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“Monteverdi’s Masterpiece?”
Richard Forbes
Michael Grace and Owen Cramer
11/14/2011
This paper was written from the perspective of a musical critic who attended the first
performance of Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo, in 1607. I attempted to write to the people of that time,
educating them on the newly created art form of opera. This paper was preceded by a research
prompt, in which we examined a topic related to the opera. I was most interested in Monteverdi’s
opinion of his own opera, and I found a great deal of sources to this effect, from the theorizing of
learned musicologists to letters from Monteverdi to various contemporaries. I chose to conduct a
mock interview with Monteverdi in the middle of my critique to serve as a vehicle for Monteverdi’s
own opinions. I followed the interview up with a personal critique, again couched in the mindset of
an early 17th century music critic.
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Monteverdi’s Masterpiece?
With your host, Renny Cult
Though I am but a humble journalist, I was recently privileged to be invited to the Ducal
Palace. His Grace had employed the services of Claudio Monteverdi to write and compose an
opera, and I was honored to be invited to the first performance. You are all surely familiar with
Monteverdi’s five books of madrigals. He is a daring composer, full of dissonance and innovation,
and seems like the ideal man to attempt to codify the idea of an opera. In case you may not be
familiar with opera, I will attempt to give you a short history up to this point.
Do not be discouraged by the word “opera”, for while it may mean “work”, I assure you
that it is only work for the performers. Opera is far simpler than the complex polyphonies of the
past. In fact, this simplicity is what prompted its birth. A number of artists and intellectuals in
Florence formed a group concentrating on recovering the purity of ancient Greek music. This
group called itself the Camerata. The Camerata believed that the ancient Greeks mixed song and
speech together, and in pursuit of this idea, it created a new style. It is called stile recitativo, and
mimics the rhythms of speech. The Camerata also felt that the intense complexities of polyphony
muddied the meaning of the words. Thus its new style incorporated only one singer at a time.
These revolutionary ideas led to the birth of monody– a solo singer accompanied by instruments.
Monody led directly to opera. The Duke may be suggesting that Monteverdi’s opera is the first of
its kind, but I must attribute that distinction to Jacopo Peri. Nine years ago, Peri wrote the first
opera. It was called Dafne, and while I am not familiar with it, I do know Peri’s Eurydice, an opera
performed in 1600. As Monteverdi’s opera is named L’Orfeo, it will be interesting to contrast the
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differing interpretations of the well-known and well-worn tale of Orpheus.
Now that you have a better idea of the historical background of the opera, I will delve into
the performance, beginning with the basics. The first performance was attended by those
responsible for its production– the Accademia degli Invaghiti. The nobles in this lofty society have
devoted themselves to the furthering of art, and I was honored by my inclusion into their number.
The opera was performed in the Hall of Mirrors, a beautiful venue in the Ducal Palace. Two stage
sets formed the scenery of the opera– one portraying the fields of Thrace, and the other the
entrance to Hell. The sets were quite elaborate, and were changed in front of the audience. The
opera lasted around two hours.
After the performance, I joined the throng of admirers who swarmed the great composer,
Monteverdi. Fortunately, he remembered me from a previous engagement, and I was able to
arrange for an interview. The following dialogue is a transcript of our conversation.
Renny: Congratulations on such a successful opening night!
Monteverdi: Thank you, I hope you enjoyed the performance.
R: Very much. Where did you get the idea to produce an opera?
M: Well, I saw a performance of Peri’s Eurydice around 7 years ago, and it inspired me. I’ve
always been interested in recent innovations in music. If you’ve read the introduction to my fifth
book of madrigals, I coined two terms for musical practice- prima prattica, and seconda prattica. Prima
prattica refers to the polyphony of the last century, and is quite regulated. I feel that music has begun
to grow away from these constraints, and seconda prattica reflects this belief. There is nothing wrong
with dissonance.
R: It’s interesting that you bring up dissonance. I’m familiar with the difficulties you’ve had
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regarding your seconda prattica. What place do you think dissonance has in music?
M: Let’s not mince words. Giovanni Artusi accused me of not knowing what I was doing.
My dissonances are intentional, and I do not have the time to fully articulate my beliefs. I am a
busy man. My brother and I were able to define my seconda prattica recently, but I will hopefully get a
chance to embellish upon this in a book to be written in the future. My understanding of music is
that the harmony is governed by the words, and that there is a totality to the music which must be
respected. However, I have nothing against prima prattica, and appreciate it. I am not attempting to
polarize this issue and make it a battle between old and new, I just want my dissonances to be
appreciated.
