that would now be so unseemly as to be impossible.]

At 18 years of age, she made her Covent Garden debut in La Sonnambula, and in 1862 sang for President and Mrs. Lincoln, upon the death of their son Willi. From there on, there was no holding her back. She was already a star, and she promptly soared to super-stardom. There are good bios of her on the web, as her life has been much studied, so we can proceed to hearing a recording.

It has not been easy to choose a decent recording. Most are from 1905 and 1906, when she was either 62 or 63 years old. She did make an Edison cylinder recording in 1895, but it is, sadly, little more than a few inchoate shrieks. In my opinion her best recording, and one that with only a little imagination can show what the glory of that singing must have been 30 years earlier, is the 1906 rendition of "Ah, non credea mirarti," from Bellini's La Sonnambula:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ozci5xK3BZc


That is just stunning! Remember that she was 63 years old when this was made. The clarity and purity of the voice are most noteworthy, as are the floating, haunting tones that are almost hypnotic. The breath control is exquisite, and she sings perfectly on the breath, which is how she is able to float those tones and portamento up and down so smoothly and seamlessly, and also trill so well and so easily. The fluidity of the presentation makes me almost weep with desire to have heard that 16 year old Lucia! This is an excellent recording, and there is only one instance, toward the end, where she breaks the legato and pops out of line with a quick high note and exclamation that probably on stage would have been heard simply as dramatic, but it's the kind of thing a horn tends to resonate and amplify, and is a bit jolting. But that is a matter of no consequence.

Another recording that is interesting is the 1906 "Batti, batti, o bel Masetto," from Mozart's Don Giovanni:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7hRFF_lsP-E


She excels in the same areas indicated in the previous recording. The purity of tone, the (musically appropriate) simplicity of the phrasing, the easy fluidity of the voice, are all exceptional. The same small, distracting qualities are also there. Notice the "register scoop" into chest voice on the last note...also the turns on the top of phrases toward the end pop out of line. Not really a problem, because of the probably, again, of the recording horn being the villain. One other thing is worth mentioning—Patti was born a mere 57 years after Don Giovanni was premiered in 1787. That distance is small; it would be no more distant for Patti than would Rodgers and Hammerstein be for a girl born today. I rather suspect the singing and stylistic traditions would still be alive, easily transmittable, virtually unchanged, for any teacher in his or her 50's or 60's at the time of Patti's youth. I am ever on the lookout for hints about how the music of bygone eras was actually performed. This could be one of those hints, but I will make no more of it because it is largely speculative.

Of one thing there can be no doubt, however, and that is that Adelina Patti was indeed an astonishing vocal talent, and even the faulty recordings that survive are enough for an attentive listener to be able to see and appreciate the depth and breadth of that astonishing talent from so long ago.

Louise Homer: A Great Met Favorite for 30 Years

The contralto Louise Homer was one of the most popular of the Met regulars in the earliest years of the twentieth century. She was born Louise Dilworth Beatty in Pittsburg in 1871, and in 1895 married the composer Sidney Homer. Her 1898 European debut was in Vichy, in La Favorita, and in 1900 she made her Metropolitan Opera debut as Amneris in Aida. She was an immediate favorite, and would go on to sing 42 roles in over 700 performances at the Met, which became her artistic home. Her voice was noteworthy for its power and beauty. She was a genuine contralto, and sang very convincingly in that range. Here is a recording I posted on Youtube a few days ago, which lets us hear her in the lovely and poignant "Voce di Donna," from Ponchielli's La Gioconda. You may have to turn up the sound a bit. This is a vinyl transfer of a 1912 recording, and I did not sufficiently power up the audio input. I will correct it shortly:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R42Ax63JGc4


As you can see, hers was a very lovely, dark voice. She sang quite well technically, largely avoiding the annoying scoops and plunges into different vocal registers that were all too common, especially among sopranos, at that time. There is a charming and attractive Italian legato to her singing that made her a very credible fit with great Italian singers of the day, especially Enrico Caruso, who was a friend and colleague, and often paired with her. Here is a gem from Aida. You can gauge the power of her voice by noticing how well she holds up her end of the duet against the great tenor, whose voice was renowned for its power. The Bb's in the duet ask a lot of a contralto, but Homer handles them quite well. And this is without any electrical tricks, because they were both standing side by side, sharing a large recording horn:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hBsx5mlWzg8


