Two weeks between posts—I have not fallen off the face of the earth! Rehearsals for Romeo and Juliet have started, I have painters at my house, and I have also started a new consulting gig. I do this blog for fun, but I have to earn a living, too, so I have been preoccupied.

One thing that I did this week was to appear on a panel session at Tech Now, a technology conference for non-profits sponsored by the Bayer Center at Robert Morris University. Because of my work with the Opera Blog, Laura Willumsen (Director of Marketing and Public Relations) thought that I'd be a good advocate and thus I was on the panel with some visionaries in the non-profit world. We discussed blogging, wikis, podcasting, web pages, data infrastructures, filtering, and legal issues (albeit touching only briefly on all of them).

So, some fun statistics for you! According to the latest quarterly installment of David Sifry's "State of the Blogosphere," there are between one and two new blogs created every second (that's between 75,000 and 175,000 blogs every day, depending on whether you count splogs or not). Some of these blogs contain useful information, deep fascinating subjects, and good writing. Some don't. The blogosphere is doubling in size roughly every 200 days, and there are about 1.6 million postings per day (or about 18.6 posts per second). And as Steve Martin once said: "Some people have a way with words, and some not have way".

How can one blog achieve notice in this maelstrom of information? One way is to get listed in another popular blog! I read about a dozen blogs every day without fail, because the blogs I read are the source of my news (you can see some of them listed in the references page that I provided at the Tech Now conference). As an example, my thermd environmental monitoring project was mentioned in Hack A Day, and the number of visitors to my site quintupled for a few days. Viral marketing really works!

Now, I like to think that (extrapolating from the July report) amongst the 75,000,000 blogs that are out there, Opera Blog is one of the better written ones. But I know that compared to Slashdot or BoingBoing, it is not one of the more widely read. If you've never heard of these blogs (or the others in my references page), here's the word-of-mouth you need! If you don't know about some of the oddments I talk about in the various operas I blog on, well, that's word-of-mouth too—or is it text-of-fingers?

Regardless, if you think someone might be interested in my musings, whether they are a fan of opera or not, pass on the URL to them. You never know what you might discover in return...

What is the real story behind Pagliacci? It is easy to answer that—a wife cuckolds her husband, and in a jealous rage the husband murders his wife and adulterous lover. But is it really that simple? Looks can be deceiving...

I asked Garnett Bruce (the stage director for this production) how he came up with the staging for the chorus scenes. There are over 55 people on stage sometimes (I counted!), and coordinating them can be a daunting task. He said that he is inspired by the great painters—Titian, for example—and that when he looks at their paintings, there is the "obvious" scene, but along with the forced perspective there is always something going on in the corners, something that attracts your eye and gives the static image life. And when you watch Pagliacci, you see that Garnett is true to his word. The stage is filled, yet in addition to the center stage action, there is always something going on in the periphery. The women who pull theirs shawls over their heads just before they enter the church, the pairs of men who traverse the stage in animated conversation as Nedda and Tonio sing their duet, the young boy "napping" against the barrel downstage right for most of the first act, and Silvio lurking in the crowd of theatregoers in the second act—so that when Nedda is stabbed, he can rush headlong out of the horrified throng onto Canio's waiting blade. Unless you are looking for them, you never see these minutæ, yet there they are all the time, giving life to the scene.

So in looking at the corners of the story of Pagliacci, I want to share something that Kevin Patterson (Director of Artistic Administration) suggested to me: the story is really all about Tonio.

In the classic operatic tradition, Tonio is a hunchback. Although this is now very poitically incorrect, his deformity made it all the easier to hate him, and all the simpler for him to be portrayed as evil. Pittsburgh Opera made the artistic choice to portray him instead as a man with a sound body, but still with the twisted morality Leoncavallo wrote for him. The history of opera is that the tenors typically got all the good roles, but the baritone who first played Tonio got Leoncavallo to write him a prologue, upstaging the tenor. The tenor gets his musical revenge, because although Leoncavallo wrote the final La commedia è finita line for the baritone Tonio, it is the tenor Canio who now sings it (and Leoncavallo himself sanctioned this change).

