Geraldine Farrar
in French Opera

Note by Roland Vernon











The American soprano Geraldine Farrar enjoyed a fifteen year career at New York's Metropolitan, during which time she established herself as the nation's leading soprano, with a total of 493 performances. Fifty-eight of these were as Carmen, the role she performed more often than any other except Butterfly. It was a role which allowed her full expression of her most extrovert stage manner. Although the 1908 recording of 'Je dis que rien ne m'épouvante' shows that, as a young woman, she was more suited to the meeker role of Micaëla in the same opera, by 1914 she felt equipped to tackle the fiery gypsy. "I think the role of Carmen is great fun," she said, "because it demands much high animal spirits and pulchritude." Critical opinion is sharply divided as to whether the soprano voice can effectively communicate these elements, lacking, as it does, the requisite depth and chest register. Answering criticisms that the tessitura of Carmen is perhaps better suited to a mezzo, Farrar would reply witheringly that deeper-voiced women generally carry "too much girth and heaviness of foot to be entirely convincing for the wild-cat portrayal of this restless feline." In her day, controversy as to whether she was vocally suited to the role was overwhelmed by the weight of popular approbation. Audiences responded positively to her daring stage manner, and admired her ability to maintain a polished vocal line throughout. This was no mere actress, but a refined vocal technician of the first rank. But then, Geraldine Farrar was no ordinary opera singer for Americans of her generation.

There was much in her public profile and artistic instinct which found fulfilment in Bizet's femme fatale. Even by 1914, the year of her first Carmen (opposite Enrico Caruso and Pasquale Amato) she attracted popular worship on a scale that had rarely been equalled in a prima donna. Regal she became by virtue of the supremacy of her art; glamorous she became because of the fortuitous conjunction of vast wealth and stunning beauty; revered she became by exercising her powerful intellect publicly, and possessing the frankness to convey her opinions in the plainest and most uncompromising fashion. This was no distantly opaque diva, no rare, mythical species of warbler, whose gifts were mystically bequeathed from the gods. Farrar had far too much common, earthy sense than to propagate such clap-trap. Diva of divas she became, through the charismatic chemistry of her physical presence and personality.

She held from the start a hand full of aces and trumps, and she was never too bashful to play them. The glint in her eye never failed to seduce, and the quick wit of her tongue warmed even the sternest of critics. The combined effect of her manifold charms, according to countless eye-witnesses, was quite devastating. She was a public person, a performer by instinct, for whom drama was a life-force and exhibitionism a natural bodily function. So naturally did she absorb the trappings of celebrity, it is impossible to imagine her pursuing any life other than one of constant popular exposure. It would seem that from her earliest days there was never any question as to her potential productiveness, and a determined creed of self-reliance sprang from that conviction. She pursued her stated ambitions with outspoken courage and not a little flamboyance - even the year of her retirement was fixed two decades in advance, and despite the opinions of many who claim that rivalry and other pressures forced her off the stage, no one can deny that she proved here, as in every other instance, that nothing would stand between her and her pronounced intentions. Though a mild and compassionate person, we can see how such a temperament might translate itself electrifyingly into a personification of Carmen.

Farrar believed utterly in herself: her craft, the path she had adopted, the operatic characters she gave definition, the extravagance she exercised (financial and emotional), and the philosophy she applied to life. Her energy was vibrant, her enjoyment of life infectious. She did not shy from indulgence, but stepped in deep, confident that her instinctive style, intelligence and talent would steer her a safe course to ever greater heights. And so they did. Her cohorts of fans - the 'Gerryflappers,' as W.J. Henderson dubbed them - comprised scores of teenaged girls, for whom she represented the woman who had everything; and nearly as many devoted men, to whom she was the generation's ultimate pin-up. The publicity attendant on such stupendous glamour was colossal; but rather than sink beneath the weight of such a responsibility, or cower in the depths of some private misery brought on by the relentlessness of it all, Farrar blossomed like a sunflower in tropical splendour. All publicity for her was good publicity, and so long as her voice continued to thrill the crowds, the foundations of her stature were secure. None but the coolest, most hardened of critics dared dampen the blaze sparked by this American firework. Printed features or interviews would always begin with lavish tributes to the soprano's disarmingly attractive manner and lovely appearance. In commercial terms, she was, of course, the American opera industry's dream-ticket. Here was a red-blooded American woman, capricious, vivacious, eternally youthful, pragmatic and intellectual - a far cry from the austere demi-goddess mould characterised by the likes of Melba. The public's perception of her, therefore, found a degree of consummation in her portrayal of the sensual Carmen.

Geraldine Farrar was born on 28 February 1882. She grew up a self-willed only child, and was propelled into an ambitious musical career through the machinations of her determined mother, Henrietta Barnes Farrar. She had already established herself as the darling of New York society by the age of sixteen, but decided, in 1899, on the advice of Nellie Melba, to pursue her studies and career possibilities in Europe. A short stay in Paris was followed by a far more profitable spell in imperial Berlin. Her physical beauty, lyrical flexibility and extrovert charm conquered the hearts of all who encountered her (including the German Crown Prince), and she was instantly invited to join the ranks of the Royal Opera.

