I first met Irving Guttman in the early sixties in Montreal. He was already in the pantheon of great Opera Directors with an international reputation and firmly established as a propelling force in the burgeoning Canadian Opera scene. I was a newly-minted “opera singer” out of the Banff School Opera Division and now in the Chorus of the Montreal Opera Company making $57.00 a performance. To give some perspective on that fee, it would be the equivalent of $457.72 in today’s money, so I wasn’t doing too badly for a newbie. I had already done one “big” opera (my first with M.O.C.) with Irving as Director (“Marriage of Figaro”) and now headed into my second – ‘Tosca”. The great thing about these particular operas was that I had already done them as a Chorus member in the Opera Division at the Banff School so I knew the music very well. While I went on to do three more productions in Montreal with Irving as the Director, it was during “Tosca” that my most indelible memory of him was formed and, a bit later in “Aida”, that his most indelible memory of ME was formed!

Irving was gangly, laconic, somewhat lugubrious and very droll. He hunched over a lot to make himself seem smaller and had a huge head and very large shoulders. While not overly intimidating, he commanded respect merely by his slow and distinctive speaking when directing. It was during an early orchestra rehearsal on stage that Irving needed to give our ‘Tosca’ (the spectacular African American soprano, Ella Lee) some revised blocking for the finale of the production. In the opera, Tosca murders the lustful head of the Roman police, ‘Baron Scarpia’, after he has promised her he would rescind the orders to have her incarcerated lover ‘Mario’ executed for supposed crimes against the Republic. However, unbeknownst to Tosca, he has secretly told his henchmen to really perform the execution. Tosca meets up with Mario on the parapet of the Castel Sant’Angelo prison telling him that he is supposed to “play dead” when the firing squad shoots him, that the bullets will be blanks.

Because the Chorus’s only duty was to sing the glorious “Te Deum” at the end of the first Act, many of the Chorus Men were used as the soldiers of the firing squad later in the opera. I was one of those soldiers. The moment for the execution arrives. The shots are fired and Mario falls as planned. Tosca watches, whispering to herself that he should stay still till the soldiers leave. The squad departs and Tosca rushes over the Mario only to discover that he is dead after all.

Irving had instructed Ella to stand to the side of the stage and sing as normal and watch him as he did the new blocking for her. Irving became Tosca! Now to say that he got into the part would be an understatement. Tosca’s realization that Mario is really dead is vocally and physically fraught. Off to the side Ella began to sing with all the drama and hysteria associated with the moment as Irving, now fully immersed in the character, took flight: “Mario! Mario! Aaah! Dead! Dead? You? Like this? Dead like this! Like this?” Irving pulled himself away from the body and began tearing back and forth across the stage, lip-synching in his most pseudo-diva fashion as Ella screeched away (musically, of course). His long arms reached to the heavens, hands clawed at the air as his face contorted in “her” pain and fury. He rushed back to the prone body, throwing himself onto Mario (played in this production by Richard Verreau who let out an “Oomph” as Irving landed on him) trying to wake him up!

At this point, the murder of Scarpia has been discovered off-stage and the orchestra begins an “agitato” buzz as distant angry voices start to howl: “It was Tosca! She did it! Don’t let her escape!” We (the soldiers and officers) rushed onto the stage! “There she is! Tosca, you will pay for his life!” Irving turned to the advancing soldiers and, with his hands clawing the air and his face contorted with fury, lip-synched Ella’s words back at them “With my own!” He pushed past the crowd and dashed up the stairs to the top-most part of the parapet, turned to the group below and, with arms outstretched to the heavens as Ella sang the opera’s final line – “Oh Scarpia! Before God!!” – leapt off the back of the set! The orchestra reached the majestic conclusion of the Opera as the soldiers rushed up to look over the wall and the lights went to black!!

It took a moment for the work lights to come on and for our eyes to adjust. There, eight feet below us, was Irving now surrounded by the stage crew, stretched out on the thick mattresses that had cushioned the fall, his arms folded across his chest looking back up at us.

“E-l-l-l-l-la?” he droned.

“Yes, Irving” she said, walking up the stairs to the parapet and looking down at him.

“Di-i-i-d you ge-e-e-et al-l-l-l tha-a-a-at?” 

Ella leaned over, put her hands on her knees and, in her Yankee drawl, said “Some of it. Would ya mind doin’ it again?”

There was a split second as her response was translated – most of the chorus guys were French – and we all lost it!

Flash forward twenty-three years! I had moved up in the world considerably since those days and so had Irving, now an “eminence grise” in the Opera world. He had become Artistic Director and Advisor to any number of Opera Companies in Canada and the US. He had helped esstablish the Manitoba Opera Association and, I discovered, had been keeping watch over all the goings-on in the background while relentlessly mentoring emerging and established singers far and near. Even though I’d done a few tours for the MOA, I wasn’t aware of Irving’s connection. Bruce Lang, the General Manager, had been the person who always hired me … until “Die Fledermaus” came along.