But history aside, the psychology of this opera (and Pagliacci is all about the psyche), is consistent. Tonio begins the story. When the players enter the town, he is pushed by Canio, and Tonio declares (from the corner of the stage) that Canio will pay for that. It is he who first confesses a secret love for Nedda. When she spurns him, he swears by the Blessed Virgin that she will pay for that, too. And when Tonio (again, from the corners) spies the trysting Nedda and Silvio, it is he who runs to find Canio. It is he who urges Canio on and then gnaws at the corners of Canio's jealous mind, suggesting that Silvio will likely be present at the performance that night (and indeed he does lurk in the wings, watching). When Canio cracks, and can no longer maintain the charade of Pagliaccio, it is Tonio who hands him the knife (up until now, Canio has been furious, but mostly blustery. And in the final denouement, Canio stands in the middle with bloodstained hands, but it is Tonio who has mounted the Commedia stage, surveying what he has wrought. His promised retribution has been exacted, and his hands are unsullied. And while jealous Canio had kissed Nedda ere he killed her, Iago-like Tonio has orchestrated the whole murderous affair.

So what matter if he doesn't sing the last line? He has the last laugh.

Last night was dress rehearsal—the actors were dressed in costume, and the stage was dressed in the set. Nedda (in a long dress of the era) gave Tonio a dressing down after his unwanted advances, and we watched Canio dress himself in the part of Pagliaccio. The orchestra was in their undress uniforms (black tie only being required for performances), but none of them were undressed (this being a family-friendly production). The choristers presented themselves in dressed arrays, but the chicken (a prop used in the Commedia dell'Arte) had not been dressed. For some strange reason, when you dress a chicken you actually undress it, removing the feathers and preparing it for cooking. It is amazing to me how so seemingly simple a word can have so many meanings.

I wanted to show you some before and after pictures of the production of Pagliacci. The "before" shots were all taken during rehearsal, and the "after" images are what you will see on stage. It never fails to amaze me how real the stage becomes. To be sure, we all enter into the theatre with a willingness to suspend disbelief. We know that Peter Pan doesn't fly—there are just wires and a flying rig—but we allow ourselves to believe. We know that Colombina (or Nedda (or Mary Mills)) is still very much alive after Pagliaccio (or Canio (or Richard Leech)) stabs her, but the violence of the act is still shocking. And we know (at least intellectually) that the scene on stage is just clever lighting, backdrops, and forced perspective with false buildings. But when the house lights go down, the curtain rises, and the orchestra swells—something inside of us is transported to a magical, yet wholly real place.

I have had the extreme good fortune to have been granted a behind the scenes peek at how Pagliacci has been put together. I have had the luxury of watching others work, while all I did was take pictures and write. My job is perhaps not all that trivial—each blog item that I post takes an average of 6 hours to construct—but I can tell you how it works, because it is what I do. But in watching the rehearsals, I got to see how some of the magic is done. It's hard work! I saw how the magician hides cards up his sleeve, how the assisant carries the rabbit into the box so it can be later revealed, and I got to share it with you (and I really enjoy sharing). And I also know what I want to explore next time (scenery construction and lighting are high on the list).

Opening night is tomorrow—go downtown, sit back, and enjoy the show. You will see the culmination of the on-stage and off-stage work of the performers, orchestra, and all the myriad crew. I will have one or two more articles to write about Pagliacci, and then it is on to Romeo and Juliet.

I hope you're having as much fun peeking backstage as I am!

The story of Pagliacci is based around characters in a travelling theatre troupe. When Leoncavallo wrote the opera, most private transportation was a thing for the wealthy, and public transportation was not as convenient as it is today. Most people (unless they served in the army) rarely strayed more than a few miles from their homes, and it was not a trivial undertaking to travel into the city to go to the theatre. Unless you lived in a city large enough to support a theatre, the only exposure you had to theatrical events was when the theatre came to town.

Thus you will see the arrival of the Commedia dell'Arté as an event that draws out all of the townspeople. Since there is no theatre, the actors use what is at hand—the same stage that is used for proclamations, executions, and whatever else might require an audience—or maybe they just use a small knoll in a field. Whatever they use, when Canio, Nedda, Tonio and Beppe show up, it is a big deal. In As You Like It (Act V Scene I), Shakespeare wrote "It is meat and drink to me to see a clown". The well worn roles of Pagliacci, Colombina, Taddeo and Arlecchino are familiar, comfortable, and reflections of some of the daily drama in the village. Everyone knows a henpecked husband, and whispered rumors of indescretions and assignations fly on the wind (so when enacted on stage, they are mirrors of what people already suspect). Every man is a fool when he is in his cups, and the pratfalls allow people to laugh at their own mistakes as much as they can mock the faults of others. Whatever else may have been going on in their lives, the theatre—especially comedic theatre, where the townspeople can relate to the parts being portrayed—provided a welcome release.

Now I haven't written anything in the past few days because I have been travelling between two theatres myself. Last night I got to sing in Byham Theatre as part of Hot Pink Pittsburgh, Adagio Health's fundraiser for breast and cervical screening for uninsured women in western Pennsylvania. It is a good cause, a fun event, and singing in the Byham is a joy (and as part of our onstage warmup, I sang a few bars of the Vesti la Giubba aria). So, I have been preoccupied.