She was quite something! Although she got rather heavy in later life (now there's a novelty for an opera singer!), it did not diminish her popularity one bit. There was something very personable about her, and she was a real American singer, grounded in American life and music. (She even recorded the National Anthem) Not only was she the wife of composer Sidney Homer, but she was the aunt of Samuel Barber, as well as a good friend of Alma Gluck, wife of Efrem Zimbalist. She was everywhere surrounded by the music and musicians of her day. She recorded many sentimental Victorian favorites and a fair amount of popular American church music, which spread her fame greatly. This is the era of the parlor piano, whose music rack contained anthology after anthology of songs known and loved by almost all Americans. Here is a wonderful duet, very evocative of that time. She teams with Alma Gluck in "Rock of Ages," one of the best known hymns of the day. They alternate the verses and join on refrains:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZmX7-oamAcY



Ice cream socials, Sunday strolls in the park, with parasols, barbershop quartets, Easter Day parades down Fifth Avenue, and an innocent America—it all comes back, listening to this simple hymn sung by two great Metropolitan Opera voices. This has to be one of the most charming and instantly identifiable periods of American history, and Louise Homer was solidly within it.

Charles Castronovo: Brilliant Young Tenor on the Rise

I have had the good fortune lately to become more acquainted with the singing of a brilliant young tenor, Charles Castronovo, who is showing all the signs of launching himself soon into star status worldwide.

Born in New York in 1975, and raised in Southern California, Castronovo began his singing career with the Los Angeles Opera and was soon singing debut roles in many opera centers worldwide, including New York, London, Berlin, and Vienna. Endowed with a robust lyric voice, centered exactly and comfortably in the tenor range—i.e., this is a real tenor!—his production is smooth and equal, up and down the scale and through all registers, which blend perfectly. Here he is singing a principal aria from Romero's Zarzuela La Taberna del Puerto, "No puede ser una vulgar sirena..."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kq4hfC3Mz84


This is a flawless technique, and the voice is absolutely consistently produced. I know that comparisons are odious, and I admire both Flórez and Villazón, but I will simply say that Castonovo's voice is more robust than that of Flórez, who is very much more of a tenore leggiero; and further, that Castronovo will never find himself in the kinds of vocal troubles that have plagued Rolando Villazón. His technique and natural endowments are exactly appropriate for the repertoire he is currently singing. There are enough examples out there of lyric tenors who over-reached and did major harm to their voices later in their careers, Ferruccio Tagliavini being one of the sadder cases. His may have been an ultimate lyric gift, in his youth, but being human he doubtless yearned for the acclaim that (unwisely, in my opinion) was lavished on dramatic tenors in the 50's and 60's.

Here is Castronovo, in Russia, singing one of the great lyric classics, "Una furtiva lagrima."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pKGuicQf5W4&feature=related


A near perfect rendition! The ease with which he moves back and forth from piano to mezza forte is proof positive that the voice is easily and appropriately centered, and very much within its appropriate repertoire.

Finally, calling a bit more on an innate robustness in the voice, but without stepping outside his repertoire, here is Werther's lament "Pourquoi me reveiller...," sung at the same concert in Russia:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dpy2QZFyy9Q&feature=related


Beautiful, and stylistically perfect! To these vocal and stylistic endowments, one can also add the not-insignificant fact that Mr. Castronovo, as evidenced in these videos, is a most handsome man, and presents himself very well indeed. With this powerhouse combination of gifts, I think it perfectly reasonable to say that here is a tenor to watch!

Beniamino Gigli: "At last we have found THE tenor!"

On-going arguments about who was/is the greatest opera tenor, soprano, alto, bass, baritone and so on are part of the frustration but also the fun of being an opera buff. To say that so and so was the greatest whatever immediately begs questions, all of which lean on definitions. By "greatest," we need to know whether we are referring to a singer's physical beauty and sex appeal (Corelli, Netrebko), their acting ability (Chaliapin—or almost any Russian, for that matter), the most extreme range (Lauri Volpi, Krauss, famous coloraturas), world-class musicianship (Domingo), highly dramatic and powerful voices (Turner,Giacomini) and so on.

