Having been more than happy over the years with Gui's stylishly conducted though strangely abbreviated 1953 Glyndebourne recording of La Cenerentola and, later, with Abbado's finely honed 1971 DG recording, I had quite overlooked the enormously compelling rival set that Erik Smith produced for Decca in Florence in 1963. In a way which is surprisingly rare on record, the Decca set is like a first-rate night out at the theatre.
The early 1960s were of course the heyday of Sonicstage stereo recordings. This Decca La Cenerentola puts us into an extremely comfortable seat in the middle of Row E of the stalls of the Teatro della Pergola. And having put us in the best seat in the house—close enough to smell the grease-paint and to get voices and orchestra in full flood—Decca proceed to lay on a performance that has all the relish and larger-than-life brio of the best kind of old-fashioned Rossini theatre production.
In all this, the hero of the occasion is the veteran conductor, Oliviero de Fabritiis. He and his lively Florentine band catch our attention with the first note of the Overture and hold it in thrall for the next two and a half hours. Every note of the score is played with a huge infectious relish. They can even make Agolini sound first-rate. (He is the man who wrote three of the numbers for the premiere, including Alidoro's ''Vasto teatro e il mondo'' which is preferred here to Rossini's later rewrite.) Indeed, such is the concentration of the playing, we miss nothing of the appalling brutality of the moment when Magnifico announces that Cenerentola is dead, despite the fact that an over-the-top Paolo Montarsolo is doing all he can to milk the moment for laughs. Of course, de Fabritiis's conducting won't find favour with the muesli and skimmed milk brigade who favour a more 'period' approach to Rossini, and he cannot quite get the rhythmic 'spin' on a number like ''Zitto, zitto'' that Gui does with Juan Oncina and Sesto Bruscantini (EMI's Dandini as well as Decca's in a part he famously made his own). But even in ''Zitto, zitto'' the longer line is there. By 1817 Rossini was beginning to create enormously long-breathed dramatic structures and de Fabritiis's reading of this great Finale Primo is seamless, unstoppable, and thrilling in its concentrated forward momentum.
With Ugo Benelli as an unwimpish, strikingly sympathetic Ramiro, the question remains: what of Simionato's Cenerentola? Hers was a Janus-like Rossini talent: an old-fashioned rather erratically schooled manner and technique that none the less thrived on the endless challenges thrown up by the tentative stirrings of revived interest in Rossini in the 1950s. When the Decca set first appeared, Philip Hope-Wallace was guardedly enthusiastic: ''I wouldn't put her final fireworks in the category of the unimaginably perfect, but they are vivid, not bottled up gurgles''. Harold Rosenthal in Volume 2 of Opera on Record (Hutchinson: 1983) thought Simionato gave Cenerentola an Amneris-like presence, but that judgement smacks of selective listening. I was surprised how supple and vulnerable-sounding she is in her Act 1 encounter with Ramiro. Equally, exchanges with Dandini in Act 2 whilst Ramiro is in hiding—simple secco recitative—are as touchingly done as the more famous plaint ''Una volta c'era un re''. As for the great Act 2 showcase finale, Hope-Wallace was exactly right. It is vivid. (To the point of overloading the recording at one point: Disc 2, track 17, 2'01''.) Vivid and touching.
I have written lengthily about this Decca La Cenerentola, partly because its merits deserve notice; partly because it is precisely the kind of set that new converts—the hordes that are theoretically being lured to opera by Pavarotti and friends—may well buy and relish for its intoxicating mix of musical spirit, theatrical flair and technical prowess.
The Glyndebourne set ought to sound much more modest. But they knew a thing or two about making operas in mono in 1953. The recording does not quite have the almost stereophonic presence of the slightly later Le Comte Ory (see below), but in these new CD transfers it emerges sounding splendidly clear and well balanced, the stage 'picture' always strikingly there. As for the performance—well, having just sat through the de Fabritiis, I found myself (such are the trials of this job) being lured by Gui and the matchlessly stylish Glyndebourne Festival Orchestra into a further two hours of more or less undiluted pleasure.
In practice, there is little to choose between the two casts. Marina de Gabarain depicts a more obviously vulnerable Cenerentola than Simionato but has similar strengths and weaknesses technically. Oncina is every bit as charming as Benelli. Bruscantini is irrefutably fine on both sets. Where Magnifico is concerned, the Glyndebourne set wins the war but loses the peace. Ian Wallace is as funny as Montarsolo (the scene with Dandini in Act 2 is done to perfection) and he is much more the Rossini stylist (Cenerentola's 'death' isn't marred by ham acting). But he loses an aria. Alidoro is also reduced to a cypher in a performing edition that cuts, sentimentalizes and partly rewrites his part. As the above timings reveal, the Glyndebourne set cuts over 20 minutes of music. True, the cuts damage Agolini more than they do Rossini. But they exist. So if you are looking for a complete La Cenerentola and an unimpeachably stylish one, the one to go for is still the 1971 DG set with Berganza, Alva, Capecchi and Montarsolo. It is more expensive but everything is there and beautifully in place. Abbado even manages to discipline Montarsolo into making Magnifico more man than monster. How nice to be spoilt for choice.'