But tomorrow night is the final dress rehearsal for Pagliacci. I will be there, taking photographs, and giving you a preview. More soon...

Thursday's Post Gazette featured an opinion by Francesca L. Savoia. Ms. Savoia is an award winning associate professor of Italian at Pitt, and she is admittedly passionate about her field.

I just happen to disagree with her.

I have the utmost respect for her knowledge of Italian (mine is extremely limited), her expertise in the Italian theatre, and Italian opera libretti (I read the supertitles and trust the translations). I do not believe that her letter to the editor (which I reproduce below with her permission, along with my reply) was about those areas of expertise, so I offer a contradictory opinion.

Blogs are about the writer's opinions, and then space is left for the readers to reply. I sent her a copy of my response, along with the same invitation that I give to you all. Please add your comments—to this or to any other article that I write—by clicking on the word "comments" at the end of any article.

Professor Savoia's letter to the Post Gazette:

"Pittsburgh Opera's postcard is silly and sensational"

A few days ago I received a postcard announcing the imminent Pittsburgh Opera production of Leoncavallo's "Pagliacci." In an attempt to attract a public large enough to offset the high costs in staging operas these days, the people responsible for the creation for the advertisement opted for the truly sensational.

The card sports the most vibrant colors imaginable (magenta, turquoise, yellow, orange and red!) and employs an array of letter fonts and sizes. You would be wrong to think that the title of the opera must be prominently featured. In spite of the logo devised to complement the name of the opera (an umbrella-shaped tent reminiscent of ... the circus?! Don't they know that "Pagliacci" stands for "players" or "comedians" and does not mean, in this case, "clowns"?), you promptly forget about it. In fact, the variety of items on the card is such that not only can you not linger on the name of the opera it is supposed to bring to your attention, but also pretty quickly you either feel dizzy and overwhelmed, or lose all of your interest (or both).

The price of tickets, the phone number to call for reservations, the address of the Web site to visit for gathering other (meaningful?) information, and luring phrases such as "Feel the blaze of fiery Italian opera!", not to mention a Pittsburgh Opera Trivia Quiz (complete with its silver "scratch-me-with-a-coin-to-unveil-the-correct-answer" dots) are some of the items on one side of the card.

On the other side, the "Opera Lady" advises you (how I wish she wouldn't!) on "authentic" Italian pronunciation, informs you that the opera lasts only 90 minutes (as if this were its most attractive quality) and dispenses other relevant bits of information (such as the fact that Rice Krispies once appropriated the tenor's aria for a memorable commercial jingle!).

My outrage may have something to do with the fact that I truly love opera, that I was born and grew up in Italy, and when I decided to live in the States and left my family behind, it helped that I could teach my language and culture at Pitt for a living. But I surely hope that others feel as insulted as I do.

Shame on you, Pittsburgh Opera! My students are among the people your campaign is targeting and, if my colleagues and I have taught them well, I will not have to point out to them that a very poor knowledge and understanding of Italian culture and a very reductive, if not perverse notion of what opera can still contribute to the entertainment and enrichment of our lives, transpires from your advertisement.

Francesca Savoia
Squirrel Hill

My reply to Professor Savoia

This letter is in response to Francesca Savoia's letter of October 5, commenting on Pittsburgh Opera's postcard. I also received a copy of this card, and while I noticed the bold coloration, I realized that it was a marketing piece. Ms. Savoia and I are both supporters and lovers of the opera (I am also the primary contributer to the OperaBlog - http://www.pittsburghopera.org/operablog/ - but unlike the Opera Lady, I am not on the staff). However, surprising as it may sound, there are Pittsburghers who are not natural lovers of opera, and must be enticed!

As Ms. Savoia knows, stereotypes of opera abound, and interminable length is one of them. Mentioning the brevity of Pagliacci is just good business - even as a computer scientist and writer, I recognize this!

But I think that we can all be forgiven ignorance outside of our areas of expertise. With a PhD in Italian, certainly Ms. Savoia should forgive what she sees as a mistranslation of "Pagliacci". My Italian/English dictionary says that "Pagliaccio" means "clown" and that "Pagliacci" is the plural. I am certain that we all can be forgiven if we miss a cultural subtley...

Many Pittsburghers the age of Ms. Savoia's students will also remember Krusty the Klown singing the Rice Krispies jingle in The Simpsons cartoon. I laughed and saw it as a way to tie into the collective unconscious. And although I was blessed with a multilingual upbringing, as a language professor I am sure you realizes that helping people pronounce foreign words will make them better communicators. Would you rather that the "Opera Lady" left her audience ignorant of the proper way to speak unfamiliar phonemes? How can people talk about something they can't pronounce?

