The Barber of Seville: Narcissism’s Sweeter Side

When Gioacchino Rossini penned his immortal setting of Beaumarchais’ “The Barber of Seville” – the first chapter in Beaumarchais’ tragic-comic trilogy, we can see, even before Napoleon’s quip relating to the second chapter (“The Marriage of Figaro”) that the revolution was already in action. Royalty is already in decline, although in a considerably subtler context than chapter two – The Count Almaviva may be young and charming in this episode, but he is still utterly dependant on exterior forces to aid his cause – bribes, the treat of gangland style execution, and most importantly – the wit and wisdom of his servants – the soon to be replaced Fiorello, and, of course, the prototypal self made man – Figaro. Figaro answers to no man, only as necessary bowing momentarily before social norms before resuming his Promethean role as a subversive destroyer of Gods. But Figaro seems to gather most of inner assurance from another figure of classical antiquity – Narcissus. Figaro’s self love is the engine from which all else derives. He does not really serve others – he merely delights in how his energy can animate the world and make it dance to his tune. And he is not alone in his Narcissism, although the others infected with this nearly universal disease are only distant copies. The Count loves himself alone, despite his honeyed serenades, his power the “natural” result of his inner self-righteousness. When we occasionally see the iron fist in the velvet glove we see royalty exposed for the sham it is – naked aggression dependant on the sweat and brains of the middle classes. His charm is painted on – but Figaro is always there to apply another layer when the lie wears thin. The Count, unlike Figaro, is a malignant (vs. benign) narcissist who will drag down those who can not serve his narcissism – and his reward is coming, but not until the sequel when The Avant Garde Strikes Back. Completing our trilogy of narcissists is Rosina – the sweet sixteen prize to be garnered by quick action – does Figaro think he’s making a good match by pairing her off with the Count, or just painting another tasty canvas of sofa-sized art with his prodigious talents? Rosina may be an orphan, and a woman in a world run by men – but she is just as cunning as her male counterparts in pushing her own agenda. She expects men to bow down before her – if she plays the game correctly – and good for her; she deserves her own piece of the pie as she follows her manifest destiny based on her sense of self love (after all, no one else has loved her in her life), and she will get her just desserts in The Marriage of Figaro, trapped in a loveless marriage, with only the puppy love of Cherubino to occasionally distract her from the depression of her dysfunctional narcissism. In “The Marriage of Figaro”, the Count is ruthlessly exposed as the sham he always was, and even Figaro is rocked to his foundations, redeemed only by the genuine love of Susanna – and more importantly by his genuine love for her. He/She who can not truly love will be emptied by Narcissism, but in the sunny Chapter One of The Barber of Seville, these revolutionary clouds are far from the horizon, and we can enjoy, without guilt, Narcissism’s sweeter side.

Rossini’s masterful opera “The Barber of Seville” was composed in great haste in one fevered month in 1816. The premiere was a disaster, with unplanned comedy being provided by the Count’s lute being hopelessly out of tune, and a stray cat (perhaps summoned by the unmusical lute) joining the principals and adding its feline harmony to the Marx Brothers like Act I Finale. Like many productions cursed with opening night devils, the sparkling music and comedy were not sabotaged further on the following nights, and the twenty four year old Gioacchino was able to notch another operatic success on his belt. Rossini at first wondered if his composition of The Barber would be considered abject plagiarism. The older composer Paisiello had already scored a success with this subject, but soon Paisielleo’s version was consigned to the dust-bin of history by Rossini’s version. In a sense Verdi repaid the favor when his version of “Otello” pretty much erased Rossini’s version of the same opera from the repertoire. By age thirty-seven Rossini pretty much retired and enjoyed the good life – the primary sin of his old age was that he virtually stopped composing in his middle age.

The Barber of Seville is, of course, incomplete, without its stock villains: Dr Bartolo, Rosina’s guardian is anything but. He is, in fact a middle aged lecher, perhaps a model for Judge Turpin in “Sweeny Todd”. Bartolo however is considered a humorous character, as he, unlike Turpin, is an inept pedophile. Middle aged men, we suppose, just can’t help lusting for young woman; after all, we are dealing with hard-wired genetics, and the best we can do is recognize it, laugh with it/at it, because their aint no cure, other than the odious (and typically unsingable – unless you are Hans Sachs) chore of maturity. And besides, without this perfect model, Donizetti would have no template for his “Don Pasquale”. Dirty Old Men, unite, you have nothing to lose but your dignity. Bartolo’s other motivation is greed – Rosina’s dowry will make him a rich man. With the aphrodisiac of sex and money to tempt him, he is definitely hot to trot – even if he is incapable of satisfying the demands a young woman might place on him. The other villain in the Barber is the music master Don Basilio, who doubles as Bartolo’s partner in crime. He knows how the world works – with bribes and slanderous innuendo – and he’s not afraid to use them, or be used by them – if it is to his benefit.