There are not many non-singing roles of any consequence in opera. I can count on one hand those that come to mind. ‘Frosch’ in “Fledermaus” is one of them. He is the jailer and appears only in Act Three, but in a major way. Bruce had been in touch to ask me if I was interested in playing the role and we’d arranged to meet at the office to talk some more. I arrived to find Irving sitting in the office with him. After pleasantries, I told him that, while he might not remember, I had been in all those Choruses with the Montreal Opera so many years ago. “Oh, I remember you very well”. That took me by surprise! “You were the kid who almost landed in Zubin’s lap on the opening night of “Aida”!

“Aida” is the grandest of the Grand Operas! It is famous for the “Triumphal March”, an immense extended spectacle featuring as many people as a Company can cram onto a stage along with live animals (think horses, camels, elephants), dozens of extras, horse-drawn chariots, a large troupe of dancers, huge prop statues of the Egyptian gods and anything else you can think of that says “Visual Excess!!” In our production (which starred Virginia Zeani as ‘Aida’, the ledgendary John Vickers as ‘Radames’ and Lili Chookasian as ‘Amneris) I was an ‘Ethiopian Slave’. I knew that because that’s what my loincloth costume said – “Ethiopian Slave”. In order to give a better impression that we were African, we had to cover ourselves with “Texas Dirt”, a deep red powder that coloured the skin and hardened like sun-baked mud. On top of that we were swathed down to glistening perfection with baby oil … LOTS of baby oil! There were six of us accompanied by our supernumerary soldier escorts, huge muscular guys who had been hired just to push us around. We were paraded into the wings to await our entrance, singing from offstage to augment the huge chorus of Egyptian High Priests, Temple Officials and the various hangers-on that accompanied such occasions. As the procession processed, at a signal from Stage Management, we started to walk on to the stage. The Place des Arts stage is gargantuan! As we cleared the wings, the guards, as they’d been instructed, began to push us roughly toward center stage.

For some reason, my guard had decided to “get into” his role. As we approached the middle of the stage, he gave me a shove so hard that I fell forward on to the stage floor and because of all the baby oil I began to slide on my stomach toward the front of the stage. My hands could get no traction, covered with as they were, and there was nothing for me to grab on to and I just kept sliding, like a fish going down a sorting chute, heading toward the abyss of the orchestra pit! I could feel myself slowing a bit as my shoulders went over the edge of the stage. I stretched out my arms to my side trying desperately to stop myself. I grabbed hold of the lip of the stage and, like squirrel whose rear legs can turn backwards to climb down a tree, my hands revolved and found a tiny crevice into which I jammed my thumbs. I was looking straight ahead and could see Zubin Mehta’s face just a few feet away (much as in the picture here) getting closer and closer to mine, his eyes getting wider and wider. With all my strength I bore down with my thumbs and, just as my belly button – the fulcrum beyond which there would be no return – began to slide over the edge of the stage … I stopped! The guard had caught up to me by then and grabbed me by my legs, pulling me upright and back into the still-parading procession. This all took a matter of seconds but it seemed like an eternity – at least to me – all in slow motion! Needless to say, the amount of baby oil was reduced and it didn’t happen again.

Bruce and Irving laughed at my recounting of the experience. Irving told me he had to control himself from involuntarily standing up in his seat in the audience as he watched my slide. Funny what sticks in one’s memory.

I’ve often wondered what happens in the back rooms of theatres when people are hiring for shows. Certainly there had been conversations between Irving and Bruce about who to contract for the MOA’s productions as, over the years, there had been with other General Managers at the various other opera companies Irving was advising. How many times had my name been brought up in considerations either as a performer or a Director? Over the span of my career I figure it has gone something like: at the start “Who is Richard Hurst?”  then “Get me Richard Hurst!” then, a while later “Get me a Richard Hurst type.” and finally, “Who is Richard Hurst?” It’s an odd thing to think about, but one never knows how you’re being thought of by others. Sorry, just a bit of hindsight paranoia taking hold for a moment. In any case, Irving said the part was mine; I signed the ‘Frosh’ contract and began a renewed and much cherished history with Irving who would cast me over and over again with the Winnipeg, Calgary and Edmonton Companies he steered. When the would phone would ring and I’d pick it up hearing a momentary silence and then “Rii-iichh-aard, it’s Irrr-viiing”, I knew work was on the horizon.

