Maria Callas by Robert Sutherland, 0094787905, Lowest Book Price Finder

Customer Reviews:

"A thunderstorm upon a circling dove."

It was the earlier reviews which prompted me to go borrow this book. Believe it or not we have them all. I had a suspicion that I might be descending toward voyeurism akin to soap opera now that the introspective, the expression of pure feeling and indeed, the dignity of the diva had been trodden well into the Earth. I was going to peep through a window that had been made for me so to see, (be told) where the incomprehensibly beautiful gift used to hang her 'things' and whether or not she used floss. How she might have covetted the odd idea, then decided that it was not for her, especially with regard to...have to whisper this word...lovers. You have to see the bed too and nod so to signify partial satisfaction, but all of the satisfaction that one will get, thank you! I say that this was my suspicion because this particular book being a mirror of her charisma, her incomprehensibility (her expression of that eternal garden which the herds of voyeaurs and pedastel downers don't understand or even have the concept of, nor would they even if offered it), was a bit much to ask. This said, how many books are there now? Well, a few and most but not all are accounts of her devastating effect upon others, often with a great amount of neautralising of talent and obviating of a beauty 'which would annihilate me because I am inferior and unworthy, thereby this is the only way I can relate to her,' slung in. Whether or not there is an element of 'I'll get my own back because of what the vituperative 'thing' said (bawled) at me)', is another matter. I mean, who can live with such reducing into the realms of empty space? Especially when 'I am a pianist and I was told that 'I' had talent, especially by my mamsikins?' Hmm? It becomes worse when motivations are cloaked with a surface veneer of indifference so not to seem the obvious malefactor, when beneath, brews the seething, the effect of the 'lopping off' of one's courage. Ha! I am listening to recordings of the final tour as I write this and reading what is said in the book. It's interesting you know, to examine one's expectations first and before the offending blade begins to prick at one's heart. It would be too easy of me to say that this is unbearable mediocrity and there is nothing to be understood, because there is, yes, once the window is well and truly slammed shut. Perhaps, I might project a line or two into the text and thereby make the lines glow? Better not. Alright, I will. Which evening was it when Mr. Sutherland was told in no uncertain terms by the diva that his playing was not to her liking, that far from being suportive of both her and Giuseppe, he was akin to that of a thunderstorm upon a circling dove? Worse, that his thrusting style had a scattering effect upon the sensuality, the fragility of her voice which did require a compliment and a support. It would seem to me, that this immature inability to empathise with her needs when she could have done with it most is very much in evidence now and there is more of it. Enough! Enough!

Sutherland - An account of great insight

In this book Robert Sutherland portrays Maria Callas as a human being. For years people have been obsessed by this woman, indeed they have been prepared to swallow any rumour or whisper relating to the Diva's life and career. It seems a last we have a true account, "worts and all" from Robert Sutherland. He dispels many myths about Callas (the tape worm story for example). The humility, integrity, honesty, humour and charm in his writing makes this book one of the most fascinating reads ever!

very interesting - entirely different perspective

Better he than me. I could not have dealt with la Callas and di Stefano. Too bad Callas didn't have someone to slap her hard and direct her life and career. She would have been much happier. But then, she never asked me.uncle louie

entertaining, but unreliable and slanted

Not another book about the Greek Songstress! Onassis! The Edinburgh Walk-Out! The Feud with Tebaldi!. At first we are tempted to put this on the pile with the Stassinopoulous etc. for the next jumble sale. Later, noting that the author is of sobre Caledonian pedigree, possibly Aberdonian, we reflect that these 'diares' might be realistic rather than fanciful. But there is something odd about them, and something unreliable. Why has it taken so long to publish them?

A more accurate title might have been 'Confessions of an Accompanist,' Callas and I,' or 'The Callas-Suitherland Grand Tour.' Mr. Sutherland, deputy accompanist for the Callas-Di Stefano tour, must at first have thought he was on a sort of freebie, for his pianistic duties turn out to be light as rehearsals and even performances are cancelled in the interest of shopping, watching TV, pasting recipes in scrapbooks, giving Mr. Sutherland plenty of time to write up his 'diaries.' It soon emerges, however, that Mme. Callasr equires him for duties that go ell beyond tinkling the ivories. He must be escort, mediator, voice coach, furniture remover, seamstress etc, and a wet shoulder to cry on when the diva is in distress. The innocent might ask why did Mr. Sutherland put up with what was called a circus by Gorlinski, the tour's impresario? Would Ivor Newton or Gerald Moore have tolerated the sort of menial general factotum role played here by Mr. Sutherland?

Certainly Mr. Sutherland had a hard time as a sort of whipping-boy in the squabbles between Mme. Callas and her tenor partner, Giuseppe Di Stefaano, known to friends, fans, and his mother as Pippo, but not to Mr. Sutherland. Mr. Sutherland, firmly under the spell of the Greek Songstress after having succumbed to her quenelles a la Bois de Boulogne (a piece of very unaberdonian sybaritic decadence), loses his sobre judgement. Vainly he tries to conceal the deficiencies of her concerts, devoid of the bel canto cantilenas and caballettas which had made her famous, and depending on endless perilous renderings of such Gems from the Opera as Oh My Beloved Daddy and the Habanera or Habanero from Carmen (Mr. Sutherland cannot make up his mind, and at one point has the tenor sing a ballad called Aye, Aye, Aye - a number we can only guess to come from Hamish McCunn's lost lieder cycle The Lilt of Auld Aberdeen. Frankly, it is unlijely that Sig. Di Stefano was familiar with the music of Hamish McCunn.

Throughout, there is a suspicion that Mr. Sutherland is not at eas in the operatic milieu, as when he refers to a distinguished bass as a baritone.

Sig. Di Stefano is characterised as a Sicilian mafioso, notwithstanding his northern Italian upbringing and cultural milieu. The most ludicrous moment of the book is when Mr. Sutherland, now seeing everyday life through operatic lenses of jam-jar thickness, does a Spoletta at Mme Callas's bidding and furtively searches through Sig. Di Stefano's evening dress for a concealed dagger with which he might asault the Greek Songstress during the Cavalleria duet. For this demeaning behaviour, unworthy of a dignified accompanist of Calvinistic stock, being later sentenced to walking his dog in the Glasgow parks was but a mild castigation.

Mme Callas, a lonely woman in this post Venice Lido period, required the tenor's attention night and day, whereas he, with a gravely ill daughter longed for time off for visiting his family, his literary readings, and his other recreational pursuits. From his point of view it seemd perfectly sensible to do a runner from this circus from time to time, if only in the interest of sanity. So possessive does the Greek Tigress become that she issues a ban forbidding the (intermittent) presence of Mme. Di Stefano at the concerts, totally unreasonable behaviour which Mr. Sutherland seems to approve of. These are muddy waters, left muddier still by this account. What we need is a physical descreiption of Mme.Di Stefano, not to mention Mme. Borghi, Di Stefano's cheer-leader-in.-chief. But these key persons are presented without body or spirit.

Mr. Sutherland tells a fascinating and entertaining tale, albeit padded out with very old hat material culled from earlier Callas scripture. His facts are indisputable, but the slant is oft agley. The import of what he says is already contained and more clearly enuncaited in Wayne Koestenbaum's The Queen's Throat, New York 1993, chapter 4.. Laudably Mr. Sutherland denounces the Callas hagiography, calling for a proper study of Mme. Callas's wayward career, precipitous decline and turbulent life.

No, not a book for the jumble sale after all. Put it on the 'music and ballet' shelves in the inglenook, next to the Gladys Davidson and the Alma H. Bond.

View more reviews or product details from Amazon.co.uk