No 8 — November 1977 Edited by Michael Walters
GILBERT OR SULLIVAN
It has fascinated me in reading the series of accounts of "How I got hooked on G & S" that everybody apparently got hooked on both at once. In my case, it was somewhat different. As an avid reader of nonsense and whimsy, I came to Gilbert via "The Bab Ballads" and eventually a few select libretti printed in some dusty little edition, whose sheer shabbiness did not deter me from realising before too long that there was in fact more than "mere" whimsy and nonsense here. Simultaneously with these discoveries, I was frequently being entertained in the evenings by my father's pianoforte rendition of a number of very pleasant tunes, which I used to hum and make up my own words to, without in the least seeing any connection between the two activities. Only after months of this doubleact situation did I come to realise that the tunes in fact generally belonged to the words I had been laughing over and reciting to myself for so long.
It is worth making this point because I know so many people who (on being pressed to come and see me 'star' in some very amateur G & S production) get out of it by remarking either that they would come but they can't bear Gilbert or they would come but they can't bear Sullivan. (This is not to count those who can't come because their aunt Mildred is arriving from Honolulu, or who simply can't bear either.) Is it in fact possible to divorce the two and what, if anything, is lost in such a process?
With hindsight I personally would say that such a divorce is not only extremely limiting but virtually destroys the essence of Savoy opera as a distinct and separate entity from all the many other comic operas in the world. For all my early lack of understanding of the "magical combination", I now realise that Gilbert & Sullivan as creative talents really have to exist in harness, an opinion which is perhaps supported (albeit indirectly) by the lack of lasting appeal of most, if not all, of the works they wrote separately from each other. This is not to deny that both had supreme individual gifts as anyone who listens to the music of The Rose of Persia or reads the libretto of His Excellency should see. But it was the fusion of their creative genius which really produced sure–fire greatness partly because of the perfect reinforcement of the point of the words by the music and partly, paradoxically enough, because of the tension which existed within the fusion.
To take the "Reinforcement" idea first, one might quote a number of examples of the perfect pointing of a word, a theme, or a situation by the melodic line. I will ignore all the obvious ones and pick one from the flawed but still under–rated Grand Duke, This is a particularly noteworthy case because it reveals just where even the most able and perceptive of critics can go wrong by judging musically or dramatically instead of from a musical and dramatic standpoint. I refer to the music for Julia when she interrupts the jollifications in the first act finale to announce her horror at Ludwig's rise to power and its inevitable repercussions in forcing her to oust Lisa as Grand Duchess. This is one extract which Gervase Hughes has criticised as having so insecure a vocal line that the voice part seems to have been artificially superimposed on an already existing melody in the orchestra, perhaps a piece composed much earlier and dragged up here by a tired and flagging composer with a deadline to meet. But, judged from a musico–dramatic position, is not the "wild insecurity" precisely the required effect? Here we have Julia, the theatrical company's very temperamental prima donna, indulging in a spectacular scene–stealing display of agitation, deliberately drawing attention away from Ludwig (and bride) onto herself and going theatrically beserk to such discordant and outlandish effect that we cannot help but notice her. As so often in Gilbert & Sullivan, the point is clarified by a chorus who make the dramatic intention perfectly plain by their obvious cynicism as to Julia's motivation, expressing the flat commonplace tones (musically & dramatically) of "Oh, that's the matter, that's the matter, is it?" To sum up, the tension between Julia and the orchestra accompanying her is in fact a unifying effect, reinforcing the dramatic intention on Gilbert's part. In the same way, by quite the opposite means, Sullivan reinforces Gilbert's intention in the sentimental and socially acceptable reunion between the dragoons and the ladies in the First Act of Patience: I refer to the sugary and rather churchy tones of "I hear the Soft note" in which the mellifluous slightly cloying harmonies evoke again exactly the dramatic mood required before the impact of the surprise abandonment (on the ladies' part) to the sudden and hysterical worship of Grosvenor. Here in Patience the effect required is one of close unity, orthodoxy, and sanctimoniousness; in Julia's case it is one of wildness, vigour, and temperamental attitudinising; and in both cases the reinforcement by Sullivan is perfect.
