This was always the odd one out among Callas's EMI recordings. Though originally, in the UK, issued (like the others of its period) first in mono in the Columbia 33CX series, it was made for Ricordi, who still own the copyright, and appeared in America on Mercury, with reissues on Everest-Cetra. EMI did not include it in the canon when they planned the transfer of their Callas operas to CD, and it joins the collection only now that others, such as the Lisbon and Milan Traviata (reviewed on page 1558), have been added to the list. There are good reasons, quite apart from copyright and so forth, for keeping it separate: it is not so carefully produced as the others, the casting is barely adequate, the recorded sound is dry, the text incomplete. Nor does Callas do full justice to herself or to the part. It was, of course, one of her great roles, but she sang it better on other occasions, some of which have appeared on 'unofficial' releases. It followed closely on the 1957 Edinburgh La sonnambula, which itself had been undertaken during a period of stress; though she gives unstintingly of voice and spirit there is a want of freshness, and even, till the final act, of those moments of sudden insight which were so regularly the mark of a great Callas performance.
That last act does indeed bear the authentic stamp. Medea's opening phrase, her invocation to the gods, has tremendous concentration and a vivid sense of presence. The fierce internal debate finds expression in subtle inflexions (the softening portamento in ''natura'', the steeling tone of ''morir dovran''). The harrowing cries of ''Lontan! lontan! serpenti'' and ''No, cari figli, no'' give way to the exhaustion of ''Son vinta gia'', and the aria ''Del fiero duol'' calls on that fine reserve of dark colours in the lower and, by this time, most beautiful part of her voice. Later, hearing of her rival's grateful acceptance of the poisoned coronet, the vindictive prayer, ''La uccida, o Numi, l'empio giubilo'', leaps into a clear spotlight and provides at least one example of the power she had of making a phrase in recitative carry the dramatic weight of a whole aria.
So, for this alone (and of course there is more) we must value the recording. Among its other attractions is the young Scotto as Glauce, clear-voiced and already an artist who draws attention. Mirto Picchi as Giasone makes surprisingly little of the character yet sings well. (I remember the disbelief of a member of the Bologna chorus whom I was chatting with on the way to a matinee of Billy Budd in which the Captain Vere was to be Picchi, when I said that I had last heard him in Norma with Callas: ''Oh no, it couldn't have been Picchi. Fine artist, yes, a true musician, but not a tenor to sing with the Callas, oh no!''.) The Creonte lacks character and style, and the Neris (whose solo is the one point of restful beauty in the opera) gives a routine account. Serafin conducts with a good sharp beat, but I don't feel closer to the music with him. The cuts are fairly savage, including some of Medea's part. The recording lacks atmosphere and though the CD transfer ensures maximum clarity it does not produce likeable quality. In the Beethoven aria its clarity is positively cruel, exposing the wear on the voice with all the ruthlessness of a light shone into an ageing face: still, an apt choice for a fill-up and an expressive, valiant performance.'