Pagliacci is a fantastic opera, riviting and emotional, with a deep look into the human condition. I am happy to know enough about opera and language to appreciate it. It is silly to be insulted by the color of ink that is used in an advertisment. Please, professor - the music is what matters, not the marketing. Give others a chance to see the opera and make up their own minds!

Daniel Klein
Squirrel Hill

Dear Readers (as Miss Manners would say), please add your comments below!

People have used masks for millenia. They are used in ritual, in society, and of course, in the theatre. The ancient greeks used the twinned masks of tragedy and comedy, the Noh style of Japanese theatre uses hundreds of stylized masks, and clowns have been painting masks on their faces for a long time (the "fool" can be traced back to ancient Egypt, and is the first card in the Tarot deck). And we wear masks in our daily lives. We wear the mask of the smiling acceder when the boss makes a foolish comment, the mask of patient tolerance when our teenaged citizenry dress in the latest outré fashions and piercings, the mask of invisibility while commuting on the bus, and the mask of blindness when passing the beggar in the street.

Masks give us the power to change who we are. Sometimes the masks are worn, sometimes painted on, and sometimes assumed invisibly. Doffing and donning them is often a thing of ritual. In Japan (where masks of civility are proudly worn all the time), ritual removal is found through alchohol—pent up feelings can be hurled at one's boss when the mask is shed, but the next morning apologies are offered and accepted, because both parties consent to the ritual mask of drunken expressiveness.

Masks are complicated. For six years, I was a member of Pittsburgh TheatreSports, an improvisational comedy troupe based on the teachings of Keith Johnstone. Most of the friends and colleagues who came to see me perform thought that I put on a (figurative) mask when I did all of the wacky things I did on stage. My mother knew the truth. When I got on stage, I took off my mask...

Masks give us anonymity. The Lone Ranger hid behind his mask (but I don't know if he ever removed it, so I am uncertain what he was hiding). In the middle ages and the renaissance, party-goers often wore masks to hide their identity (although often their anonymity was only guaranteed by convention—it is hard to be innocent of the fact that you are dancing with the king). In Romeo and Juliet, Tybalt recognizes fair young Romeo by his voice, yet Capulet insists that he be permitted to remain unmolested at the party. In part, this was because "to say truth, Verona brags of him; To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth", but also because as long as Romeo remains mask'd, Capulet could outwardly feign ignorance of the presence of the scion of his Montague foe. The mask works both ways...

Masks give us power. African tribes don masks in ritual and in dance; indigenous American tribes did the same, and "war paint" is another form of mask. Samurai warriors wore fierce masks into battle, and in football season this ritual is preserved in locker-rooms throughout the United States as erstwhile warriors smear lampblack under their eyes, ready their helmets, and put on their "game face". Wrestlers in the WWF (now the WWE, an incredible form of physical theatre) don the masks of their personas, and in Mexico (where the art form is even more ritualized than here), luchadores wear full head-covering masks. When a wrestler has been defeated, his mask is ritually cut off. Perhaps this has roots that lie much deeper in the human sacrifice Maya/Aztec/Teotihuacan society, but today the removal of the mask strips the player of the final vestiges of his power—and to regain it, he must earn it back from this humiliating defeat.

Masks can be used to instill fear. Certainly the sight of hooded Klansmen rightfully instills dread (given the history of hatred and lynchings that follows them), but masks can also cause fear of justice and of good. In contemporary graphic literature Batman wears a mask that the bad guys fear (and that selfsame mask gives him a measure of his power).

And of course, masks allow us to change character. Canio becomes Pagliaccio when he smears on the greasepaint and puts on the costume, and well he knows this: the Vesti la Giubba aria tells us how the show must go on, and how heartbroken Canio can become the smiling Pagliaggio. And this is to say nothing of the fact that in opera, the mask describes the front part of the singer's face (cheeks, nose, sinuses), and singers can use their mask to enhance their tone.

But as I said, masks are complicated. On stage, Richard Leech wears the mask of Canio, but in the rehearsals that I have been privileged to see, the mask comes on and off as the player analyses the character, as the character sings, as the Maestro speaks with the player... And of course, the character of Canio similarly dons the character of Pagliaccio. As an audience watching the opera, we get to see the same analysis and discussion that I have seen in rehearsals. In the opera's denouement, we see the masks shatter. Pagliaccio reveals the Canio beneath the greasepaint, Colombina dissolves into Nedda, and Silvio's adultery is bloodily unmasked. And although the tatters of the clown's paint remains, the power of the mask is gone—all that remains is a shattered, heartbroken man.