During her five-year spell in Germany, she willingly allowed herself to become the operatic establishment's most prized and pampered ornament, a veritable 'Wunderkind' of Berlin society - much to the chagrin of the Royal Opera's native sopranos, who felt that the magnetic young foreigner had stolen their thunder. Farrar's speciality at this time, in terms of operatic roles, was the innocent, victimised ingénue, of the type immortalised by the more saccharine contingent of French composers. Her 1901 début, as Marguerite in Gounod's Faust, was followed, over the course of the next three years, by three of the roles represented on this disc, Mignon, Manon (for which she was personally coached by the composer, Massenet), and Juliette. She was, of course, in physical appearance, real age and vocal maturity, pre-eminently suitable for these roles. And these things mattered to Farrar. She cultivated a quality of winsome youthfulness throughout her career, specifically for the purpose of maintaining plausibility in these types of roles. Although she was later to explore the further realms of dramatic and verismo repertoire, she was by nature a lyric soprano, and fully respected the theatrical requirements of lyric roles when she undertook them (which, to her credit, she continued to do). The most important of these requirements, to her mind, was beautiful youthfulness. As she herself said, with typical acid frankness, "Of what use is the projection of a beautiful mental picture by means of a fine voice if the physical attributes do not correspond.... Why have a glorious voice, and when you come on stage look like something which has been delivered by auto truck?" It is perhaps no wonder the mighty, barrel-chested sopranos of the Berlin Royal Opera objected to this svelte but outspoken beauty, the living image of Juliette or Mignon.

Although Berlin provided her with the opportunity to discover her rare gift for dramatic plausibility, it also afforded her the opportunity to develop her singing technique under the best possible tutelage, and this was to be the mainstay of her future career in New York. For it was during this time that she was privileged to study with the great Austrian soprano, Lilli Lehmann. They were well-matched sparring partners, Farrar brimming over with novel ideas and undisguised emotional input, the veteran Lehmann taming these impulses and harnessing them to a razor-sharp method. Farrar was later to write that although technical concerns were not pre-eminent in her own more theatrical approach to operatic performance, the clarity of her style in maturity owed much to Lehmann's insistent discipline.

In the autumn of 1906 Farrar returned to America to make her début at New York's Metropolitan. These were the days, it should be remembered, when the Met was the domain of a social and political elite, many of whom were still dreaming sentimentally of the teenaged belle who had departed their circle in 1899. Their gentle curiosity had now become rampant hunger, after all the news that had come flooding back across the Atlantic about the young American star. Musical legend, royal scandal, society glamour - Farrar carried it all ashore with her when she docked in New York. Her status as national celebrity was assured well in advance.

New York buzzed with anticipation as the night of her début, 26 November, arrived. Farrar was to be granted the honour of opening the season, and it has been said that Caruso stepped aside of his own free will to allow her full glory. The truth about this is suspect. One report has it that Farrar announced she would not sing with a tenor good enough to outshine her (not the most complimentary comment on Roussélière, who was eventually cast opposite her). Another version holds that Caruso was in temporary disgrace, having been arrested at the zoo for pinching a lady's bottom - an event which certainly did take place. It was on grounds of social politesse rather than professional altruism, so the argument goes, that Caruso declined to share the stage with Farrar at her début. He (or someone) wished to spare her the ignominy of too close an association with an alleged pervert!

The role she sang was Juliette in Gounod's Roméo et Juliette, with which she had scored such a triumph in Berlin. William J. Henderson, ever the most stringent of critics, detected a little too much ambition in the young prodigy, and issued a mild reprimand: "Largeness, power, brilliancy are what this young woman has sought, instead of mellowness, liquidity and perfect poise." It was a criticism which became more common as she strayed from the lyric roles of her youth into the more demanding and dramatic roles of her maturity, such as Butterfly and, indeed, Carmen.

Farrar's staggering popularity nevertheless withstood these reservations, and remained intact for the next fifteen years, while she and Caruso, together with Scotti, ensured the Metropolitan Opera's profits. There were bigger voices and there were better voices, yet none had the drawing power of this home-grown idol. It was not long before the adoring Gerryflappers established themselves as opera's most vociferous fan-club, rather to the distaste of the Metropolitan establishment. The girl for whom nothing ever seemed to go wrong had crowned herself queen of the opera house.

