During the 1780s a cellist in the orchestra of the Opéra, known only as Monsieur Hivart, served the Russian Count Nicholas Sheremetev as an operatic agent, sending scores, librettos, costume designs, stage designs and other materials related to opera in Paris, and advising the count on the production of French operas in Russia. Hivart was in contact with such composers as Grétry, Sacchini and Piccinni, and the stage machinist and ballet master of the Opéra, and from his place in the orchestra he could watch their work take shape on stage. This gives his letters to Sheremetev (published in Russian translation in 1944 but largely unknown in the West) significant value for historians of opera in eighteenth-century Paris. Especially extensive are Hivart’s reports on the first production of Salieri’s Les Danaïdes, which contain much information about the first production available nowhere else.

Harrison Birtwistle's musico-dramatic works all show a preoccupation with intricate formal design. Thus they fall firmly in the Modernist tradition, inherited on the one hand from the Second Viennese School (consider Webern's Piano Variations Op. 27 with its mirrors upon mirrors) and on the other from Stravinsky's later ballets (Birtwistle has acknowledged Agon as a major debt). But in works such as Punch and Judy, Yan Tan Tethera and The Mask of Orpheus, the self-conscious elevation of formal structure (sometimes to its extreme, ritual) distances us, even more than in neo-Classical Stravinsky, from any tendency to realism in the drama. In The Mask of Orpheus, Birtwistle's priorities are clear: he has said repeatedly that this opera is not about Orpheus; it is about writing a particular kind of work with a particular set of problems to solve. He could have just as easily chosen Faust for his libretto (and almost did). With Gawain, however, he seems to be moving in a new direction. Wagner's spirit (particularly as expressed in Parsifal) has entered the work; a new emphasis on drama in its naturalistic sense, and a new relationship between linear, narrative flow and closed forms has transported Gawain to new territory.

Expressions such as ‘author’, ‘work’, ‘text’ and ‘repertory’ are used constantly in writings about Italian opera; they stand for concepts that seem uncontroversial and unproblematic. However, these terms acquired the value we currently grant them only through a long process, one inextricably linked to the century-long formation of an Italian ‘operatic repertory’ between about 1750 and 1850. At the beginning of this period, a select number of literary texts received new musical clothing each time they were revived; by its end, the text of a successful opera could not be set to music again, because music and text were indissolubly linked in the audience's perception. There were exceptions, of course, and the process of change was gradual and differed according to genre: in the late eighteenth century some drammi giocosi had European careers that lasted as long as thirty years, much longer than the most successful drammi per musica. What is more, although we can speak of a ‘repertory’. with reference to the whole of Europe or to Italy, if we narrow the focusto a single city we may have to move into the nineteenth century to amass a body of works sufficiently large to merit the term. However, the fact that this process lasted for a century, far fromdiminishing its importance, is in one sense proof of its relevance. for an understanding of Italian opera that fully embraces its cultural, social and political context, ‘facts’ will indeed last as long as a century.

In much nineteenth-century European art ‘The Woman’ appears as an essentially symbolic figure saturated with ‘higher’ significance. Perhaps only in those literary forms that depend heavily on narrative does ‘she’ have any real chance of escaping a passive role. Otherwise, the female figure was used by male artists in an almost de-personalised manner that invariably emphasised abstract characteristics. At times The Woman is ‘elevated’ – so it would have appeared – to the highest symbolic level: to Liberty, Virtue, Humanity, Science, Art, Europa, etc. ‘She’ is, in aesthetic production, frequently a normative and seldom a narrative figure. Indeed her status as the former helps preclude her from active participation in the latter, so that even in narratives she often appears merely to observe the stories in which she is nominally involved. In artistic discourse, her best chance of liberation from an essentially symbolic identity and of breaking into the realm of active ‘life’ is to assume those qualities that lie most at odds with her conventional, morally uplifting status. The ‘bad’ woman – whore, temptress, manipulator of men – has a better chance than her ‘good’ Doppelgänger of playing a role rather than of merely assuming an ideological part.

This article clarifies the relationship between Verdi and Solera, shows why it broke down in 1846 and discusses Solera's idiosyncratic verses. It also rereads a widely misunderstood letter that Verdi sent to Solera, which contains not only Piave's emendations to the final act of Attila but also Solera's response to them, angrily scribbled over Piave's work.