The elements of humor in The Barber take wide swings; there is the brilliant and elegant comedy brimming from every page of the musical score, and then there is the more overt comedy in the staging – the Act I finale brings a zany anarchy reminiscent of the best of the Marx Brothers, but the gratuitous character of Bartolo’s butler Ambrosius (aided by the maid Berta) seem to lower the comedy to a Three Stooges level – do we really want to hear his inane yawning– some wise directors simply eliminate the role of Ambrosius altogether. Perhaps the best we can say of Ambrosius is that he perhaps serves to show a rare weakness in Figaro – is Figaro a quack medico, poisoning his patrons, or just another benign practitioner like Doctor Dulcamara in “The Elixir of Love” pedaling placebos for a quick buck.

There are many magic arias in The Barber, filled with passion and technical pyrotechnics: Bartolo’s aria is a bitch to sing, and is perhaps cut in some productions to underscore his character’s weakness; how could so forceful a singer be so limp a person? Figaro’s “Largo al Factotum” is perhaps the world’s most familiar (and lampooned) aria known to the general public, thanks to the cartoons of Bugs Bunny and Tom & Jerry, and no baritone on earth can resist it – although few rise to the stellar level of an Etore Bastianini when singing it. Rosina “Una voce poco fa” is a prize coveted by many singers, mezzo-sopranos and sopranos alike – In fact many sopranos simply co-opt the entire mezzo-soprano role - Beverly Sills certainly makes it almost work, but for God sake, back off honey – Rosina has an earthy wisdom well beyond that of the ordinary ingénue, so stand aside, and let those low notes slide out of that tightly knit bodice.

Synopsis

Act 1

The opera opens at sunrise in Seville. The Count’s current servant Fiorello is assembling an ad-hoc orchestra of village musicians to serenade Rosina, who is, presumably, asleep in her bedroom, and will wake to the sounds of music stirring from the village square. This is to be a formidable alarm clock. The Count has fallen in love with her with only a gaze, at least at this moment loving pure and chaste from afar, but hoping to quickly increase his proximity. He is disguised as the penniless student Lindoro so that Rosina may not be blinded by his wealth, and prove her true love by assessing his inner beauty. But the sunrise serenade ends a fiasco: Rosina is a no show, and the Count is shaken down by greedy musicians, who disturb the peace of tranquil Seville. Enter Figaro, who lets us all know what a fine fellow he is: the indispensable factotum whom all in Seville trust and can not live without The Count sees a powerful ally in Figaro and enlists his aid, promising Figaro a healthy monetary stipend for his efforts. Note this is not a bribe, merely an incentive plan. Rosina emerges from her balcony to seek out her true love, but then Dr. Bartolo enters, with the radar of all soon to be disappointed suitors, psychically anticipating Rosina’s wanderlust. She fools Bartolo into thinking her hastily written note to Lindoro is actually a page from an aria she is learning entitled “The Superfluous Precaution” This is Dramatic Foreshadowing – you just can’t stop love, no matter how many condoms you wear. Rosina sees in Lindoro a good catch, her coy letter to him an invitation – but not for immediate romance, but rather a “request for proposal” and/or credentialing process. In the depressed economy of agrarian Spain, how many dozen candidates will be interviewed by Rosina before a single one passes muster? Or is it true love? Should Rosina be seeking more appropriate candidates at careerbuilder.com or jcupid.com? The Count is inspired enough to sing again. Serenade #2 is a winner. But how to place the soon to be lovers in actual physical contact? Figaro to the rescue: Hatch a plot to violate Bartolo’s civil rights by billeting Lindoro disguised as a soldier in Bartolo’s house. (no pesky Bill of Rights to avoid in antediluvian Spain; note to Ashcroft: surely we can do away with this antiquated annoyance in an addendum to the Patriot Act). Figaro and the Count tiptoe through the tulips congratulating each other on their talents. At this point, Rosina divulges her plot: whatever Rosina wants, Rosina gets. Lindoro may think he’ll wear the pants in this relationship (“Lady of Spain, I adore you”) but dream on. Oh how sad they’ll all be in The Marriage of Figaro when the wagon of love breaks under the baggage of life, but we’ll indulge these youthful know-it-alls, as the comedy of romance is a sweeter confection then the tragic-comedy of marriage. And then, the villains get into the act. Basilio launches his Counter-Plot: Basilio knows the Count’s romantic intentions; let’s scandalize his name. Bartolo replies that this is too complex (even though it affords Basilio the show-stopping aria “La Calunnia”) Bartolo cuts to the chase: why not just marry Rosina now (after all, he has a rocket in his pocket) Bartolo discovers Rosina’s plot, and since he can’t win her heart, threatens to lock her up. Add dominance and submission to his list of would be aphrodisiacs. The Count now disguised as a drunken soldier arrives and attempts to occupy Fortress Bartolo. The Count & Bartolo argue so volubly that the police arrive to quell the riot. The Count avoids arrest by displaying his driver’s license/ducal birth certificate/wad o’ cash. Money - Don’t leave home without it. The action now literally stops, as everyone is too stupefied to know what to do next. The act ends in general confusion with an ensemble of inspired lunacy. The principals spin. Dervishes whirl. Soldiers march. If any of the cast faint and/or fall into the orchestra pit in their obsessive, repetitive peregrinations, rest assured the quality of the blocking is worth far more than their mere physical health.

