This last leads to my second observation, which is that while the opera’s setting partakes of the exotic and “legendary,” implying some form of stylization in its action, the impetus in physical acting in this era was in the direction of naturalism, and that of “acting with the voice” reflected a concern with an expressive specificity (sudden changes in dynamics and shading, some of explosive contrast, others of inner nuance) meant to track the moment-to-moment mental life (especially its emotional component) of the singing character—in other words, the character’s psychology. Both these are at one with the concept of a through-written sung drama, which Mascagni was here attempting in a manner that went well beyond that of Cavalleria or L’amico Fritz, which are both at once more naturalistic in setting and action, yet more numbers-oriented in structure. Mascagni, I think, got caught up in the contradiction. So, while the long attempted-seduction scene that is the heart of Act 2 has its moments of musical eloquence (there is a lovely theme at the start of Osaka’s “Il tuo corpo“), the more or less static psychologies of the two characters almost preclude music of continual expressive development.

The Aria della piovra, though, is an interesting piece. As noted above, it emerges as an organic reaction to Osaka’s “Il Piacere!” proclamation, and it starts immediately, as if spun directly from it. And its structure and movement are not quite what we’d expect, given the general melancholic, dreamlike tone of Iris’ previous solos. It has its own dreamlike quality, but that is one of the almost mechanical recitation of a traumatic occurrence. It marches along apace, without a breath for reflection or differentiation between events of greater or lesser importance. Each new section begins with the drop of a sixth, from B down to D, as if grabbing a breath to start in afresh; but then it just rattles on, full of little fadings in and out, slowings-down and speedings-up, even a passing miniclimax or two, none of which alter the forward motion. Even the one musical figure that extends a word through a passage of vocalization—a sequence of ascending quarter notes culminating with a longer-held upper E, occuring once near the beginning and once near the end of the solo—has a neutral emotional value, making no distinction between “velame d’un Miste-e-e-ro” and “sorride e muo-o-o-or.” Altogether, the event of the passage sounds like the recovery of a repressed memory, as if, in the manner of such, it has governed Iris ever since her encounter with the screen and the priest, and kept her a child, tending her garden and needy father. Now, though, she is a woman, and dimly but powerfully understands that Osaka is not the son of the Sun, but a slippery beast with tentacles. Here Mascagni writes with great confidence, doing something quite new with insight and superior skill.

The rest of Act 2 is less compelling. Osaka, exclaiming that Iris is no more than a puppet like the ones in the play, departs, and Iris, under the command of Kyoto, reverts to her dreamy self, intoning Jor’s serenade in a moony fashion, recollecting her hope of love, as she dresses behind a screen. Always good to reprise the hit single, I suppose, and for an act finale we now get Illica and Mascagni as carny showmen. How is all this supposed to work? Iris comes out onto the veranda of the Yoshiwara Green House in virtually transparent raiment, ogled by the Edo crowd (and us, of course), very much as does Thaïs before the Alexandrian multitudes. The “abyss” must run along in front of the house like a moat, with the amassed gawkers, Osaka, and Il Cieco up to its edge. Do we see the mud hitting its target? The soprano leaping in full view from the veranda down through the opening? If not, we are disappointed. But if so, how? On whose insurance? Regrettably, there are no musical treasures here to at least give us ear-belief, the writing for Osaka, Il Cieco, and the chorus doing nothing but fill in some multiple-choice circles.