Mozart's ability to craft music closely suited to his singers took a remarkable turn with the soprano Adriana Ferrarese del Bene. This singer's career, from sporadic prominence in serious opera to notoriety as a prima donna in Viennese opera buffa in the late 1780s, was capped by her association with Mozart and Da Ponte in Così fan tutte (1790). Certain reports notwithstanding, Ferrarese seems to have been far from a great artist; her successes were modest and she never before or after attained the artistic triumph she achieved in the Mozart–Da Ponte opera. Reviews and contemporary comments suggest that her comic and dramatic skills were uneven, her vocal equipment impressive but incomplete and her performances less than inspiring. Mozart's achievement was to transform a particular set of vocal skills and limitations into something of exceptional artistic value; Fiordiligi was fashioned out of the temperament, vocal style and dramatic abilities – and limitations – of his soprano.

Flanking the legend ‘Académie Nationale de Musique’ over the grand entrance to the Palais Garnier are the words ‘Chorégraphie’ on the left and ‘Poésie lyrique’ on the right, large enough to be legible from some distance. Ballet and opera were represented equally on the Académie's stage as well as on its façade: works of both kinds were created and performed in abundance there for much of the nineteenth century. Moreover, their interaction went beyond simply sharing the stage, and dated back to a time long before the Palais Garnier was built.

Francesca Cuzzoni and Faustina Bordoni, singers famous for their 1720s London rivalry, were not necessarily the warring protagonists history has made them out to be. While opera historians have long acknowledged the role audience factions played in creating the rivalry, the contribution made by the opera company itself has not been considered. Working from the premise that the Royal Academy shaped its operas around this important aspect of its stars' public personae, I focus on Handel's Admeto (1727) to examine both the way opera was structured to take account of the rivalry and the concomitant play with the singers' identities provided in the work. I argue that, in employing the miniature portrait and female disguise as its two central plot devices, and in the theatricality of its music, Admeto explores notions of authenticity and identity, female mutability, and anxiety and disavowal.

This article addresses the physical presence of Jules Massenet in the media during the Third Republic in France through the lens of the caricatural press and the cartoon parodies of his operas which appeared in journals such as Le Journal amusant and Le Charivari. Although individual works were rarely outright successes in critical terms during his lifetime, Massenet's operas always stimulated debate and Massenet, as a figure head for a national art, was revered by both the state and its people. Drawing on theories of parody and readership, I argue that despite the ‘ephemeral’ nature of these musical artefacts, they acted as agents of commemoration of the composer and of memorialisation and commodification of his works for both operagoers and those who rarely entered the opera theatre.

When Verdi's Don Carlo made its debut at La Scala in March 1868, it was hardly the latest operatic news; since its 1867 premiere at the Paris Opéra, it had been widely performed and written about. One aspect of the debates in the Milanese and the Italian press, however, deserves special attention: the depiction of the opera as a ‘monument’. Although the work's astonishing length (compared to that of most of Verdi's previous operas) and the composer's increasing prestige as a national figure might both have been reasons for this impression of monumentality, there were clearly others. The article explores some of these reasons in relation to post-Unification urban renewal, the increasing success of la musica dell'avvenire and the beginning of a slow rediscovery of ‘ancient’ musical works. It argues that Don Carlo was thought of as a monument primarily because it was perceived as standing between the past and the future, and as such was the epitome of contemporary attitudes towards these temporal categories.

The several contradictory, and even apologetic, explanations that were put forward concerning the origins of Mozart's Così fan tutte, ossia La scola degli amanti in the years following its première in 1790 reflect both the dearth of hard information concerning the commission to Mozart, and the unease with which the post-Josephinian era greeted this most unsettling of comic operas. One of the composer's first biographers, Franz Xaver Nêmetschek, wrote:

In the year 1789 in the month of December Mozart wrote the Italian comic opera Cosi fan tutte, or ‘The School for Lovers’; people are universally amazed that this great genius could condescend to waste his heavenly sweet melodies on such a miserable and clumsy text. It was not in his power to refuse the commission, and the text was given expressly to him.

This article analyses the complicated and conflicted critical response to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s The Phantom of the Opera within the political, economic and cultural context of the Thatcher/Reagan era. British critics writing for Conservative-leaning broadsheets and tabloids took nationalist pride in Lloyd Webber’s commercial success, while others on both sides of the Atlantic claimed that Phantom was tasteless and crassly commercial, a musical manifestation of a new Gilded Age. Broader issues regarding the relationship between the government and ‘elite’ culture also affected the critical response. For some, Phantom forged a path for a new kind of populist opera that could survive and thrive without government subsidy, while less sympathetic critics heard Phantom’s ‘puerile’ operatics as sophomoric jibes against an art form they esteemed.

