Soulful, certain, and now seventy, a flag of silver hair streaming down her mantled back, Teresa Stratas flew up from Florida Thursday so that the MET could celebrate her; and both the old guard (Albanese, Peters, Elias) and a bit of the new (Racette: but where was Flanigan?) were there at Town Hall to blow kisses and pay court. Paul Gruber was the producer and host, and he put together a program in which substantial video records of Stratas’ performances framed three Q&A sequences with the retired star.
It was interesting to hear her again, not having heard some of these screen performances for years. Greek by birth, Canadian by passport, Stratas always struck me as an Italian actress with a German voice: that is, while her soprano always sounded bright and incisive rather than warm and rich, both her melting phrasing and her vulnerable onstage persona seemed forged for Puccini. And she was ever a deeply honest singer: the camera attests that, whether singing Violetta, Jenny, or Marie Antoinette, she lived each rôle moment to moment.
On Thursday night, when speaking about her work, Ms. Stratas spoke almost exclusively about herself. She started out loathing Mozart: later, mysteriously, he became her favorite composer. She enjoyed working with colleagues (Jon Vickers, the director Fabrizio Melano) but what, if anything, she learned from them, she kept unsaid; and from other stage directors, she needed only that “they keep out of her way.” Recalling past rehearsals, Stratas reproached herself for being “fierce about the piece,” but mentioned nothing specific, either about whatever piece she was working on or what prompted her ferocity. Of music and musicianship, she said nothing: and, when discussing acting, recalled only that an early coach in Canada had warned her that she had “perfect instincts,” and never to let anyone tell her otherwise.
Perhaps, then, it was the juxtaposing of snippets of all these performances with Stratas’ somewhat mirror-gazing pronouncements that made it seem as if she gave the same performance in every rôle. Needy, tremulous, plucky, but game, she looked and sounded born for Mimi and Suor Angelica. But her delicacy sat oddly on Weill’s hard-boiled Jenny; and as the doomed and aristocratic Marie Antoinette in The Ghosts of Versailles, Stratas gave a beautiful and moving performance as a lost little girl.
One definition of stardom is remaining yourself in every rôle. One definition of great acting is losing yourself in every rôle. In cinematic terms, Stratas at her best was less Meryl Streep than Judy Garland. But who would want a world without both? When Stratas came out for her final bow at evening’s end, the house went wild. So did we.
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