R: Judging by the audience’s reaction to your performance, it seems you are indeed
appreciated.
M: Well, I suppose time will tell.
R: Let’s move on. This is a broad question, but how did you see Orpheus as a character,
and how did you attempt to portray him?
M: Hmmm. That is a broad question. I suppose I saw a bit of myself in him– a composer
who is able to successfully write in a large breadth of different genres of music throughout his story–
I hope I don’t sound arrogant–
R: You’re a widely respected madrigalist and you have revealed your range in this opera. Of
course you don’t sound arrogant. Please continue.
M: Thank you. I also appreciate the premise of the story. It’s a story we all grew up with,
and I was intrigued by Peri’s conception of the story. The entire plot is centered on the power of
music, and accordingly, it is perfect for the blossoming spectacle of opera. Peri seemed to limit the
music, and to force it into boundaries that I don’t think exist. I don’t mean to belittle Peri’s
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accomplishments– he is responsible for the opera’s existence– but I felt that I could take the story
further. I wanted to mix prima prattica and seconda prattica. Thus you can hear solo singing
accompanied by instruments while still paying homage to madrigals and polyphony. I enjoy
madrigalism. It’s a interesting exercise for the composer, to link the words and the meanings. It’s
clearly present in my opera. Agitation is reflected in the music by speeding up the rhythm and
raising the tones, and I use dissonance to show the anguish that is so prevalent in the story. I hope
you felt that.
R: I enjoyed it very much. It added a dimension to your work that I do not think was
present in other interpretations of opera. Now–
M: One thing before we move on. Peri’s Eurydice was a magnificent production, but it was
seriously marred by its simplification of the classical story. Rinuccini, his librettist, rewrote the end
of Orpheus’ story. Orpheus successfully returns to the mortal world with Eurydice, and they live
happily ever after. This was the most concrete reason why I felt the story needed to be retold.
Reinterpreting the story in this fashion weakens its morals. We watch as Orpheus begs for his
lover, confronting death himself in the form of Pluto. He is granted the unthinkable, and Eurydice
is returned to him, on the condition that he cannot look at her until they are back in the mortal
world. Orpheus agrees, but cannot help himself. Love compels him to look at her; love overpowers
logic. We watch in horror as Orpheus’ humanity destroys him. We all reproach him in our minds
while wondering whether we would have had the strength that he had not. It is a beautiful
examination into the nature of humanity. I made sure that my opera incorporated this essential
aspect of the story.
R: It’s interesting to hear how strongly you connect to the story. However, you don’t have
much control over how the story unfolds. Your librettist, Striggio, wrote the libretto. How did that
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work out? You feel so strongly that the words and the music ought to be connected. Did you enjoy
working with Striggio, and did he give you the libretto you were looking for?
M: That’s a very interesting question. I will word this as politely as I can. Striggio did a very
good job capturing the storyline, and I enjoyed working with him. However, I feel his ability to
capture complexities is lacking. The libretto reflects Orpheus in a lackluster light, and my music
was forced to ennoble the poetry. In certain crucial sections, Striggio did not portray the emotions I
needed, so I revised the verses. For example, I felt that Striggio’s meter was too formal in the
climax of the opera. Orpheus is in the process of conquering the underworld with his music, and I
restructured the verse to reflect the importance of the moment.
R: Did you have any conflict over the ending? I felt the conclusion was rather disconcerting.
M: That was another point of contention, yes. Striggio is fixed on Poliziano’s interpretation
of the story, in which Orpheus is killed and dismembered by the Bacchantes. It’s a gruesome scene.
R: Isn’t Poliziano’s version just an imitation of the original Ovid?
M: Yes, yes, of course. But I don’t like it. It feels too sloppy, too crude. What lesson are we
to learn from a man who fails and turns to sodomy?
R: That’s why I was so confused by the ending of your performance. Orpheus comes out
of the underworld and decides never to fall in love with a woman again. Suddenly, a crowd of
drunken women come out of nowhere, full of fury at Orpheus’ decision, and resolve to kill him.
Orpheus runs away, and they console themselves with the idea that the gods will take action against
him later. Then they sing of Bacchus until the end of Act 5. It is not explicitly stated that they are
going to kill Orpheus, but I understood that to be their next action.
