ITALY AND THE ARTS
By HOWARD CLEWES
Rome.
received the ovation of his life. The Roman police, artfully and numerously disposed to prevent disturbance, joined in the pande- monium with enthusiasm and evident relief. At the end of the opera, Tosca, the artist answered fourteen curtain calls. The applause echoed from end to end of liberated Italy, and was significant of more than Gigli's personal popularity, immense though this is. It marks yet another aspect of one of the most singular phenomena of this unhappy country today—the great revival of artistic activity and public interest in the arts. Far from floundering, as they might have, in the flow of political and economic chaos which has followed the ebb of Fascism, the art and artists, more especially of Rome, are sailing ahead with a sureness and spirit that command respect.
The people, for their part, have readily forgiven old favourites their
entertainment of German audiences ; Gigli is a case in point ; Attilia Radice, previously ballerina of the Scala, Milan, is another ; they are warmly welcomed by the audiences that fill the Opera House night after night. New work by young composers and writers of all nationalities is given a fairer and more frequent showing here, where the risk is great and financial resources small, than ever such work was allowed in London. And much of this work is excellent. Production expenses at the Opera House are high, of course, and the programmes are therefore more conservative than those of the Academia Santa Cecilia, for instance. In the standard week of the now indefinitely extended season of opera there are five evenings of opera, one of ballet, and one, a kind of variety night, on which you might hear, for example, Stravinsky's Rite of Spring, conducted by Vincenzo Bellezza, well known in London ; Les Sylphides, danced by Attilia Radice ; and a new one-act opera written by a member of the orchestra and sung by the prima donna Maria Caniglia, a soprano of exceptional power and purity. Some of the company occasionally look a little hungry, as do many in this city, but art has always thrived on empty bellies.
It is at the Teatro Adriano across the Tiber, however, that one
may see musical enterprise at its best. There are at least two concerts a week, and sometimes four or five, arranged by the Academia Santa Cecilia, played and conducted by musicians whose reputations vary from world fame to no more than a promise. Willy Ferrero, undramatic and always superbly in control, draws large audiences ; Mainardi, the 'cellist, is extending his reputation as a player of modern music ; and Franco Manino, something of an enfant prodige at nineteen, is a pianist whose astonishing technical skill should bring him to London, and further, after the war. While De Sabata and Bemadino Molinari are inactive, however, the out- standing figure of the Academia is Franco Ferrara, a swarthy dynamic young man, and a conductor of tremendous emotional range. He is already spoken of as successor to Toscanini, and I believe that, pro- viding he can overcome his present solitary failing, he will indeed achieve pre-eminence. At present his physical weakness is disastrous. On the crest of a movement that he himself is leading with spectacular aplomb, he will seem suddenly to hesitate, go limp, and topple slowly and gracefully into the 'cellos. The unhappy orchestra trails to a standstill, the audience rises with a gasp of mingled horror and delight, and the young man is carried off, quite unconscious. When he has recovered he resumes, but seated. Again
transported by the emotional surge of the symphony, he rises, wavers, and the performance is repeated. It is extremely embarrassing, and
happens now with such monotonous regularity that audiences are becoming afraid of him, or bored by it. He has visited every specialist in Italy, he told me recently, but none can offer a cure, or even diagnose the trouble, so far. The fact remains that if Ferrara is to fulfil his great promise, these dramatic defaillances must cease.
The Roman theatre is similarly lively, though on nothing like so prosperous a scale. More Allied soldiers like music, it must be remembered, than speak Italian, and so long as there is a large, if transient, military element in the city, musicians will eat. The theatre, on the other hand, can cater only for civilians and those few soldiers and airmen who understand the language. But liberty of choice in the production of drama is a luxury the theatre has awaited for a long time and it is not slow to start ; the public response,
considering the high price of both seats and food, is magnificent. Modern plays are running now at the Eliseo, Quirino and Delle Arte theatres, and the Argentino is likely to become available in the near future. Luchino Visconti's production of Cocteau's Parents Terribles has just completed a successful run at the Eliseo, and was followed immediately by Bernstein's Hope. The Moon is Down enjoyed a long run at the Quirino, where it was to be followed by Hemingway's Fifth Column—a classic example of " Don'ts " for young dramatists, and produced here only in response to numerous requests ; if the production and acting is as brilliant as it was of Cocteau's turgid piece, Hemingway will be fortunate indeed.
The reason for the emphasis on English, American and French drama is that there are few, if any, modern Italian writers of note. During twenty years of Fascism the Italian intellectual either dared not express himself in print at all, and so eventually abandoned all such endeavour in order to live, or wrote what he was told to write. The result is that there are now no outstanding Italian writers, and few whose work is even worthy of print or production, as yet. So the public is turning elsewhere for much of its entertainment. It should be remembered also that access to foreign thought, literature and drama has been denied them, except in very diluted form, for many years, and for six years completely. Much that is good has been said and written in that time, and the average Italian is pathetic- ally anxious to " catch up."
It is in the negotiation of dramatic and literary rights that the first of the material difficulties is encountered. The exchange is not yet stabilised, and money may not be taken out of the country. The Psychological Warfare Branch of A.F.H.Q. is arranging for the translation and publication of a few recent British and American books of a political and sociological nature, but the demand is far greater than is likely to be satisfied by this effort. Roman publishers are hoping to obtain the right to deal directly with publishers in London and New York. The second difficulty is one with which London publishers are already familiar: the acute shortage of paper. Paper can be bought on the black market in small quantities, but the price is astronomical and the selling price to a hungry public is almost prohibitive. Distribution adds considerably to expenses ; a book published at too lira in Rome costs 125 lira in Bari, Florence and Naples. That books are being published, and sold in large numbers, is a tribute to publisher and reader alike. Incidentally, for publishers unable to print for lack of paper, the number of news- papers on sale in Rome every morning is a bitter pill, for there are more than twenty, representing every conceivable nuance of political opinion.
Until the extent to which Milan dominated the artistic life of Italy before the war is realised, the spirit of urgency which charac- terises the activities of Roman musical, literary and dramatic circles is somewhat mystifying. Previously such matters were controlled by the city of Milan, which has always considered them her inalienable right. Mondadori and Einaudi published Maugham, Steinbeck, Hemingway, Huxley and most of the Italian authors ; Ricordi was the world's largest publisher of music. But they and many others are in Milan, and that city has only just been freed. The concert halls, theatres and publishers of Rome, notably Bussola, De Carlo, and Tuminelli, are preparing, if not to outbid Milan, then at least to offer a little spirited competition. Which will triumph none can tell. But more power to both their elbows.
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