When, on May 17th, the young Irish mezzo-soprano Tara Erraught performed the role of Octavian in a Glyndebourne Opera production of “Der Rosenkavalier,” an ugly controversy erupted in the British press. A posse of London critics, all male, unleashed some remarkably harsh reviews, focussing more on her appearance than on her singing. She was described as a “chubby bundle of puppy-fat,” as being “stocky” and “dumpy of stature,” as possessing an “intractable physique.” The commentator Norman Lebrecht excerpted the reviews on his Web site and then published an angry open letter from the mezzo Alice Coote. Rupert Christiansen, one of the critics, defended his review, saying, “I am a critic, not a cheerleader.” The fracas quickly jumped across the Atlantic, with thoughtful contributions from Anne Midgette, Anastasia Tsioulcas, and, in a Times dialogue, Anthony Tommasini and Corinna da Fonseca-Wollheim. A webcast of the Glyndebourne “Rosenkavalier,” on June 8th, will undoubtedly draw more interest than usual.
All of this points up once again the smoldering issue of sexism and gender inequality in the classical world. Nowhere is the problem more acutely complex than in opera, which has long displayed a kind of neurosis on the subject of the female performer. Women took command of the art in the mid-seventeenth century, as sopranos transfixed audiences in Venice and elsewhere. Yet it soon became clear how easily the worship of the diva could turn into contempt, as singers age or show other frailties. The language around women in opera has always tended to fanatical extremes, whether of infatuation or of disgust. The “Rosenkavalier” incident shows how little has changed. I sympathize with Tsioulcas when she writes, “The fact that we are having this conversation in 2014—coming nearly on the back of several staccato outbursts against female conductors—honestly makes me wonder if classical music doesn’t deserve its stereotype of being silly, reactionary, outdated and out of step with the contemporary world.”
Then again, do other cultural fields fare better in comparison? Barney Sherman took up this question in a blog post for Iowa Public Radio’s Web site. He pointed out that only twenty to thirty-five percent of literary reviews are by or about women; that only one woman has won an Academy Award for Best Director; that Down Beat’s Jazz Hall of Fame is ninety-five per cent male; that women make up only twelve per cent of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He might also have pointed out that misogyny is excruciatingly commonplace in mainstream pop culture. (Look no further than Kanye West’s grotesque “Blood on the Leaves,” in which a sample of Nina Simone singing “Strange Fruit” accompanies complaints about “bitches surroundin’ me.”) Classical music has much to be ashamed of, but it can point with some pride toward increasing gender parity in the makeup of orchestras, toward considerable progress in the representation of female composers, and—caveats aside—toward the historic empowerment of the diva. Certainly, I reject the idea that there is anything especially Neanderthal about the classical world.
The other day, the great American mezzo Joyce DiDonato delivered a rousing commencement speech at Juilliard. Implicit in her remarks was an argument for classical music as an oasis of idiosyncrasy in a culture of mass-marketed sameness. She said to the graduating class, “We need you to remind us what empathy is by taking us deep into the hearts of those who are, God forbid, different than us.” Classical music has long been a haven for those who feel different, whether on account of their size, shape, sexuality, or personality. Whatever the impact of the Met’s HD Live series on the body image of singers, opera is still far more inclined to value voice over build, and is routinely mocked in pop culture on those grounds. Even the most realistic staging depends on the power of the ear to augment the eye: great singing creates its own ulterior drama, detached from the movement of bodies onstage. In a column last January, I observed that the most exciting nights in the Met’s fall season were, first and foremost, vocal tours-de-force: Christine Goerke in “Die Frau ohne Schatten,” Angela Meade and Jamie Barton in “Norma.” These singers may or may not have tractable physiques, but they roused crowds to near-delirium. The vehement reaction to those “Rosenkavalier” reviews may be interpreted as a preëmptive protest: in the face of the cult of the body, let’s preserve the cult of the voice.
Above: Teodora Gheorghium (left), as Sophie, and Tara Erraught (right), as Octavian, in “Der Rosenkavalier,” at Glyndebourne. Photograph by Robbie Jack/Corbis.