M: That entire scene was a mistake. Striggio and I have discussed this section a great deal.
He favors the ending which was performed. I cannot fathom it. I had intended an entirely
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different ending, though not one as bold as Rinuccini’s. Just a minor change, but I feel quite
strongly that operas should end on a positive note. In my conception, as Orpheus swears off
women, Apollo descends from heaven, and consoles him. Orpheus asks Apollo’s bidding, and
Apollo invites him up into heaven. Orpheus despairs at the thought of never seeing Eurydice again,
but Apollo assures him that he will see her in the stars. Orpheus consents and the two rise into the
heavens.
R: What a remarkable ending! I like it far better than the brutality portrayed in the
performance. What happened?
M: Striggio wore me down. He pointed out (rightfully so) that the Hall of Mirrors would
not be big enough for the devices required to carry Apollo and Orpheus into heaven.
Unfortunately, he was right, and I acquiesced to his interpretation. However, after much
contemplation, I have decided I was too weak. It must be changed, regardless of the theatrical
mechanisms. The current ending is bloody and meaningless. Orpheus triumphs over death, and his
humanity forces him to look back at Eurydice. He fails in his goal of rescuing Eurydice, but we
must appreciate his conquest. His music sways the powers of death. If he dies without praise, it
means nothing. He must be exalted, and I believe that Apollo is the correct vehicle for this praise
and elevation. I will consult with Striggio over the coming days, and I hope you’ll get a chance to
see another performance. I promise that the ending will be more satisfying.
R: It’s a shame that such a conclusion was disrupted by the performance space. I look
forward to seeing the alternative ending! Thank you for giving me so much of your time. I have
just one more question. What are your plans for the future? You’ve redefined the opera, what next?
M: There will always be more madrigals to write -- laughs-- and I plan to continue to
compose operas. I’ve been corresponding with the librettist Rinuccini, and I hope that he and I can
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work together in the near future. Right now, I’m interested in the story of Ariana and Theseus. It
has a lot of potential, and I think I could create something great with the right librettist. Coming out
of such a huge production, I’m happy with the performance, but there are some changes I’d like to
make. It might seem like I’m overemphasizing this, but I think the words and music could be even
more intertwined. Things look very bright in the immediate future. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to
say this, but I’ve spoken to the Duke, and he has ordered follow-up performances. It looks like my
opera may be performed for a bit longer!
R: Again, congratulations on your success and thank you for your time. We’re all looking
forward to your future endeavors.
I hope my readers enjoyed my conversation with Monteverdi. He was a gracious host and
very open with his opinions on music and opera. I have attempted to present the facts of the
performance adequately, as well as examining Monteverdi’s intentions. I hope to offer my own
opinions over the following few pages, for I feel that such a momentous creation must not pass
without critique. While opera is a modern phenomenon, its roots were established by regressive
ideals, which have no place in our rapidly progressing world.
I respect Monteverdi’s commitment to his craft, and his genius in creating such a complex
work, but I do not agree with the ideas that gave birth to opera as a genre. From the birth of
plainchant until now, music has represented man’s awareness of himself. Musical prodigies over the
ages have struggled against convention in the pursuit of novelty. Throughout time, men have
attempted to force music into rigid boundaries. In the fifth century, Boethius created a musical
hierarchy with musicians at the bottom, and musical judges at the top. The musicians were trivial; it
mattered only that their works reflect something of the divine nature of the universe or humanity.
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Composers were limited to the intervals of fourths, fifths and octaves. All consonance was to be
perfect, and unimaginative. Plainchant conforms to these strict rules, and while it is a worthy art
form for the time period, it lacks much. Monophony is a limited tool.
Leonin’s invention of polyphony in the 12th century was an enormous musical step. The
music of the past can be marked in such steps, from the creation of polyphony, to the invention of
secular music by troubadours. Music was not only for church, and troubadours sang of all sorts of
subjects– unrequited love being the most prevalent. Another step was the writing of the Ars Nova.
Suddenly, rhythm was freed, and composers like Machaut revelled in the freedom afforded them.
Hocketing may be abrupt and unsettling, but taken in context it was a cry of freedom. Tinctoris
marks another step off in the upward climb. He writes of sweetness in music, of imperfect
consonances, and thirds. Josquin comes still later, in the late 15th century, and creates new sorts of
polyphony- imitative and homophonic. He even paraphrases the ancient plainchants.
