This essay explores the artistry of the nineteenth-century Italian singer Giuditta Pasta within the broad context of an ‘artwork’ (Goehr) and ideas of ‘presence’ (Gumbrecht). Pasta was the acknowledged diva del mondo during the 1820s, famed not only for an extraordinary if flawed voice, but also for the physicality of her performance modes. Her innovative practices contributed to the development and reconceptualisation of opera’s dramatic potential on the early Romantic stage. Making her reputation in roles such as Medea (Mayr) and Semiramide (Rossini), Pasta later inspired the composition of three of the most striking operatic heroines of the period: Amina in La sonnambula (Bellini) and the title-roles of Norma (again Bellini) and Anna Bolena (Donizetti). Focusing on her performance as Norma, I consider a polemical debate in 1835 in the Italian periodicals Il Figaro and Il corriere delle dame that illuminates aspects of Pasta’s gestural style in relation to those of her younger colleague and rival, Maria Malibran, and ultimately raises questions about the ‘authenticity’ of performance in the emerging economy of the operatic marketplace.

Contemporary press reports of two important stagings of grand opéra in Bologna – Rossini’s Guillaume Tell (as Rodolfo di Sterlinga) in 1840 and the Italian première of Verdi’s Don Carlos in 1867 – shed light on some intriguing details of the beginning and culmination of the genre’s reception in Italy. Through the prism of local civic pride, they illuminate not only the national standing of the composers in question and the state of regional operatic production, but also the political issues of the day as they impinged – frequently in unexpected ways – on then-current debates about musical style and genre. In particular, when read alongside the pronouncements of Angelo Mariani (conductor in Bologna from 1860) and, above all, Verdi, they reveal that the role, provenance and relative status of the works’ visual aspect (apparently so integral to the development of grand opéra) figured surprisingly importantly in the complicated and often contradictory discourse on unity in the nation at large.

Stephen Daldry’s Billy Elliot (2000), a British film about a boy from the industrial north-east who forsakes his roots to train as a professional dancer, opens and closes with two almost mythic scenes of male dancing. In the first, the film’s opening, the eleven-year-old Billy lays the stylus on a T-Rex LP and, after a scratchy false start, the soundtrack begins with the 1978 ‘Cosmic Dancer’. Hopping onto his bed, Billy starts to leap up and down – first as any boy would, but then higher and higher, his body caught in slow motion in a variety of abstract poses. In the film’s final scene, we return to Billy dancing, this time as a mature, muscular adult arriving in the wings of a London theatre. This is the first and only time we see the grown-up Billy, and his face is kept from us so that we can focus on the strength and immensity of his limbs, the astonishing athletic body. At the climactic statement of a soaring late Romantic phrase – the music is now Swan Lake – Billy leaps onto the stage. Boy becomes man, adolescent energy is transformed into athleticism and film and soundtrack freeze, capturing Billy in another abstract leap.

The tenor Gilbert-Louis Duprez is today remembered for his invention of the ‘C from the chest’, first presented to Parisian audiences in 1837. This has retrospectively been mythologised as the origin-point of modern tenor technique, though recent research has thrown the exact nature and significance of Duprez’s achievement into doubt. Nonetheless, one context in which Duprez was understood as revolutionary was in the scientific work of two Lyonnais doctors, Paul Diday and Joseph Pétrequin, whose 1840 essay ‘Mémoire sur une nouvelle espèce de voix chantée’ offers a unique perspective not only on what Duprez sounded like, but also on developments in the understanding of the physiological phenomenon of singing itself. Placing this work in the context of earlier medical writings on the voice, and of the authors’ subsequent debate with the singing teacher Manuel Garcia Jr., suggests that the late 1830s were a period of flux in the history of the understanding of singing, one in which long-held certainties were being questioned. Duprez thus arrived in Paris at a unique moment. The changing conceptual background shaped the understanding of Duprez’s voice even as the tenor was used by the doctors as a ‘living experiment’ to reach conclusions about the function of the voice generally.

Although Eugen d’Albert’s later works were a staple of new opera during the Weimar Republic, they have since been considered at best partially successful attempts to adapt his earlier and more successful ‘verismo’ idiom to the new post-war aesthetics. His 1926 opera Der Golem, however, helps to challenge this reputation. Its similarities to one of the most famous early German films, Robert Wegener’s 1920 Der Golem, wie er in die Welt kam, point to an intriguing relationship with one of musical modernism’s most controversial nemeses: the cinema. An analysis of critical responses to d’Albert’s opera, read in the context of characteristic early twentieth-century debates about popularity, shows how Der Golem encouraged more complex responses to mass appeal than the clear rejection often attributed to better known figures of modernism. Although the opera both flirts with and problematises different modes of audience appeal – most notably in an early scene, which has a direct parallel in Wegener’s film – its reception avoids easy alignment with mass culture. Der Golem’s unmistakeable debt to its modernist context suggests that narratives of modernism should be able to account for d’Albert’s post-war works, rather than treating them as a throwback to the nineteenth century.

