MIDLOGUE
The Sydney Morning Herald— 30th April 1983
From Valkyrie to Madonna
Fresh from her first performance as Norma on stage at the Sydney Opera House, Icelandic diva La Fata Lillà speaks to Sharon Craig.
Her serene, pale eyes are cast out across the harbour, and she smiles lazily back at the grinning gates of Luna Park. The long ringlets of her vivd lilac hair upstage the jacarandas of Lavender Bay. She bestows her praise upon the balmy sun and light breeze, and takes another sip of shiraz. Last night, beneath the sails of the Opera House, she threw herself into a blazing funeral pyre lit for the Roman proconsul Pollione, in one of the most difficult bel canto roles ever written for the soprano voice.
Mere weeks after finishing a successful season at the Royal Swedish Opera (where she had her rise to fame more than a decade previous in the role of Isolde, earning accolades for her "Leibestod"), she was entreatied by the director of Opera Australia to come to our shores and finally gratify the legions of fans that awaited her. The incentive: the revered, coveted role of Norma, Bellini's masterwork for the dramatic coloratura soprano.
The title she is known by is La Fata Lillà, The Lilac Fairy. The only queen of the opera world to have hailed from the frigid reaches of Iceland, it is quite appropriate that her most famous role to date has been Brunhilde, the valkyrie heroine of Wagner's infamously epic Ring Cycle. Record sales of the four-opera saga have numbered in the tens of millions worldwide. However, after countless sell-out performances at the theatres of Northern Europe, this elegant Nordic songstress is now looking to a different arena.
"The Wagnerian roles are stalwart, full of tension and martial strength," she remarks softly, her voice breathy and lilting. "But there is something warmer, and more liquid in the Italian operas. Rome and Milan are the source of pure bel canto singing. Beautiful long vowels, not clipped by Germanic consonants. I had a taste of this warmth in my Traviata tour of '74, and now I want more of it."
At this point, we are interrupted by the rustling of a pot plant in the corner of the hotel suite. From behind the large dark leaves emerges a small monster, delicate white fingers groping the warm air from under a felt blanket, embroidered with a cartoon cow. It approaches the table we sit at, reaching gauchely for the nearby plate of lamingtions.
Lillà laughs, gently directing the little beast's mitt toward the sticky treat. Once it grasps its prize, a head of dark curls emerges from under the blanket and sets about devouring the delicacy. It grunts with pleasure, and its mother gives it a tender reprimand in the pleasing, feathery speech of their native Icelandic.
"Robbie has earned his own title in our circle of friends across the world," she tells me, her voice full of love as she admires the lamington-crazy seven-year-old.
In between mouthfuls, the child looks at me haughtily with the same bright eyes as his mother. He draws breath, and surprises me with an astoundingly resonant singing voice.
"Si. Mi Chiamano Glannitino
Ma il mio nome è Roberto!" He warbles, mimicing Puccini's Mimi.
"'Glannitino'," Lillà repeats. "It is a portmenteau of my nickname for him, 'Glanni', Icelandic for 'clown' or 'madman', and the Italian suffix for 'little one'. My little clown."
Anecdotes of this backstage bambino have circulated in opera society over the past few years. The most popular one describes a party held by the director of the Savoy Theatre in London. To the surprise of the high-profile guests, the small boy leapt up onto a table and fearlessly sang a rendition of the Pirate King's aria from Gilbert and Sullivan's "Pirates of Penzance"— right in front of the aging Donald Adams himself. For his efforts, he was given a ruffle of his hair and a small bag of sherberts.
"I was determined not to become a stage mother, but it seems I cannot pull Glannitino away from the lure of the opera. Every aspect of production fascinates him, from songcraft to the architecture of the theatre itself."
"I saw him gaping at our Opera House at the premiere last night," I interject with a laugh.
He eyes me again, and mumbles something to his mother in Icelandic.
As I watch parent and child bickering softly in their graceful language, a thought occurs to me. I ask Lillà if her attraction to the Italian operas had perhaps become stronger since becoming a mother.
She stares out at the harbour again, her delicate brow furrowing as she processes this. "You know," she replies eventually, "I never thought about it that way. I suppose he has softened me. We Icelanders are, like your British ancestors, known for a stiff-upper-lip attitude, staunchly braving cold winters without complaint. And yet this lovely, pretty little demon of mine is so soft, so sensitive. His pain is my pain, and I suppose I have allowed myself to be more vulnerable to sentiment since he came into my life. After all, the relationship central to all Italian culture is the mother and her son. The likes of Cio-Cio San, Suor Angelica, and even the confrontational Norma, do seem more sympathetic to me."
Speaking of which, I ask her, is there any chance that she will ever deign to perform Puccini's crowd-pleasing, heart-breaking Butterfly?
She grins, amused by the idea. "I have heard there are talks of the Vienna Opera mounting a production, but it is in very early stages thus far," she tells me. "If my manager, and more importantly, my son, allow it, I may consider throwing my hat in the ring to sing 'Un Bel Dí'."
Vincenzo Bellini's "Norma", starring La Fata Lillà and Melbourne tenor Nathan Boggs, premiered last night at the Sydney Opera House. It runs until the 26th of May.