But there is another side to the Gilbert & Sullivan partnership, and this is the side of tension unresolved. I do not mean by this simply the deliberate lack of correlation between words and music in such obvious parodies as "Come, friends, who plough the Sea", where the noisy 'fly's foot fall' is, as most enthusiasts know, a mockery of the noisy chorus of "Stealthy & silent" abductors in Verdi's Rigoletto. Rather, I am referring to that kind of tension which is often defined in simplified terms as Sullivan providing the heart (or emotion) while Gilbert provides the mind (or wit). It is quite true that these two elements are frequently in conflict, thereby adding spice to what might otherwise be a rather bland concoction. But there is more to it than contrast and tension between writer and composer. There is also tension within the lyrics themselves.
I am sure people hardly need reminding that one of Gilbert's stock techniques in writing a two verse song is to produce one verse in a grandly romantic manner and then undercut the effect achieved in the next by reducing the atmosphere evoked to a level of comic bathos or absurdity. One example occurs in "O foolish fay". In the first verse the Fairy Queen invokes the great classical poet Ovid in the context of her own love–making. In the second, she switches to invoking the leader of the London Fire Brigade. The effect is all the more brilliant because she does so still in terms of the conventional ideas of romantic love (for example, the idea of quenching love's burning flames), so that a farcical imaginative idea (clearly depicted in Gilbert's own drawing accompanying the song in some editions) is conveyed in a context of romantic language which might have come straight out of 16th and 17th century heroic drama or its debased continuation in Victorian melodrama. Nor does the brilliance of the treatment stop there, for what the French would call 'language galant' is not only applied to a comical situation but is also used in reference to a man (Captain Shaw) who was himself deeply tangled in a celebrated divorce case at the time of Iolanthe's 1882 première. The noted philanderer is juxtaposed to Ovid in verses replete with high romantic phrasing and it is the contrasts and tensions implied within the basic framework which give the piece its distinction. One might analyse a number of Gilbert's lyrics and find similar effects, more or less humorously treated. In Pirates, Frederic makes an impassioned appeal to the ladies' sense of moral duty and follows it by a practical, straight–forward, and unflattering appeal to anybody's sense of despairing ugliness. Mabel, the beautiful heroine, eventually appears in response to the call for a girl so plain that she will yield to the pirate apprentice because she must have given up hope of getting anybody else. Everyone seems to take this for granted but it is, in fact, extraordinary that the prima donna, even in comic opera, should enter to requests for someone of "homely face" and "bad complexion". No doubt the personal attractiveness of most stage Mabels dissipates the effect, and this is probably just as well, but the fact remains that Gilbert is deliberately creating a tension here between the orthodox accepted notion of a stage heroine and the reality he creates. In other words, he is himself exploiting a dichotomy or, to put it simply, creating a deliberately jarring effect. When we bear in mind that Gilbert so often introduces this kind of contrast and tension, we can, I think, see Sullivan's own contribution to the unorthodox effects as, in a sense, reinforcing Gilbert's own approach. In Lady Jane's song in Act 2 of Patience, for example, the words alone would suggest a frankly comic, not to say grotesque treatment, but the music Sullivan wrote is, in fact, moving and gracious (high jinks at the double bass notwithstanding). The same applies to a lesser extent with the Fairy Queen's song where the music remains serious (and beautiful) all through. Sullivan in both cases is exploiting the situation to provide a contrast between what the words seem to demand and the treatment they actually get. "Heart" counterbalances "head" and there is to some extent a refreshing and invigorating tension between them. But this tension itself reinforces the tension we have seen within Gilbert's own lyrics, so that the total effect remains unified within the diversity. I have concentrated in this article naturally on the kind of examples that tend to support my thesis and I would not wish it to be thought that I see contrast and tensions necessarily always disruptive. Songs like Elsie's "Though tear & long–drawn sigh" have two verses which obviously differ in mood and tone, but in such cases there is an underlying unity of theme which prevents a jarring effect, whether of comic or any other kind. Elsie's subject is marriage and it is simply the attitudes of the women referred to in each verse which are different and which allow for variations of mood within the scope of one basic theme. In such items, the singer must maintain an underlying seriousness, reinforcing the underlying unity of the subject matter, so that there is not much tension as sheer contrast of outlook expressed between the verses. There are cases, however, where tension does exist in so subtle a way that it is likely to be overlooked and I should like to end by giving just one example of this kind of treatment in which Sullivan backs up or reinforces Gilbert in exploiting a dichotomy for a satirical purpose.