Act 2

Now the Count/Lindoro tries a new disguise: an ersatz music-master named Don Alonso to take Basilio’s place. Bartolo lets the ersatz Basilio into his house. He realizes all is not right with the foppish maestro, but can’t quite crack the disguise. The music-master wins Bartolo’s favor by producing a letter he says will embarrass Rosina, as he says it has been seen in the sweaty hands of Almaviva’s mistress. Hell has no fury like a women scorned, and Rosina will prove to be no exception. Figaro arrives to shave Bartolo, merely a pretext for the lovers quick elopement outside the balcony window; the plot is nearly foiled by the arrival of a healthy (and thoroughly confused) Basilio who is nevertheless convinced by a bribe from the Count to be suffering from scarlet fever/West Nile/SARS and the heartbreak of psoriasis. Bartolo smells a rat and explodes with impotent rage, and leaves. The maid Bertha now has her moment of glory in an aria describing the silliness of most would be romantic relationships. Bartolo and Basilio then regroup as they finally realize Don Alonso is none other than the Count. Basilio is sent to get a notary for the quickie marriage, and Bartolo seizes on the bogus letter tainted by the touch of Almaviva’s “mistress” to convince Rosina that she is being used, and that he, Bartolo, offers the best marriage options. As Rosina broods on the inconstancies of manly love, a thunderstorm breaks out. When the storm subsides, Figaro and the Count enter her bedroom and beg her to escape with them. Rosina will now have none of it, as she thinks she’s is being bought and sold as the Count’s love slave – actually she’s pretty much correct, but when Lindoro reveal himself to be the Count, with only the noblest of romantic intentions, she does her bi-polar thing and is immediately back in love with him. All is forgiven - kiss kiss. Now escape! But the escape ladder has been removed from the balcony by resourceful Bartolo! Ironically, Bartolo is too clever by half (remember that superfluous precaution reference from Act 1) – and presto – a gun solves all problems when the Count gives Basilio an offer he can’t refuse – be an immediate witness to his marriage to Rosina, or become an inkblot on the pavement. And so the young lovers are united by Cupid’s lethal arrows, to live happily ever after, or at least until The Marriage of Figaro. Bartolo accepts his bribe from the Count – the equivalent of Rosina’s dowry, and all is well. Note when Figaro accepts a bribe he’s still our roguish hero, but when Bartolo does the same, he’s just another crook. As we scan the Seville Yellow Pages looking for a new press agent for Bartolo, we console ourselves with the knowledge that Rossini (with Beaumarchais’ lavish help) could make these flawed souls sing their way into our hearts while not quite seducing our minds.

Program notes by David M. Laub © 2003

Mr. Laub loves opera so much that he believes passionately in loving it completely – warts and all. He too has warts, but on him, they’re just ugly. Biting the hand that feeds him is a time honored tradition of most satire – so indulge him.