There is a strange thing about opera audiences. They’ll laugh at anything! Probably because of the high drama and tragedy they’re so used to stage, anything with even the faintest hint of humour will send them into gales of laughter. I always sit at a performance completely baffled at those responses. “Frosch’ is usually played as “a drunk” and, depending on the translation, the actor, the director’s whim or pure indulgence, it’s a part that can, and usually does, go way, way beyond the bounds of taste and believability. I’ve seen some painfully embarrassing portrayals usually spurred on by that opera audience’s desperation for something “funny” to laugh at. I was determined to not fall into that cringe worthy category. However, our Director presented an obstacle in my achieving that goal.

David Morelock had directed “Fledermaus” many times in various places and, as a lot of directors did back in those days, had an immovable formula for his directing of it. We all found out rather quickly his intention was to stick to that approach. In the case of ‘Frosch’ he wanted him played a certain way and felt quite comfortable having me parrot his line readings and physicalization. That was a no-go with me, and, as it turned out, with some of the others in the cast. Our group was stellar: the glamorous Heather Thomson was ‘Rosalinda”, Richard Margison was ‘Alfred’, Cornelius Opthof was ‘Eisenstein’ and our own Tracy Dahl was ‘Adele’ returning to Winnipeg in glorious triumph after conquering Opera houses all over the world. When I came to rehearsals, I would detect a distinct tension in the room. High-end Opera singers in “tension mode” are not a pretty sight! It became obvious that there were some who wanted to try something new and were going to the floor to convince Morelock to depart from his normal approach. Then there were others who stood their ground because of the “this-is-how-I-do-the role” approach to performing.

I felt slightly left out because this was my first swing at ‘Frosch’ and I needed some guidance. However, I knew that being asked to replicate a Director’s portrayal (as I had been the case on previous occasions!) was simply not acceptable. I adopted a measured approach by taking his suggestions and expanding and elaborating on them. It was at this point that I think he realized that I was a rather capable actor and, after three or four more rehearsals, acquiesced to what I was doing. At one rehearsal well into the process, much to my amazement, he asked me what my name was!!! WHAT MY NAME WAS??? Opera is a rough business!

Using orchestra overtime constraints as a rationale, he proceeded to cut my part to the bare nubbins reducing ‘Frosch’ to little more than a doorman for the singing characters that arrive at the jail he oversees. But that was alright with me actually. There was still a lot for me to do to bring this character to life. Usually, there is an extended monologue/pantomime that introduces ‘Frosch’ to the audience at the top of Act III. This was where I had always become massively embarrassed watching these performers stagger about the stage, knocking into things, falling down and generally “acting” drunk. The trick to playing drunk on stage is to play NOT drunk, to play the character’s need to hide the fact that he is drunk. While it’s a more reliable approach it’s also much more difficult to detail. It’s also much more fulfilling when it works. ‘Frosch, the drunk’ lives in the moment. For him there is no past or future but only what he experiences AS IT HAPPENS. And that’s how I played him … MUCH to everyone’s delight!

There were old chestnut “bits” that David decided we should incorporate, like trying to hang a hat on a wall hook and not being able to figure out why it wouldn’t stay there. It’s only silly when you play the bit but, as I discovered a long time ago, actually funny when you play the Truth each single moment of the problem. And then there was the “harp bit”. There is a holding cell in the corner jailer’s room. (Can you see where this is going?) As ‘Frosch’ moves back into the room at one point, he absently runs his hand across the bars of the cell like one would with a stick along a picket fence. Much to his amazement, this action produces a beautiful harp glissando. And I’m off!! Our conductor was Anton Coppola (uncle to Francis Ford), a little martinet of a Musical Director. He was almost five feet tall filled with wild Italian fury and had been doing opera forever (he’s still alive at 101 years of age)! I developed a great respect for him however as, in amazement, I watched him rehearse and conduct without any reference to a score! He took his job very seriously albeit humourously and brooked no dissention. His word was law! But he seemed to find something funny in my harp bit and as we rehearsed it, initially with the piano and then with the orchestra, he would go into a frenzy when the pianist and ultimately, the harpist, would mess up the timing with the glisses. “WATCH HIM!! WATCH HIM” he would yell at the top of his lungs.

I smile in remembering all this not so much because of the bit itself and what went into making it work, but because of the audience’s reaction to it. They went nuts! I’ve said before in these pages that there is nothing quite like hearing an audience laugh at something you’re doing on stage. But this was overwhelming! Because of the hat thing and a few other bits I’d done, they had, in a very short period of time, come to “know” ‘Frosch’ and how he reacted to things. They were beyond primed waiting for the next thing I would do. I also knew that I had them in the palm of my hand!  With the first harp gliss as I ran my hand across the bars and halted, the laughter began. It just built and built as each element of our (his and my) bewilderment took us deeper and deeper into the “bit”. It culminated in my realizing what was happening and sitting down on a stool, putting my arms through the bars and, like a real harpist, “playing” a tiny bit of “Claire so comfortable and centered in the experience.