The example in question is the treatment of ancestors in Act 2 of Pirates. Gilbert, as we know, used these useful people frequently in his operas for satirical comic effect. Lady Sangazure (Blue–blood), a lady of ancient lineage (in more than one sense?) in the early Sorcerer seems, like Sir Marmaduke, to be very much an extension of her own ancestors and it is partly Alexis's impatience with notions of old–world honour and dignity (not to mention descent from Helen of Troy) which leads to the comic treatment of the generation gap in his scenes with his father. Later, in Ruddigore, ancestors actually provide the second act male chorus and are indeed a main–spring of the plot. In Pirates, however, the treatment is different in being obviously satirical to the extent of even casting doubt on the genuineness of the forebears in the first place.
The point essentially is this: General Stanley has bought a quantity of ancestors together with his castle and its chapel. He does not know whose ancestors they were but he knows whose ancestors they are; and indeed throughout Act Two the 'nouveau riche' attitudes of the Stanleys to ancestry and property are stressed. Once again, the satirically treated Mabel helps to focus the point. It is she who at a moment of crisis appeals to "all the Stanleys dead and gone" with due grand opera melodramatics - and when we reflect that her father has, in fact, bought his family's ancestors, we realise just how tongue–in–cheek Gilbert's approach to her apparently noble origins really is. Later she remarks on the sublime and uplifting qualities of family descent ("How great thy charm, thy sway how excellent") and again the theme is picked up for satirical inspection. Sullivan, for his part, gives Mabel music to match the distinctly false posturing in which she is indulging mock–heroic, mock–melodramatic, and mock grand–operatic, to boot. Author and composer are completely at one and remain so until the equally mock–melodramatic climax of "Is he to die unshriven, unannealed", when General Stanley at last seems likely himself to join his recently purchased ancestors at the hands of that, in fact, more genuinely nobly born gentleman, the Pirate King. I called this episode an example of tension, however, and it is important to see where the tension lies in face of this obviously unity of purpose. Quite simply it is a tension or, if you prefer it, an ambivalence or jarring quality within the characters themselves. Mabel and General Stanley appear to feel deeply about their forebears and family honour, yet side by side with this posturing we are presented with the far more sordid economic reality of ancestors who (rather like professional bridesmaids) can have their "services" bought and sold. General Stanley's remarks about his purchase of the entombed nobility are thus not merely an isolated bit of humour useful to fill in the time before the policemen appear. They lead to a full–scale satirical treatment not just of the nouveaux riches but also of the contrasts between appearance and reality, convention and inner truth, pretence and hard fact. Of course, the contrasts and tensions are not always at the expense of the character's self respect. In Ruddigore Sir Despard looks and acts appallingly, yet (and this is a point in his favour); if we are to believe him, his heart is as the heart of a little child. The actual substance of the contrast and tension does not, in a sense, matter. The real point is that all the main Gilbertian types (the King Gamas, Sir Despards, Dick Deadeyes, and Mabels, as well as the often pitied poor old crones) get an essentially satirical treatment in both words and music and, because author and composer are at one, a "harmony" or unity is thus obtained out of the apparently disruptive or jarring elements.
When I began this article, I entitled it, "Gilbert or Sullivan" and we have come along way from its limited question of whether, in fact, the two great men, in their work together, can be considered as separate entities. Even now there is a lot more that could be said. It would be interesting for example to explore the collaborators' frequent mockery of theatrical posturing and falsely romantic stage techniques, such as we get in the Act one dialogue between Ralph and Josephine in H.M.S. Pinafore (this being full of airy romantic bombast), in Julia's prima donna self–dramatising techniques, and in the numerous musical and verbal grand opera parodies throughout Pirates where "bel canto" (Poor Wandering One"), melodramatic heroic opera (e.g. Il Trouvatore), and absurd stage conventions of love, honour and duty are given a most rich and exciting satirical treatment. But one cannot investigate everything in the space of one article. Rather let us sum up by saying that it is the unity within, or; perhaps, above the tension which is the special hallmark of the Savoy operas' success. Sullivan and Gilbert – Gilbert and Sullivan – both reinforced each other while at the same time both exploited contrast & dichotomy. For all their famous quarrels, for all their disagreements as to artistic policy, they instinctively complemented each other and saw what the other was trying to do. Herein lies their greatness and herein also perhaps the reason for their continuing hold on the theatre–going public nearly a hundred years after the achievement of their greatest artistic triumphs. RICHARD MOORE
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