The Catholic Church has regulated these monumental advances as best it can, but it cannot
keep them from happening entirely. In the late 15th century, the Church does clamp down hard.
The Counter-Reformation forces a musical retreat to earlier ideals. Yet even as Palestrina conforms
to these stringent rules, one cannot hear regression. He uses larger numbers of parts and creates
enormous soundscapes of music. Finally, madrigals come into being, taking words and painting
with them. The development of music up until this point has been one of constant ascension. Until
now.
I do not agree with the Camerata’s intent to return to ancient Greek music. Music is not
stagnant; it needs no rejuvenation. Madrigals are developing just as all music has before this. Why
must we interrupt musical growth with the massive regression involved in attempting to recreate
ancient ideals? Unfortunately the idea of opera has developed directly from this fallacy. I do not
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favor opera for this reason. It feels as if it is a desperate attempt to cling to the past, when the
present and the future look beautifully inviting. The Spanish have discovered a new world to the
west, and riches are pouring from it. The world is expanding, not shrinking, and music ought to
behave accordingly.
My dislike of opera is not only historical. From a purely aesthetic standpoint, I find operatic
dramatics over-emphasized. I wish to watch subtlety, not cavorting figures grinning or weeping in a
parody of humanity. The production is too gaudy, and the spectacle overpowers the musical
intricacy. While the music of Josquin and Palestrina may have been too complex for the Camerata, I
find opera overwhelms my senses. There is too much going on, and I am bewildered.
Despite these visual reservations, opera is, in my mind, primarily a musical spectacle. As
such, Monteverdi's methods are successful, and I approve of his musical style far more than I do
those of his contemporaries. While others attempt to distance themselves from the aural
accomplishments of the past, Monteverdi embraces them, and appreciates their contributions to the
current state of music. This is the way music ought to proceed, in context of the past while seeking
novelty.
I do approve of opera’s resurgence of the old tales. While this may seem contradictory,
music and literature have undergone entirely different patterns of growth. While music has
progressed in the aforementioned stepwise motion, literature has not been so tightly restrained.
Stories are an integral part of human history, and have always been used to tell tales of the people,
while music has been making definite upward progress through the past millennium. These ancient
Greek myths– of Daphne and Apollo, Orpheus and Eurydice, Arianna and Theseus– contain
something essential about humanity, and modern retelling of these stories must yield positive results.
Opera is a newly created medium. You may be tempted to attribute my dislike to the
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unwillingness of an old man to appreciate such an upheaval. Yet despite my motives, opera is in its
youth, and it needs time to solidify into a genre of its own. My initial reaction is bewilderment: both
by the dismissal of modernity and the sheer complexity of the performance. Monteverdi's creation
is an impressive example of a fledgling musical form, filled with passion and references to past
musical triumphs and I hope that L'Orfeo becomes an archetype for future operas.
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This paper was written in the style of an essay. Due to the nature of the assignment, there
are no citations. Much of the information contained by the introduction and the interview was
gleaned from a variety of sources, and here I provide a bibliography. My personal critique is formed
from the material covered in class, and needs no reference.
Works Cited
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"Claudio Monteverdi." Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. 23 Oct. 2011. Web. 23 Oct. 2011.
<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claudio_Monteverdi>.
Fenlon, Iain. "Monteverdi's Mantuan "Orfeo": Some New Documentation." Early Music 12.2 (1984):
163-72. JSTOR. Web. 23 Oct. 2011. <http://0www.jstor.org.tiger.coloradocollege.edu/stable/3137731?seq=2&Search=yes&searchText
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Orfeo_as_artistic_creed>.
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Kelly, Thomas F. "Chapter 1." First Nights: Five Musical Premieres. New Haven: Yale UP, 2000. The
New York Times on the Web. Web. 23 Oct. 2011.
<http://www.nytimes.com/books/first/k/kelly-first.html>.
"L'Orfeo." Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. 13 Oct. 2011. Web. 19 Oct. 2011.
<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L'Orfeo>.
Tomlinson, Gary. "Madrigal, Monody, and Monteverdi's "Via Naturale Alla Immitatione"" Journal of
the American Musicological Society 34.1 (1981): 60-108. JSTOR. Web. 19 Oct. 2011.
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Whenham, John. Claudio Monteverdi, Orfeo. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1986. Print.