This essay explores the roots of Ethel Smyth's opera The Wreckers (1903–04), composed to a libretto by H. B. Brewster, in fin-de-siècle debates on the legal and religious regulation of morality. Taking into account Smyth's jaundiced use of Cornish history, the contribution of Brewster's professed individual anarchism and sexual libertarianism, and Smyth's willingness to parody and manipulate musical conventions in order to reinforce radical ideals, it views the work both as a reflection of its authors' engagement with modernism and as a herald of Smyth's subsequent contribution to militant feminism.

‘Fu qualche cosa d’incredibile …': ‘it was something unbelievable, something new, unprecedented’. Thus wrote Marianna Barbieri-Nini, the singer who created the role of Verdi's Lady Macbeth, in reference to the famous Act I duet between Macbeth and Lady Macbeth. Indeed, this duet seems to have been one of the most effective pieces in the opera for nineteenth-century audiences. Verdi himself wrote about it as one of the ‘two principal numbers’ of the opera, together with the sleepwalking scene, upon which the opera's dramaturgy depended. The reception of this piece at the 1847 première was stupendous. Antonio Calvi cites it as one of the opera's three excellent pieces, in which ‘maestro Verdi has arrived at Shakespeare’s sublimity'. The duet's opening section (‘Fatal mia donna’), according to various press releases during the opera's first few runs, was regularly encored three, four, even five times an evening. Abramo Basevi waxed eloquent over the piece, calling it ‘the culminating number of the opera’, ‘a true flash of Verdian genius’. And by the time the revised version was premièred in Paris in 1865, this duet had become entrenched in the repertory in a way the entire opera had not: one reviewer noted that the Act I duet ‘has always been considered the best duet Verdi has ever written’.

From 1748 onwards, the marvellous made a comeback in opera seria via the Königliches Opernhaus in Berlin. The striking resurgence of myth and magic in the predominantly historical operatic genre appears to bespeak a growing interest in Lullian tragédie en musique, which in turn can be associated with Frederick II's French orientation in literary and philosophical matters. But how did deities, sorcerers and Louis quatorzien imports chime with Frederick's notorious resistance to superstition and divinely ordained kingship? The juxtaposition of the relevant operas with theoretical writings from Friderician Prussia yields a multi-faceted, somewhat paradoxical answer, revealing that the marvellous, alongside nourishing a new type of operatic spectacle, served Frederick as a vehicle to impart his philosophical agenda to his state, a former centre of Pietism.

I am happy to strive to add an appoggiatura – if my comments might be considered a minor bridge towards a deferred conclusion – to the very stimulating set of articles by Michelle Duncan, David Levin and Fred Moten that appear in this issue. It struck me that these three articles can be read as imbroglio in that they offer contest, or dissonant engagement, more than seamless convergence. Indeed, by underscoring the complexities that haunt our habits of reception in ‘artistic’ practice, these essays further the passion and urgency in listening closely to less audible aspects in any cultural production including opera.

When Jules Massenet began work on Hérodiade in the late 1870s, he likely expected to see his work premiered at the Paris Opéra. But the coveted Parisian premiere was not to be. Based on a liberal reworking of the infamous tale of Herod, Salome and John the Baptist, Hérodiade undoubtedly challenges traditional Catholic doctrine. Yet Massenet's opera was not as ‘secular’ as it may seem. I argue here that it draws instead on a Republican-friendly brand of Catholicism that encouraged individual religiosity as an anticlerical strategy. Herein, I argue, lay the reasons why Hérodiade was outlawed. It was not so much the libretto's liberal transformations of biblical characters as what those transformations represented both to the Catholic Church and to the French state: in the end the representation of a simultaneously Republican and Catholic Christ presented a dangerous analogue to the country's strained political situation.

Music is frequently overlooked by scholars of adaptation, who concentrate primarily on questions of literary and visual transformation. Undertaking a close reading of a pivotal scene in Joe Wright’s Atonement, this article demonstrates the vital contribution music can make to the adaptation process. Wright uses music, and Puccini’s in particular, in ways that are both narrative and reflexive, creating shifts of emphasis, deliberate ambiguities and intertextual allusions. Opera becomes a tool that allows the film-maker to interrogate notions of authorial and historical reliability, themes that lie at the heart of Ian McEwan’s highly self-aware novel.

At midnight on 31 December 1913 the low string melody of Parsifal's opening rose upwards in the Teatre Liceu, Barcelona. That year-turn marked the end of the copyright period within which performances of Parsifal outside Bayreuth were prohibited, and made Barcelona the first city in the convention-governed world to stage Parsifal legally. Of course, the timing was a marketing ploy, but for many it was also a gesture of outreach, of stretching beyond the mountainous boundary of the Iberian peninsula and of hoping to become a credible cultural and political power in northern Europe. Alas for Barcelona, Europe didn't notice.