A Century of Maria Callas

Maria Callas was warmly applauded at the Théatre des Champs Elysées in Paris on Dec. 7, 1973. AFP via Getty Images

On the 100th-year anniversary of Maria Callas’s birth, readers might be surprised to learn that the opera singer was soundly and roundly booed during her first six performances at New York’s Metropolitan Opera House. She also confessed in interviews that she did not like the sound of her own voice. Others call her “the voice of the century,” or “La Divina.” Yet, perhaps, no artist in operatic history was so controversial.

If we turn to artists of the previous generation, however, we find virtually unanimous agreement: Dramatic soprano Gina Cigna said, “She had great presence, but goodness, she sang with three voices!” Soprano Augusta Oltrabella said, “Why, oh why did she not stick to the coloratura repertoire? In that she was truly sensational, but the rest of the voice was simply manufactured.” Lyric soprano Mafalda Favero: “She was theatrical to a degree, but never touching.” Mezzo-soprano Giulietta Simionato: “I always found her interpretations immensely dramatic but never moving.”

Maria Callas performing on May 23, 1964 in Vincenzo Bellini's "Norma" in Paris. AFP via Getty Images

Callas’s Beginnings

Maria Kalogeropoulos, known to us as Maria Callas, born in New York on Dec. 2, 1923, had a great love for music, a formidable intellect, superlative musicianship, and immense dramatic powers. Her voice, although not the most beautiful, was deeply expressive.  

Virtually every recorded note she sang is readily available on the internet. In honor of this anniversary, Warner Classics/Erato has compiled “La Divina,”  a set of 131 CDs, three Blu-Ray DVDs and a DVD video. It proves to be a sad document tracing the steady, ineluctable decline of a musician who achieved heights at an early age, but by 41, despite her dramatic genius, technical knowledge, and innate musicality, found herself with an exhausted, broken voice that could no longer do her bidding.

Maria Callas arrived at the Gare de Lyon in Paris on Dec. 16, 1958. holding a bouquet offered by an admirer, is preparing to be the star of the sumptuous gala of the Paris Opera. AFP via Getty Images

Studio recordings reveal that for perhaps five years the young Callas had vocal cords of iron. Her first solo disc, which offered both lyric and dramatic arias (1949) was a stunning success. Her dramatic instinct, deft sense of style, and flawless technique were beyond reproach. The pitch was steady, and the tone spun luminously.

Over the next seven years an astonishing number of studio recordings appeared, and although roles like Aida (1951) and Tosca (1953) require more sheer beauty and breadth of voice, the “bel canto” pieces “I Puritani” and “Lucia di Lammermoor,” both in 1953, and Verdi’s “La Traviata” (1952), are superlative achievements.

A Sad Decline

However, when one sings too high and too loud too often, or just simply, too often, even iron vocal cords lose their resilience. The pitch begins to waver: An uncontrollable fluctuation between the intended note and the note just below sets in; huskiness appears as beauty disappears; and finally, an inability to sing rapid notes with accuracy.

Callas as Giulia in the Opera "La Vestale," by Gaspare Spontini, 1954. Teatro alla Scale/CC0

The decline was swift. In “La Forza del Destino” (1954), “La Boheme” (1956), and “Norma” (1964), one hears progressive vocal deterioration. The pitch begins to oscillate; the louder passages, pushed past their natural capacity lose their initial beauty; and the voice divides itself into three separate voices, known as registers, having no organic connection with each other.

When Maria Callas stood before an audience, she chose the sensational over the artistic. For example, her reckless E flat above high C, in “Aida,” often ending in disaster, clashed with Verdi’s orchestral harmonies and took a toll on her vocal health, but audiences went wild over such an athletic feat. The celebrated “Lisbon Traviata” (1958), already reveals a damaged voice oscillating uncontrollably, but greeted by a storm of applause and “bravos” from an enchanted audience.

The True Tragedy

It is an unprecedented phenomenon in operatic history that as Maria Callas began her vocal decline, public adulation exponentially increased. She is, perhaps, the first classical performer to become a kind of pop icon, adored for her celebrity, elegant clothes, and beau monde lifestyle more than for her artistry. The noise of sensation gradually deafened listeners to the quality of the music she was making, and Callas herself was one of the few that seemed to notice.

The closeness of a television camera reveals aspects of personality unseen in a large theater. The grand gesture cannot disguise the subtle facial expressions that betray Callas’s fear, or discontent with herself, or the radical change in personality seen in the cold glances given to the conductor belying the humble sweetness she shows the viewers.

Photo of Maria Callas from the television talk show "Small World." The program was hosted by Edward R. Murrow. CBS Television. Public Domain

One cannot help but feel compassion for the 39-year-old artist in Hamburg (1962), or the 51-year-old in Tokyo, who retains only a ghost of a voice, and whose face expresses despair at not being able to reach the artistic heights she so desperately desired. How must she have felt upon hearing ovations from the crowd, while she knew how utterly she had failed.

Callas during her final tour in Amsterdam in 1973. FredTC/CC BY-SA 3.0

The singing of Maria Callas was not divine; it had too many flaws. Her acting was formidable, its power astonishing, but opera is about singing—“bel canto,” the beauty of the human voice and what it can express. For an audience to tolerate and even cheer technical failure and breeches of good taste, to disregard the standards of centuries’ old tradition, is a terrible indictment against a public, perhaps a society, who can be persuaded to cheer almost anything.

It is also an indictment against the artist, Maria Callas, who chose wealth and fame over art, and found that art, in its turn, abandoned her.

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