By the time of her triumphant début as Carmen, on 19 November 1914, Farrar represented an interesting blend of old-style vocal refinement (of the type instilled in her by Lehmann), and highly fashionable verismo theatricality. Unlike the former generation's sopranos, who were moulded by an accepted school of singing, and delivered the precepts of that school through the refinement of their own particular instrument, Farrar and her successors were to be distinguished by the novelty of what they were to provide on stage. Audiences wanted to be surprised, thrilled, and disarmed by some new or idiosyncratic interpretation. Emotions had at last been emancipated from the repression of nineteenth century morality, and people sought vivid expression of them in the media - if not yet in their own lives. Sopranos who embodied this fresh liberality, which in the persons of Mary Garden and Maria Jeritza occasionally bordered on the scandalous, were thoroughly modern stars, and an element of risqué flamboyance or, at least, capricious panache, was expected; particularly in the works of modern verismo composers, such as Puccini, Mascagni, Leoncavallo, Giordano and Ciléa.

Farrar's particular gift was that she never quite overstepped the mark of acceptability, and so retained a following in the nation's more sober, cautious and innocent circles. In her own words, "I am essentially sensuous, but have a horror of vulgarity. Suggest all you will, but don't be it." However, some of her Carmen stage partners, including Caruso, were not entirely happy with her level of restraint in the role, and they blamed it on the diva's experience of Hollywood.

Farrar's not undistinguished association with the silent film industry began with an approach from Jesse Lasky and Samuel Goldwyn, together with the director Cecil B. de Mille (then partners in the Lasky Company), with a view to making a film of Carmen, based on the opera in which she had caused such a sensation during the Met's 1914/15 season. After her singing commitments were finished, she proceeded to Los Angeles to spend the summer months making films, the first of which was not in fact Carmen, but a Spanish romance called Farrar found the experience of acting under de Mille's direction most stimulating, and he, in turn, capitalised on the quality of her spontaneity. He identified her strong point as being freedom of dramatic expression (to the point of improvisation), and most of the best work was accomplished in the very first takes of each scene. Freed from the restrictions of operatic tradition, the distraction of vocalisation, and the indifference of her opera-partners' acting skills, Farrar began to enjoy her summer in Hollywood. "After the responsibility of a long singing season and anxiety over a troublesome and delicate larynx," she said, "this was a carefree heaven indeed for me."

Once the studio had completed this film, and had thoroughly immersed itself in the flavour of Spanish passion, the scene was set to begin shooting Carmen. The same cast was assembled, and Farrar explored possibilities that she had never even contemplated on stage. She discovered a brand of true 'realism' (or The role of 'Spanish wanton' became Farrar's most successful screen persona, and was repeated again in her last film, The Woman and the Puppet, a variant on the Carmen motif, made in 1919. Goldwyn did approach her informally once again, after her withdrawal from the operatic stage, in the mid-1930s, and suggested a remake of Carmen. But the silver-haired diva, though still beautiful, was too shrewd to risk a return from retirement for what would have been nothing more than a public curiosity.

In her memoirs Geraldine Farrar wrote, "The distressing vision of prima donnas overstaying their artistic prime and inviting apology gave me the horrors." This is fully in accordance with her long-held philosophy that stage personalities can only be plausibly recreated by those physically suited to their portrayal. She had long before announced to the world that she would retire from the operatic stage at the age of forty, and this she did, in 1921. She continued for another ten years, however, as a concert artist, her most regular programme consisting of highlights from Carmen. Thus she continued her association with the role right up until her complete retirement in 1931, a youthful and glamorous fifty-year-old.

All the Carmen excerpts included in this compilation, except for three, were recorded within a few months of Farrar's début in the role. The three exceptions are Micaëla's aria (sung here by Farrar in 1908, around the time she performed this role at the Met), an orchestral prelude, and Escamillo's celebrated Toréador song. The latter is performed by Pasquale Amato in Italian rather than French, but warrants inclusion in the selection on the grounds that Amato sang the role of Escamillo at Farrar's Carmen début. Neapolitan by birth, Pasquale Amato (1878-1942) made his début as a twenty-one-year old Germont père at his home town's Teatro Bellini. Five years later he made his one visit to Covent Garden, but his career did not really blossom until he was recruited by Toscanini and Gatti-Casazza for La Scala. His unusually high range made him a versatile performer, and he excelled not only in the older masterpieces of Verdi, but in contemporary repertoire as well (such as the local première of Pelléas). When Gatti and Toscanini took over management of the Met in 1908, they secured the services of Amato as principle baritone. Here he sustained a punishing schedule for twelve seasons, during which time he created the role of Jack Rance in the première of Puccini's Fanciulla. Overwork eventually took its toll, and Amato showed signs of severe vocal deterioration by his early forties.

Giovanni Martinelli (1885-1969) was considered by many to be Caruso's successor at the Met, and his career at that house is unparalleled: 883 performances, dating between 1913 and 1946. This pales beside his overall total, which numbers 4,500, nearly half of which were Verdi roles. He frequently sang opposite Geraldine Farrar, and their partnership included appearances together in Carmen. He was renowned for the dramatic directness of his delivery, and the true, clarion tenor timbre of his upper register. An immensely popular elder statesman of opera in America, he continued to perform until the age of 80.


© 1995 Roland Vernon

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