I cannot leave off the singing of these roles (and especially the bass ones) without returning to that RAI Torino performance. The Filippo of Cesare Siepi—the bass who took over the role in that 1950 production when, because of visa restrictions then in force on citizens of Eastern Bloc countries, Boris Christoff could not obtain entry—was bypassed by the commercial recording companies. Christoff recorded it twice and Ghiaurov once, and Rossi-Lemeni’s interpretation on an earlier RAI broadcast was released by Cetra. They are all of artistic stature. But Siepi’s went by unattended. He can be heard on the Met 1950 broadcast, which makes the quality of his singing clear enough. But the Turin transmission conveys far more. The bass, then 30, is in sovereign voice, the timbre sable and noble from the low F to the high, the pitch (which on occasion could drift) solid and centered, the genius for turning the tone soft and inward (the mezza-voce upper E-natural on “amor per me non ha” the first time round; the shaded aside at “Oh! strano sognator!” after Rodrigo’s “date la libertà!“), then dauntingly outward (a quite scarifying F at the Inquisitor’s exit)—all this with an unparalleled ease—all unfailingly present. The rest of the cast (besides Dominguez: Stella, Picchi, Mascherini, and Stefanoni) is not quite at this technical and expressive level, but those are all Italian voices of some importance, and the performance as a whole has great élan under Mario Rossi, “just” an Italian theatre conductor who knows how the piece goes.

The edition and original language. The opening act at Fontainebleau has been in the Met’s productions of this work for many years. It does not number among Verdi’s great acts. Its salient musical felicities, in Carlos’ aria and the long Carlos/Elisabeth scene and duet, belong to the category of the “very pretty,” not the “passionately thrilling.” That isn’t inappropriate, since they reflect a certain courtly restraint, an ordering of passion, that is inherent in the circumstances. If masterfully sung, they have charm, and can be effective, but not much more. The rest of the act is, if not quite boilerplate, of rather low musical interest. But it does introduce a couple of themes identified with Carlos and Elisabeth that will find good employment later, and its dramatic utility is undeniable. It stands in relation to the rest of the work much as the Prologue does to the body of Simon Boccanegra—that is, without it, we’ll never find our footing with the plot. It sets up the central personal conflicts, and ends with the elevation of a new ruler (or, in Elisabeth’s case, ruler’s consort) whose ascension is meant to resolve a bitter conflict. But the Boccanegra Prologue, besides being more compact, contains “Il lacerato spirito” and the first Fiesco/Boccanegra confrontation—sequences well beyond anything in the Carlos act—and the general atmosphere of urban street suspense is stronger and tauter than the situation is made to seem in Carlos, though the latter would seem to be of graver import.

Notwithstanding its relative weaknesses and the problem of sheer length, Act 1 belongs in the opera. This time around, Nézet-Séguin opted to omit the woodcutters’ chorus at the opening. There is nothing musically memorable in it. But it serves to establish a circumstance, and to start, as here, with the offstage huntsmen (much too faint, by the way, as were the the monks of the following scene), a little leftover campfire, and Elisabeth giving handouts to a few beggars before hastening off, is to begin with vestigial remnants, a stub. It’s a feeble opening. Of the remaining choices in edition, only one of great significance departed from recent practice. That was the extended ensemble after the death of Rodrigo and before the entrance of the Inquisitor. I would question its presence at this point in any case, but as performed here it just stopped action for little peckings and pokings that never gathered themselves into a statement. I would like to see the introduction to the Garden Scene restored, originally intended to lead into the ballet. It is again of minor musical fascination, but is quite brief, requires no scene change afterward (a fadeout and change of lighting would do it), and shows the exchange of veils between Eboli and Elisabeth, which lends at least explanation, if not credibility, to the fateful “Oops!” moment coming up.^(I)