If these are bad films, as they surely are, then at least they are bad in a thoroughly old-fashioned way. They are of course sentimental, and in those days, amongst the intelligentsia, sentimentality, once diagnosed, was almost automatically found ‘revolting’. Nowadays we have a similar coupling of noun and adjective whereby what is called ‘reality’ is duly designated ‘stark’ and in its name the grossest sensationalism can be given screen-space and accepted by the popular taste of our own times. At least the hero in these old films with Beniamino Gigli is not someone whose solution to problems is a sock on the jaw or a bellyful of lead. In fact the nature of his heroic status is rather endearing: he is a fat little fellow who happens to have a beautiful voice. Moreover, when he is not crooning a ninna-nanna to his bambino or entertaining fellow passengers on board ship with a song to his old mum, there are even suggestions that he may devote some of his time and talent to the performance of great music, such as Verdi’s Otello.
And yes, Otello. Gigli, who did once sing Lohengrin and in later years appeared in Aida and Trovatore, never added Otello to his stage repertoire, though here, as world-famous tenor Mario Sarni, he is booked to sing the opera on a wet night in Rome. While her boy is launching his “Esultate” indoors, mamma is taking a desperate walk in the rain and catches her death of cold, but dies happily, hearing, internally, ‘her song’, the one which Mario (in reality Cesare Bixio) wrote for her and which is the theme-song of the picture. The “Esultate”, be it said, is impressive, and so in its rather rushed way is Otello’s monologue. Phrases from the Love duet and Death scene are also to be caught, and it is for this sequence that the video of the film is most likely to be valued.
Solo per te is not to be confused with Mamma as it might well be, for the song’s words go “Mamma, sola per te la mia canzone”. This is nevertheless also about a famous tenor, one Ettore Vanni this time. The cast-list brings an extra interest, however, for now the wife is the lovely Maria Cebotari and trouble comes in the formidable shape of Michael Bohnen. Cebotari’s unforgettable face and the naturalness of her acting redeem many a banal episode and it is good to find that Bohnen has been murdered during the second interval of Un ballo in maschera. He and Cebotari sing part of the duet in the trial scene of Andrea Chenier, Gigli following up with “Si, fui soldato”. Best of his solos is Faust’s “Giunto sul passo estremo” at the end of Mefistofele, making an exciting start to the film. In neither of the Gigli films is the sound particularly good, but the beauty of his voice and the very personal character of his style will be recognized easily enough, and with affection.
With a less ingratiating manner, Mario Del Monaco also commands the affection of many admirers. Perhaps for them the sight will add pleasure to the sound, and certainly they go together quite well, for the face is as inexpressive as the voice. With magnificent power and firmness he sings loudly throughout, with the result that once the initial impression has been made there is nothing in reserve. His first solo is the Siciliana from Cavalleria rusticana, sung without any feeling for light-and-shade, for phrasing, words or expression, and of course at a constant forte. Solos from Pagliacci and Werther are made to sound very alike, as are the songs Musica proibita and Tu ca nun chiagne. A passage from Zandonai’s Giulietta a Romeo goes well and Pinkerton’s farewell in Madama Butterfly arrives at a broadly spanned climax. In the last few minutes of this alarmingly titled collection, the singing volcano (now quiescent) gives an interview. Modest in manner, he talks in the music-room which he says he rarely visits because of the memories it evokes. He speaks of his admiration for Di Stefano and friendship with Corelli. He refers also to Caruso, but as the man who popularized internationally songs such as Funiculi funicula and Marechiare, neither of which he recorded or, as far as I know, ever sang in public. On the subject of such songs, Del Monaco claims that they can present more of a challenge to the singer than many an operatic aria, “Celeste Aida” for instance. “O sole mio”, apparently, is hardest of all. “Ah,” you think, “that’s interesting. Why should that be?” The explanation is simple, if bewildering: it has (he says) to be sung loudly throughout.'