If we look at Beniamino Gigli with reference to any of the above, he does not, sad to say, fare so well. As for looks, he did an excellent—albeit unintentional—imitation of Lou Costello on the stage. His musicianship, by today's standards, was poor. His range was adequate for a tenor, but for the most part he avoided very high notes, especially as he grew older. He was a reliable Bb tenor, with some recorded high C's, in his youth. While he could imply drama, his voice was not that powerful. His acting ability was non-existent. One critic, rather cruelly, once described his appearance on stage as resembling a peasant farmer following a plow. (You need to think about that one a moment.) WHY in the world, then, is he considered to be one of the very greatest tenors of all time? The answer is not hard to discover: he was endowed by nature with what is arguably the most beautiful tenor voice of all time. All else was forgiven.

Born in 1890, Gigli came from an extremely poor family, and received his first education from the local monastery in Recanati, where he sang in the choir as a boy alto. He immediately began to attract attention because of the uncommon beauty of his voice. He was able to get a scholarship to study in Rome, at the Santa Cecilia school of music. He sang in an international contest in 1914, where one of the judges, Alessandro Bonci, himself a brilliant bel canto tenor, famously exclaimed: "At last we have found THE tenor!"
They had indeed found THE tenor. Here is a real bel canto classic, from La Sonnambula:


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=loZ4ikpx7Gc


Isn't that absolutely ravishing! It is simply one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard. One reaches for adjectives like "divine," in an attempt to describe a voice that beautiful. All the qualities characteristic of Gigli are there: the effortless, floating sound, the long phrases, the exquisite color, and the masterful use of pure head voice. Gigli had an almost invariable technique for singing a song or aria. He always looked for the beauty inherent in the music, and he played first and foremost to that beauty, milking it for every ounce of potential, rarely moving out of head voice or falsetto, and then, typically, toward the end of a piece, pouring out the sound and making a climactic ending with a big high note. (This aria is an exception.) He was a smart man—one can sing forever that way, and he did. He sang continuously from the time he was a child until he was over sixty.

A great part of Gigli's extraordinary popularity during his lifetime derived from the many films he made. Most of what we can see today of him singing is from the movies. The cinema by the 1930's had usurped most of the popular audience from grand opera, with the result that more popular singing styles were less welcome in the opera house at the same time they were embraced by the movies. While Gigli himself managed to stride these two worlds, his heart was with the emerging popular music. Virtually uneducated in anything except music, he was nonetheless a very clever man, and was certainly aware of his shortcomings for an opera audience that was becoming increasingly intellectual. He did not do well outside the limits of melodic and sentimental Italian music. Some of his recordings, such as "Winterstürme wichen dem Wonnemond," or "Il Mio Tesoro Intanto," are just plain silly. He sensed, however, a big opportunity in films, and this turned out to be a brilliant move on his part, for several reasons. First, it gave him a huge audience that would never have seen him in an opera house, and second, films were—curiously enough—often able to show his slight acting skills to advantage by the clever subterfuge of letting talented actors play off him, so that we look at audiences, love interests, dramatic complications, etc. while he is singing. This keeps our ear on him, and our eye on better actors. A good example is the film "Non Ti Scordar di Me." He sings the title song in front of a curtain (he portrays an opera singer in the film) while his beautiful love interest sits in the front row, weeping. We see much more of her, but we hear the unequaled voice of Gigli:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8tk3Eb_zx4o&feature=related


In spite of his penchant for movies and sentimental favorites, however, he did not abandon the operatic repertoire. Quite the contrary. He was everywhere renowned for his opera performances, both in person and on record. Here is what is clearly one of the best recordings ever of Nadir's aria from "The Pearlfishers":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pn5XnM5Fg9E


What can one say? It is illustrative to look at some of the viewer comments below these videos. They are very consistent and endlessly admiring, even today, of the nearly inexpressible beauty of that voice. Tenors come and tenors go, but Gigli is forever; eternal evidence of the fact that while admirers of the arts may be moved by many things, they are moved by nothing quite so much as by beauty.