And when the curtain falls, we applaud the flesh-and-blood men and women who wore those many layers. But when the house lights come back up, we hastily reapply our own masks—nodding civilly at the person who kicked our chair, ignoring the beggar on the corner, girding ourselves for the next day...

I wanted to write a piece about the storyline of Pagliacci - and the problem is that I get confused by all the Italian names. So I figured I'd translate them to American names, and translate the story into American terms. So let's start with the characters:

Canio

This is probably the hardest, since there is no American equivalent that I could find! Canio is both a first and a last name, and St. Canio is the patron saint of Acerenza and Calitri, both in Italy. Paolo Di Canio is a controversial football (that is, soccer) player who used to play for Sheffield Wednesday and West Ham United (both in England), but now plays for A.S. Cisco Roma—so, no help there. I'll just call him Carl.

Tonio

This one's easy. Tonio is the diminutive form of Antonio, which is Anthony. If we're keeping with the diminutive forms, then we wind up with Tony.

Beppe

Another easy one. Beppe is the diminutive form of Guiseppe, which is Joseph. So keeping in style, I'll call him Joe.

Nedda

A small challenge here, but nothing insurmountable. Nedda is a nickname for Antonietta, which would turn into Toni.

Silvio

Another small challenge, until we realize that Silvio is derived from Silvius, meaning "wood" or "forest". So I will call him Woody.

Now on to the story. There are many plot synopses available on the web, but let me simplify it:

Carl is married to Toni, but Toni is having an affair with Woody. Tony has the hots for Toni, but Toni does not reciprocate. Carl is jealous of Toni's indescretions, and the scorned Tony adds fuel to the fire. Joe (remember Joe?) tries to keep things sane, but ultimately Carl stabs Toni and then Woody.

So far so good. Then there is the play within the play, with Carl playing Pagliacci (Clown), Toni playing Columbina (Dove), Tony as Taddeo (Thaddeus), and Joe as Arlecchino (Harlequin), but I already got myself confused again... too many names! But there are really only five major parts, and it all makes sense, really! And although I make light of it here, it is pretty darn dramatic. This is especially true because Commedia dell'Arte typically ends happily with the inamorati marriage and forgiveness all around for any wrongdoings. Not so in Pagliacci!

But how does one keep everything in this twisted plotline straight? When you see it happening, the story resonates, but when you try to tell it in simple words, the going gets rough. Without the signposts of faces, emotion, and costume, it is easy to get lost in the mere roadmap of the story. So there are books. More books than you could believe!

Just counting music, there are at least five versions of the score in active use at staging and chorus rehearsals. There are the Schirmer and Sonzognio piano scores, the Dover and Kalmus versions of the orchestral score, and the Peters vocal score. Because Leoncavallo only wrote one opera of note, there has not been quite so much scholarly work invested in the piece (in spite of the fact that it was the first opera recorded in its entirety, and Enrico Caruso's version of Vesti la giubba was the first record to sell a million copies). So variances exist, and Maestro Buckley often must choose between which version will be authoritative for what portion of the opera—and since words may change slightly, the stage managers must take notes to ensure that the supertitles reflect what is actually being sung!

The four stage managers each have their own annotated copy of the rehearsal score (a looseleaf copy of the piano score). And although I missed the first orchestra read-through, I know that each player has his or her own instrument's part. That's 2 flutes, 1 piccolo, 2 oboes, 1 cor anglais, 2 clarinets, 1 basset-horn, 3 bassoons, 4 horns, 3 trumpets, 3 trombones, 1 tuba, 2 harps, timpani, tubular bells, percussion, and strings (at least according to Wikipedia—I'll count the actual numbers at the next orchestra rehearsal). Wikipedia also says that additionally, there is an onstage violin, oboe, trumpet, and the smiley-faced bass drum that Pagliacci (played by Carl—err... Canio) loudly beats.

Each chorister has sheet music. There is a "Supernumerary Handbook" that details what every supernumerary ought to know. There are study guides for schools, property lists and inventories, set designs and scores of drawings, tape lines, spike lists, punch lists, entrance and exit cues—and I haven't even seen the lighting designers and the lighting cues yet! Every day the cast and crew are emailed a detailed rehearsal schedule (which is adjusted based on the overall schedule and what was completed the day before). If you thought that the story and a few Italian names were complicated, you should see all that goes on behind the scenes!

But wait... that's my job! You get to sit back and enjoy the show (and hopefully read my blog). There may be a lot of books to read, but since everyone will be reading off the same page, it'll be great!