Artificial fires
Nov. 5th, 2009 07:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pallas_athenaAt the end of Figaro, after all the traps are sprung, misunderstandings cleared up, and jealous spouses disciplined, there is a very brief, almost frantically festive final chorus.
Questo giorno di tormenti,
Di capricci e di follia,
In contenti ed allegria,
Solo amor puo terminar.
Sposi! Amici! Al ballo! Al gioco!
Alle mine date fuoco!
Corriam tutti a festeggiar!
The next-to-last line means "Light the fireworks!" or, literally, "To the mines give fire!" This used to be an English phrase too:
So "give fire" basically just meant "light something that explodes." The Italian word mina, "mine", similarly, just meant "thing that explodes." Italian fireworks were known as the loveliest in Europe, and much sought after; the Royal Fireworks of 1749, for which Handel composed the music, were made and given fire by Italians. (The concert pavilion burned down, but so it goes.)
All of this took place, of course, in the Age of Enlightenment. This was a time when all things, from new discoveries to religion to long-entrenched social institutions, were subjected to ruthless and minute scrutiny by philosophers using the power of Reason. Their conclusion: Fireworks are awesome.
Few productions of Figaro actually end with fireworks. Sadly, you cannot actually blow shit up in an opera house. Modern stage technology means that you can have certain pyrotechnics onstage, but they are expensive, and producers tend to save them for things like der Ring des Nibelungen.
Which is a pity, because after all the Almaviva household have been through, they deserve a great firework display to release the emotional tension that's built up all through the opera, and also symbolically herald the coming revolution.
Figaro is set in Spain, of course, but the original play was written by Beaumarchais, a Frenchman. (The opera is a collaboration between an Austrian composer and an Italian librettist.) The ban on its performance by Louis XVI, which kept it off the stage for six years, has become part of its legend. By the time Mozart's opera was finished, it was 1789 and the Revolution was under way. Some of Beaumarchais's politically incendiary dialogue is trimmed, but the core of the matter remains: by the end of the opera the social structure is turned upside down. The Count, the character of highest social status, is outwitted and humiliated by his wife, her maidservant, and his valet. Moreover, we have been shown that this outcome was right and just: the Count was an abuser of his power, both as aristocrat and as husband. Beaumarchais doesn't call for his head-- this is a comedy, after all-- and Mozart, in one of the most unforgettable moments in all of opera, has the Countess forgive him. Still, the character has been ruthlessly-- and deservingly-- stripped of his dignity.
In America, fireworks celebrate the Revolution; in Britain, they celebrate the preservation of the status quo. (And, yes, the prevention of hundreds of deaths, okay, whatever.) All of which proves my theory that any day is a good day to BLOW SHIT UP. In conclusion, I wish you all a fiery Fifth.
Questo giorno di tormenti,
Di capricci e di follia,
In contenti ed allegria,
Solo amor puo terminar.
Sposi! Amici! Al ballo! Al gioco!
Alle mine date fuoco!
Corriam tutti a festeggiar!
The next-to-last line means "Light the fireworks!" or, literally, "To the mines give fire!" This used to be an English phrase too:
In giving fire to any great peece of Ordnance, such as Cannon, Culverin, or such like, it is requisite that ye Gonner thereto appointed first see that ye peece be well primed, laying a little powdre about ye touch-hole as a traine, and then to be nimble in giving fire, which as soon as he espieth to flame, he ought with quicknesse to retire back three or four yardes out of danger of the reverse of ye wheels and carriage of ye peece; for oftentimes it happeneth that the wheels or axle-tree doth break and spoile ye Gonner that giveth fire, not having ability to move himself from the danger of ye same; yea, I did see a Gonner slaine with the reverse of the wheele of a culverin, which crushed his legge and thigh in peeces, who, if he had had a care, and nimbleness withal, might have escaped ye misfortune.
So "give fire" basically just meant "light something that explodes." The Italian word mina, "mine", similarly, just meant "thing that explodes." Italian fireworks were known as the loveliest in Europe, and much sought after; the Royal Fireworks of 1749, for which Handel composed the music, were made and given fire by Italians. (The concert pavilion burned down, but so it goes.)
All of this took place, of course, in the Age of Enlightenment. This was a time when all things, from new discoveries to religion to long-entrenched social institutions, were subjected to ruthless and minute scrutiny by philosophers using the power of Reason. Their conclusion: Fireworks are awesome.
Few productions of Figaro actually end with fireworks. Sadly, you cannot actually blow shit up in an opera house. Modern stage technology means that you can have certain pyrotechnics onstage, but they are expensive, and producers tend to save them for things like der Ring des Nibelungen.
Which is a pity, because after all the Almaviva household have been through, they deserve a great firework display to release the emotional tension that's built up all through the opera, and also symbolically herald the coming revolution.
Figaro is set in Spain, of course, but the original play was written by Beaumarchais, a Frenchman. (The opera is a collaboration between an Austrian composer and an Italian librettist.) The ban on its performance by Louis XVI, which kept it off the stage for six years, has become part of its legend. By the time Mozart's opera was finished, it was 1789 and the Revolution was under way. Some of Beaumarchais's politically incendiary dialogue is trimmed, but the core of the matter remains: by the end of the opera the social structure is turned upside down. The Count, the character of highest social status, is outwitted and humiliated by his wife, her maidservant, and his valet. Moreover, we have been shown that this outcome was right and just: the Count was an abuser of his power, both as aristocrat and as husband. Beaumarchais doesn't call for his head-- this is a comedy, after all-- and Mozart, in one of the most unforgettable moments in all of opera, has the Countess forgive him. Still, the character has been ruthlessly-- and deservingly-- stripped of his dignity.
In America, fireworks celebrate the Revolution; in Britain, they celebrate the preservation of the status quo. (And, yes, the prevention of hundreds of deaths, okay, whatever.) All of which proves my theory that any day is a good day to BLOW SHIT UP. In conclusion, I wish you all a fiery Fifth.