In January 1954 Leonard Bernstein began work with Lillian Hellman on a musical version of Voltaire’s Candide. A first draft of the show was complete by the end of the year but was subsequently revised with new lyricist Richard Wilbur, eventually opening for previews in October 1956 and on Broadway that December. From the beginning, Candide was intended as political satire. Both Bernstein and Hellman leaned to the left politically and were embroiled in McCarthyism during the early years of the Cold War; Candide was their indictment of ‘puritanical snobbery, phony moralism, inquisitorial attacks on the individual, brave-new-world optimism, [and] essential superiority’, as Bernstein himself explained. Voltaire’s critique of Enlightenment optimism is here deployed against the ideological certainties of Eisenhower’s America. Yet the letters, scripts and scores that document the genesis of Candide indicate that playwright and composer struggled with its meanings and, even more, with their own intent. Of particular interest as a site of that struggle is the Eldorado episode, a passage of central yet ambiguous significance in Voltaire’s conte. Although Hellman and Bernstein may have first been attracted to Candide for its political potential, changes to the Eldorado episode, involving a complete reworking of the second act, shifted the focus of Candide away from satirical critique and towards a romantic plot more typical of the Broadway musical.

The undoubted cause célèbre of the 1969 Holland Festival was the large-scale music theatre piece Reconstructie, jointly authored by a team of five young composers and two librettists. The work, which took as its subject ‘the struggle against US imperialism in Latin America’, and revolved around the figure of Che Guevara, embodied the authors’ dual commitment to political engagement and artistic experiment. My account examines the work through the lens of recent scholarship that stresses the politically reactionary function of avant-garde experimentation within the cultural Cold War. In the process, attention is given to broader factors affecting the work’s production and reception: these include contemporaneous debates about cultural popularising and the Holland Festival; the complex motives of the work’s governmental patrons; and the influence upon the authors of Cuba, Castro and Guevara himself.

The notion of studying the nineteenth-century danseur is problematic because of an anti-male strain in dance historiography that has led some to suggest that he virtually disappeared from the stage. André Levinson is largely responsible for the danseur’s poor reputation: he minimised the narrative aspect of nineteenth-century ballet and declared in 1929 that the ballerina Marie Taglioni had ‘evicted’ men from the stage. Levinson also canonised La Sylphide (1832), a ballet that he, like his nineteenth-century predecessors Théophile Gautier and Jules Janin, gendered as feminine. He promulgated the term ‘ballet blanc’, a feminising but misleading term now in common use and rarely interrogated. And yet men danced on the stage throughout the nineteenth century. In the case of the Paris Opéra, men contributed to ballet as principal dancers, soloists and in the corps de ballet. A brief study of La Jolie Fille de Gand, a ballet contemporaneous with La Sylphide, shows a rich set of male roles calling on men’s skill as mimes and dancers in various styles. Further studies of the long-maligned nineteenth-century danseur are needed.

Recent debates about ‘high’ and ‘low’ culture and the perceived repositioning of such categories have had potentially profound implications for opera. British artist Sam Taylor-Wood’s video installation Killing Time (1994) provides a useful starting point from which to explore these polemics. By juxtaposing images of mundane daily life with a soundtrack drawn from Strauss’s Elektra, Taylor-Wood seems to present opera and ‘the everyday’ as irreconcilable. Yet, the perception of opera as highbrow has by no means been a historical constant in Britain. This article considers the extent to which opera may be regaining the ‘entertainment status’ it enjoyed for a period during the late nineteenth century, or whether its perception as an ‘elite’ product is more deeply ingrained in British culture than ever before. Killing Time’s critique of opera and the commentary it offers on voice, art as redemption, and the politics of participatory art are analysed and contrasted with the representation of opera in a more ‘popular’ medium, a reality television series in which members of the public were trained as opera singers. The article concludes that, while popular culture seems able to embrace opera, the more uneasy relationship today is that between opera and other forms of ‘high art’.

This article begins with a late Verdian conundrum, one that is arguably distinctive of the fin de siècle: even as Verdi seemed to be withdrawing from the stage, he turned repeatedly to a small group of practical musicians, among them the French baritone Victor Maurel, the first Iago and Falstaff and creator in 1881 of the revised role of Simon Boccanegra. An exploration of the circumstances in which Maurel first made an impression on the composer, as Hamlet and Amonasro at the Paris Opéra in 1880, suggests a significant role for the baritone in late Verdian historiography. In particular, Maurel’s case reveals a Verdi interested in and even actively encouraging new approaches to operatic acting and declamation, a fact we might want to relate to the composer’s larger trajectory in this period. It also reveals a fin de siècle in which singers continued to be important, in spite of composers’ anti-performance rhetoric.

It seems a very long way from a dog howling in pain on François Magendie’s laboratory table in 1816 to Gilbert-Louis Duprez’s more-or-less novel accomplishment at the Paris Opéra two decades later: the tenor’s high C from the chest; the darkened voice; the sound of the future first heard in a performance of Guillaume Tell. Most obviously, the sounds of the dog were horrible and horrifying. When Magendie’s teacher, the great Xavier Bichat, tried the experiment some years earlier, his cleaning lady asked to move her chambers from near the scene because she could not bear the dog’s cries. Duprez’s sound was, arguably, beautiful; at least some people thought so, even if two doctors, driven to study the physiology of singing by the occasion, claimed that most people thought the voice was forced and false. Whether it was ‘pathological’ or not – I’d prefer, at worse, ‘pathogenic’ in the sense that so many unnatural new activities of the nineteenth century, like sitting long hours at a desk or riding on a train, were thought to make one ill – the tenor’s high C did, even its detractors admitted, ‘transport and dominate with its power’. It was musical and in the minds of many opened up radically new interpretative possibilities.