Pinza’s Méphistophélès will be less of a discovery for aficionados. He is so much better documented in his iconic roles, including this one (the 1944 broadcast under Beecham, as well as the 1940 performance), and the vocal difference between 1937 and 1940 is much less marked than in Crooks’ case. In fact, the color and presence of his voice are better conveyed by the ’40 broadcast. This doesn’t mean, however, that the present performance is anything short of terrific. At full voice, Pinza dominates without bluster, the tone dark and brilliant at once, and the lighter dynamics emerge suddenly, effortlessly, suggestively—listen as those lingering subito pianos pop out on the repeats of “Que la bague au doit” in the Serenade. And throughout, his big Latin love of devilment, the virile energy that always invested his work. Since Pinza’s departure we’ve had some fine Mephistos here in New York—the matured Siepi (particularly in the re-working under the direction of Jean-Louis Barrault), Norman Treigle at the NYCO, Nicolai Ghiaurov, and, at least from the POV of vocal ease and beauty, the René Pape of years gone by. But as a package of voice and personality, Pinza remains unique.

Before discussing the somewhat perplexing case of Marguerite, I’d like to comment on the supporting roles, which if anything have fared even worse than the principals relative to their considerable importance, especially since they involve singers less familiar to us. First among them, of course, is Valentin. He is truly a principal character, and was formerly regularly cast as such. But that requires a profligacy of choice that can no longer be presumed. (We did have Hvorostovsky a while back—luxury casting in the present context, but only moderately effective.) The 1937 broadcast has the American baritone Richard Bonelli, a De Reszke pupil who was prominent enough in his day, and would be more so today. During his time at the Met (1932-1943), he had ahead of him in the pecking order De Luca, Tibbett, Danise, assorted visitors, and finally Leonard Warren, but even so established a solid place for himself in roles like this one, the Rossini Figaro, Germont, Manfredo, and Wolfram. He had a warm, vibrant baritone with a smooth technique that enabled an easy reach into the top—all the equipment needed for a superb Valentin. And in terms of sheer vocalism, he delivers exactly that. Much as I enjoy the fine tone, though, I find myself rather put off by some of his interpretive choices. I don’t object to the stretched-out phrasing and extended note values of his opening recitative (“O sainte médaille“)—they’re actually quite expressive, and the conductor, Wilfred Pelletier, takes the orchestra right along with them. I’m not even sure I mind his weird re-write of the ascending line at the opening of the famous aria that follows, “Avant de quitter ces lieux” (could he have possibly gotten that from de Reszke?). We soon have to remind ourselves, though, that an artist’s wish to take charge of his own music (good!) is always subject to the artist’s taste (not always). Bonelli milks until dry every mini-climax, nails shut every small effect, and pushes the inflections of the Death Scene curse mercilessly. He’s a potent Valentin, but I wish he had put more trust in his voice and the music. (N. B.: check out the young Warren in the ’40 broadcast. The great voice is in its freshest, steadiest estate, and you may be surprised by the musical and linguistic command at this early stage.)