Another “Lunario”, another tenor, possibly the most legendary of all: Beniamino Gigli (who was born in Recanati in 1890 and died in Rome in 1957). In the days in which he sang, acclaimed in all the theatres of the world, a great essayist, Ugo Ojetti, wrote: “He is the eternal tenor, he is all tenors, he is the tenor’s quintessence”. Even though so many years have gone by, I feel that those words still fully apply. The most powerful memory that Gigli conveys lies in his identification with the tenor concept itself, with the singing archetype of the man who moves from the “gelida manina” to the “recondita armonia”, to the “spirto gentil”, and the “cielo e mar”. The tenor symbolises youth. Even though, as in Boito’s “Mefistofele”, he appears in the beginning white-haired and feeble, he will sell his soul in order to once again get hold of the pleasures of his green years. The tenor’s youth is completed by a noble social position: he either is a prince or a duke, a knight or a commander, a seafarer or an artist. In the rare occasion in which he is afflicted by poverty, he is at least a poet, or else it is just a disguise. Beniamino Gigli was the incarnation of all this in the ‘20s and ‘30s, the years that witnessed the height of his fame. However, great theatres were reserved for a limited audience; the diffusion of radio sets and records was also limited. Gigli still lacked the opportunity to face what we usually refer to as the “the public at large”. This happened towards the late ‘30s. Gigli played the leading role in two films, “Solo per te” and “Marionette”, both directed by Carmine Gallone. These were the years of the empire that had recently returned “sui colli fatali di Roma” [on Rome’s fatal hills] after the Ethiopia War. Well, “l’eterno tenore” [“the eternal tenor”] himself appeared singing: “Partirono le rondini/dal mio paese freddo e senza sole/cercando primavere di viole/nidi d’amore e di felicità…” [“The swallows left/my cold country without sun/seeking springs, violets/love and happiness nests”] It was somehow like allowing the frost of the Northern lands and the boreal darkness into the African heat. The meeting with the “public at large” was therefore marked by contrast. This does not mean that Gigli was an opponent of fascism: in fact, in 1945 he had problems because of his fervent support to the Mussolini regime. But no doubt “the cold country without sun”, described by him with an exile’s languishing abandon, conveyed the thrill and amazement of a reverse form of exoticism. As to the image of the tenor, fabulously related in biographies that emphasised his glorious destiny ever since he was called “the canary of the Recanati bell tower” (his father was the Duomo bell-ringer), this did not seem to live up to the description set by imagination. Rodolfo, Nemorino, Andrea Chénier, Edgardo and Cavaradossi had to identify with an affable dad already over forty, with his hands often resting on his heart and walking with his feet slightly apart, as it usually happens when one has to come to terms with corpulence.
Then his voice solved the problem. It was enough to shut your eyes, forget the malevolent close-ups of his cheeks violently shaken by the high tessituras and by the high notes, to perceive in Gigli only the tenor, that is youth, dreams and poetry. In 1941, Gigli acted in his third film, “Mamma”, directed by Guido Frignone, together with the great actress Emma Grammatica. The song by Bixio and Cherubini, starting with the words “Mamma, son tanto felice/perché ritorno da te…” [Mom, I’m so happy, ‘cause I’m coming back to you…], was a new “O sole mio”. Opera lovers will be disappointed, and possibly take offence, for this spurious heritage which does not take into account other memorable performances by Gigli. Poetry lovers might also quote other, less catchy charms about the mother’s figure.
But we are all left with Gigli’s figure. Poets say “mother” or “mater”, they place a wall between the heart and the words, they write their invocation without using a capital letter. Gigli sobs “mamma” without rational or linguistic restraints, and the capital letter does not need to be indicated: it can be perceived in the nature of the scenario itself (“Sento la mano tua stanca/cerca i miei riccioli d’or…” [I feel your tired hand, looking for my golden curls…]), in an endless sequel of old roots, pangs and goodbyes. Undoubtedly, Gigli was much more than that. When he died, Franco Abbiati, the music critic of the daily paper “Il Corriere della Sera”, remembered him with these words: “Seldom has our pen written the words “golden voice”, which is not a really weird description, but in certain cases it is irreplaceable. Only once did we joyfully emphasise it, in the ecstasy of an evening at La Scala devoted to Puccini, which had caused the audience to cheer ‘Manon Lescaut’.
Indeed, on that memorable evening, Des Grieux was Beniamino Gigli and Gigli’s voice really appeared golden, owing to the colour, the glitter, the richness and the sound for which no other metal can offer a similitude”. In the imposing volume “Great Voices – Critical and Biographical Dictionary of Singers with Opera Discography”, edited by Rodolfo Celletti and published in 1964, with regards to Gigli you will read: “In certain aria opening bars (‘Spirto gentil…’, ‘Dai campi, dai prati…’ ‘Come un bel dì di maggio…’, ‘Amor ti vieta…’, ‘Apri la tua finestra…’), the sound was so pure and delicate, and the expression was so happily ecstatic, that the abused phrase ‘angelic voice’ suddenly recovered its power and meaning”.
I feel these high praises are still well-deserved. We would not otherwise understand the fame which allowed Gigli to become a citizen of the world. Many Italian soldiers who unfortunately fell into German hands after September 8th, 1943, saw a flash of respite in the eyes of their guards when they repeated with a harsh Teutonic accent: “Ghi-ghli, Ghi-ghli”.
If a voice can produce this result, it means that it has already surpassed the usual limits of performance and forestage. All this is irreparably distant in time. A singer’s hoarseness is an anonymous accident compared with a football player’s pulled muscle or an athletic pubalgia. In the opera world, stardoms ended with the death of Maria Callas or, in order to survive, “the three tenors” need to be gathered together for a concert (we are referring, in strict alphabetical order, to: José Carreras, Placido Domingo and Luciano Pavarotti). For Beniamino Gigli not even an anniversary is required, when one arrives with a bunch of flowers, holds a few conferences, exhibits some memorabilia, offers a bust or opens a new square.
The immovable youth, of which the tenor represents the worn banner, celebrates his resurrections in distant and impervious lands, castles and towns. Winter is in our midst. The thermometer gives subzero conditions.
Gigli could only return to act the part of the poet Rodolfo, under the artificial snow and in the artificial cold of the Barrière d’ Enfer (“Bohème”, act three).

Translated by interpres sas