The prelude and hymn that open the opera do not strike me as distinguished music, but they build to a massed climax that is no doubt impressive in the theatre, and if combined with a cleverly managed, Belasco-esque light-and-scenery display (flowers opening, stream burbling, Mt. Fuji in majesty), should put us in proper Sun-worshipping mood.^(I) Iris’s two opening solos, “Ho fatto in triste sogno” and “In pure stille,” are harmonically and orchestrally interesting but melodically anonymous; they rely entirely on performance to register anything beyond a soporific niceness, and that is made more difficult during “In pure stille” by the notion of having Il Cieco recite his spoken prayers in little bursts underneath the soprano’s descriptive line. The brief choruses of village maidens fall into the same “not displeasing” category, and the music from the arrival of the theatre troupe to the end of the act seems to me a collection of quite generic descriptive gestures, with the obvious exception of Osaka/Jor’s serenade, “Apri la tua finestra,” the opera’s one hit tune. That’s a bit lifted from the romantic narrative, as was Turiddu’s offstage serenade in Cavalleria. The latter, though, was brought into a place of foreshadowing in the real-life drama about to be enacted, whereas here it is made to serve at a play-within-the-play degree of separation, like Arlecchino’s in Pagliacci, as if to remand the hoary device to a world of now-passé artificiality.

Two related observations as we head into Act 2. The first concerns the vocal setting of the principal roles. The writing for Osaka does not venture above the upper A. (If Mascagni was consciously writing for the voice of the first Osaka, Fernando de Lucia, he would have been aware of the latter’s limitations at the top of the range.) It does, though, press repeatedly into the upper end of that compass, in emotionally stressful utterances (much of the role) staying there for long passages, trafficking in Gs, G-sharps and A’s without relief.  Though style and language are different, the functional effects and stresses (again, apart from “Apri la tua finestra“) are not far from those of Wagner’s Siegmund, but with the tessitura (not the compass) lifted by nearly a full step. This puts a considerable demand on the singer’s technique to avoid simply wearing out the listener’s ear and reducing an already-repellent antihero to an incessant ranter. It’s not hard to imagine this difficulty being substantially overcome by the expertise of de Lucia or the profusion of vocal beauties proffered by Caruso or Gigli, who between them sang most of the Met performances of Iris. But for the merely competent tenor, even a solid one, the Osaka of Act 2 threatens to be thankless hard work. The writing for Iris is of course more lyrical, and, in the natural octave transposition, slightly more extended at the top (she is given a couple of B-flats, and one sustained B-natural (for the priest’s exclamation of “quella piovra è la MOR-te!“). Her limitation is at the bottom, where her few excursions below the passaggio are either gentle or on passing notes, never sustained or forceful. In other words, the chest register, which we think of as a prime source of expression for veristic sopranos of even the more lyrical sort (e. g., think of Mafalda Favero’s “L’altra notte,” Rosetta Pampanini’s “La mamma morta,” or, for a later, American example, the “Sola, perduta, abbandonata” of Dorothy Kirsten), is never summoned by the score. I presume that this is because Mascagni, who certainly understood the registrational implications of his choices, felt that any defined voce di petto would spoil the soundprint of feminine innocence and purity he considered fundamental to Iris’ vocal character. At the same time, the E-natural above middle C (the very center of the register-transition area) is practically her key pitch—time after time, Mascagni puts her there for long strings of notes in quasi recitativo fashion to convey information. So he expected firm, clear tone in the lower-middle area of the range, implying a strong registral bond without inviting anything that could be inferred as rude, masculine, or visceral. Kyoto is a character-baritone role, with nothing to really “sing”—even the non-dramatic Puccini baritone parts, down to Schaunard or Ping, have more vocally grateful music. But the voice must be projective and capable of hanging about the upper-middle baritone range with excellent pronuncia, and despite the sliminess of the character, commands too much of our attention to afford an unattractive timbre. This performer must be a strong behavioral actor.