The entrance round of applause is one
degree of excess; the entrance round of whooping and whistling is
ridiculous. You would think it were Maria Callas herself walking onto
the stage, not Tyne Daly playing her. Although Terrence McNally was
conscious of entrance-round culture when he wrote
Master Class in 1995, as he gives
Callas a motif of “no applause” instructions to the audience. We, in
turn, play the audience at an open class such as she gave at the
Juilliard School in 1970-71. A number of student “victims” sing arias;
Callas critiques their performances, or more usually just them, and
embarks on some spoken arias of recollection herself.
The other half of the old
Cagney
& Lacey television team, Sharon Gless, has just finished a
West End run in
A Round Heeled Woman,
playing a warm and transgressive figure; Daly, in contrast takes a role
that is cold and transcendent. She wears the marble Callas face well,
despite being some 18 years older than Callas at the time of the
action, and conveys the brisk assurance and mercilessness of the
character whilst also hinting at the tiny germ of insecurity lurking
deep within. That this does not come further to light is due largely to
the nature of the task which McNally set himself: to show both “La
Divina” and a human being. This simply cannot be done with a true diva,
and there has been none truer than Callas. McNally admits defeat on one
front when, having more or less got away with having Callas sing not a
single note (by dint of using recordings and, more dubiously,
recitation of libretti), he gives her a couple of bars in the second
act.
Stephen Wadsworth, the director of this transfer from Broadway, gives
the soliloquies a contradictory (and over-the-top) staging, by bringing
in set to “dissolve” the action from the Juilliard to a La Scala of
memory; flying in the most operatic architectural façade in the world
is hardly logical when one wants to penetrate the most operatic
personality façade. The evening begins with an even clumsier bit of
tech: the accompanist takes his position with the house lights on, they
are extinguished for Callas’s entrance (applause, whoops, whistles)…
then they have to be surreptitiously brought up again solely so that
she can order them back down. Callas is certainly a compelling figure,
and this study works rather better than that of her sometime lover
Aristotle Onassis in these parts some 18 months ago, but in the event
any diminution towards merely human
stature is dramatically crippling.
Written for the Financial
Times.