At risk of belaboring the obvious: “cinematic flow” is of course not achievable in the theatre, because it relies on the mobility of the camera’s eye to switch place, distance, focus (including an illusion of depth), etc., and on editing to establish rhythms and determine the nature of transitions. Film writing is directed toward that range of capabilities, and film direction depends on a mastery of them and how they are used stylistically in relation to the subject undertaken. Whereas: In the theatre, it is the human eye which, from a fixed position and with its own subtle changes of focus (requiring no illusion of depth, because the third dimension is already present), selects its points of attention on the stage picture. This selective attention is certainly influenced by where the designer, director, and performers want it to be focused, but the choice remains, always, the receptor’s. Writing for the stage is conditioned to that set of possibilities, and tends to be far more determinative than film writing on the rhythms and durations of sequences. In opera, it is the music (based, of course, on the libretto’s structures) that controls rhythm, tempo, and duration.

As it happens, Rigoletto stands at a sort of crossroads along the route traveled by Verdi—and all of opera, really, over the course of the 19th Century—from a structural convention in which units of time, and their pacing, are determined by a series of clearly defined, closed-off numbers, toward what we think of as a “through-composed” convention, wherein the units are not closed off and action is conceived as continuous development, and in which the changes of pace, of atmosphere and emotional temperature evoked by harmonic and orchestrational shifts, aim for a continuous weave, not a varicolored patchwork quilt. Thus, in Rigoletto, we are well into Act I, Scene 2 before we encounter units with a sufficient sense of closure to invite applause (the end of the Rigoletto/Gilda scene would be the first). This isn’t to say that earlier points don’t often get applause, but when they do, it overrides a transition that the score specifically intends as a continuance—an especially Verdian sort of continuance, in which mood and intent switch so suddenly that the change seems like both an overlap and a reversal of direction. Verdi had always been fond of quick, violent contrasts, and a bit of thinking back through his early operas, as well as those of Donizetti, will, I’m sure, turn up individual instances of these dramatic turnarounds that keep the action’s head spinning. But Rigoletto‘s first scene is properly seen as setting a new paradigm for the continuity of operatic action, without any point of closure from rise to fall of curtain. Since we are looking for suggestions of “flow,” it’s worth taking a quick run through the places that, in a strictly numbered succession, might have marked such closures. In Scene 1 alone, they would be:

1) From “Questa o quella” into the Duke/Countess Ceprano dialogue. The strings sing out with a repeat of the verse-closing tunelet. But they fall one note short of reaching the cadential tonic, interrupting themselves to suddenly shift to a new tune beginning higher, softly, in a slower meter and in minuet tempo, as the Duke spies the Countess on her way out the door. It’s an almost shocking switch to lower gear, often lost under applause. 2) From the end of the Duke/Countess duettino into Rigoletto’s mocking of Ceprano, his guying “In testa che avete, Signor di Ceprano?” cutting in without pause. 3) From the end of that little speech into a much quicker, romping tune for a lively dance, the Perigordino, which kicks off in the same bar as Rigoletto’s concluding “fremendo ne va.” 4) From the end of the Perigordino back into the jogging theme for the banda that had opened the act, serving here to introduce the excited Marullo with his news about Rigoletto’s “lover.” (The score stipulates how the da capo of the dance jumps directly to the fortissimo entrance of the banda music, to ensure continuity.) This develops into the courtiers’ chorus, vowing to be revenged on Rigoletto for his baiting of Ceprano. 5) The end of that chorus into the intrusion of Monterone, again without a second’s pause, notwithstanding that the chorus has ended in a loud resolution. From here we continue through to the fall of curtain, though within the increasingly menacing texture there are two more precipitous changes: first, Monterone’s curse, hurled out on the top F, impels Rigoletto’s stricken outburst, “Che sento! orrore!” (and it’s here that “the jester’s face falls,” and as often in opera, more in the voice and body than in the face—assuming that the baritone has established a jester’s voice and body); and second, again on the pickup within the same bar, the sotto voce beginning of the ensemble (“O tu che la festa,” etc.) that builds to the scene’s end. The pattern continues into the second scene (though I suppose we must allow that the conclusion of the Rigoletto/Sparafucile duologue, with that exit on the long-held low F and the concluding chord and pause, at least permits, if not invites, subdued applause), with the final note of Rigoletto’s monologue bonded to the joyous allegro brillante of Gilda’s entrance. Even the conclusion of “Caro nome,” if sung and played as written, with the aria’s cadenza leading right on into the postlude for her exit and the conspirators’ sotto voce comments, is not intended as an occasion for audience response.