Immediately following the opening performance, I received three offers for a year hence – from Irving, ‘Njegus’ in “The Merry Widow” for Manitoba Opera, from David Speers, ‘The Detective’ in “Porgy and Bess” for Calgary Opera and, again from Irving ‘Major General Stanley’ in “Pirates of Penzance” for Edmonton Opera. The first two are spoken roles and the third is a major singing role. The unfortunate thing about these offers was that they were ALL happening at exactly the same time!! I’ll keep you in suspense about which one I took.

I have little actual detail to write about my next theatre experience except that it taught me a valuable lesson about my place in this crazy business. It revolved around a production of a rather weird farce called “The Foreigner” by Larry Shue at MTC. During my early years in Winnipeg I had set aside the directing abilities I’d developed during many shows in Portland and relinquished any hopes of breaking into that exalted echelon in my new city. I had become immersed in acting and singing and dancing and no one knew me as a Director although my resume listed some of my credits in that area. As my reputation evolved, I decided that I might dip my toe back into directing, but the opportunities were not presenting themselves despite my asking. I thought another route might be the way to go, and, to that end, approached the Manitoba Arts Council for a Professional Development Grant as the Assistant Director for “The Foreigner”. I took my plan to Rick McNair at MTC. That the theatre wouldn’t have to pay me anything was, to say the least, attractive to Rick and I got the “job”.

An “Assistant Director” is a nobody. The job is neither fish nor fowl. There is no true definition of the position. The job is whatever the Director wants it or needs it to be. There are no proscribed responsibilities. There is no “power” associated with the job. And, as I quickly discovered, no one, and I mean NO one, pays any attention to the person occupying this position. I tried to offer help in any way I could to the Director, Stage Management, and the Cast, all to no avail. I became a ghost taking up spaced in the corner hoping for a glance, a request for some input, some small acknowledgement of my existence. Nothing. I spent all my time taking copious notes on things I noticed might need some attention – a continuously fumbled line, a prop that needed some repair, a bit of blocking that wasn’t working (at least to my eye) – but wasn’t being asked for my input. Our Director was a very nice man, maybe a bit passive and indecisive, but hadn’t done a lot of directing and was (again, at least to my eye) trying to keep his head above water and not cause any conflict with anyone. I could have helped but thought that would be perceived as an infringement on the power so I just kept taking the notes at no one’s behest and, all, really, for no reason whatsoever.

Eventually, I got to be friendly with most of the cast and, out of desperation, asked if anyone wanted me to run lines with them. That got a few takers and I started to feel at least a little bit useful. However, those line-running sessions turned into something else altogether. Because our Director was rather noncommittal in his approach, the actors weren’t getting the input and guidance they needed. As time went on, our line-running sessions turned into bitching sessions. The folks with whom I was working now felt comfortable enough to lay out to me their grievances and frustrations about how the rehearsals were going, about other members of the cast not being up to snuff and, worst of all, asking me give them some direction for scenes they thought weren’t working! I was caught! I couldn’t go to anyone with these complaints. I had, unintentionally, been turned into a confidant, a co-conspirator.

In my most diplomatic style, I broached some of the turmoil with the Director, prefacing some of “my” observations with words like “perhaps” or “maybe” or “do you think”. But all to no avail. He thought things were going just fine the way they were. I backed off and, understanding the boundaries, reported back to the complainers that they would have to fend for themselves. I suggested to them that they might test the waters for themselves by making the tiniest of changes a little at a time and, if a challenge arose from the table, to say they were just “trying something” for themselves to see how it would work. If there was no pushback, keep the new approach. It was very underhanded of me to take this tack and I felt like a traitor doing it, but, amazingly (or perhaps not) it worked! They weren’t drastic changes the actors gradually incorporated into their portrayals, but changes enough to mesh with what the Director wanted and what the actors felt they needed. I just stayed in the background, watching and taking notes and, from time to time, getting a little eye-raise or wink from folks in the rehearsals who were now feeling a little more “looked after”. I felt somewhat satisfied with that result but very unfulfilled artistically.

While not a total control freak as a Director, I need to maintain a sense of my vision for a production being carried out. I have been charged with that responsibility and am the only one who can make the decisions. Input is good. Conversation and discussion is good. Approachability is good. But bringing someone into my mind to understand my sensibilities and thought processes is not how I can operate. An “Assistant” Director is, to me, now, someone to whom I would have to explain things that I am still in the process of developing myself, and I have found it almost an intrusion when I’ve acquiesced to someone’s request to take on that position. I know it’s uncharitable of me and the antithesis of being an educator and I’m not proud of that. It’s only happened to me twice and in both cases I was left with a sense of guilt and, at the same time, pity for the poor individual who had to endure the same reticence I’d experienced in that job. Lessons learned … on both sides of the coin.

NEXT: IT TAKES A L-O-ONG TIME TO WRITE A MUSICAL!