#and A LOT of unsollicited commentary

[rayatii]

Raya Recounts: a brand-new series of overly-detailed opera summaries with unsolicited commentary!

Episode 6: Pagliacci

Pagliacci (“Clowns”) is an opera in a prologue and 2 acts, by Ruggiero/Ruggero Leoncavallo (it’s never clear which is the preferred spelling of his first name, so I just decided to kill two birds with one stone). Leoncavallo remains known today as one of the top composers of the verismo style (derived from the Italian word “vero”, meaning “real”), which also include Giacomo Puccini and Pietro Mascagni. Verismo is an Italian movement from the late 19th to early 20th century that centered around writing operas that, rather than focusing on the historical and fantastical stuff that had been largely prevalent since the genesis of opera itself, tell stories about relatable characters, everyday situations, blurrier lines between “good” and “bad”, and most importantly, REAL emotions. And the opera we are looking at today is especially adamant about all this.

Pagliacci is definitely Leoncavallo’s most famous work, particularly for the aria “Vesti la giubba”, which you are very likely to hear in any piece of mainstream media as sung by a tenor in a clown costume. But more on that later, I promise. The opera itself was an absolute success when it first came out, and still remains widely performed today. Anyway, he also wrote the song “Mattinata” for the incredibly famous tenor Enrico Caruso, as well as a version of La bohème that is much, MUCH less famous than Puccini’s, but still has some banger tunes. Both are still less well-known than what we are looking at today.

Leoncavallo was inspired to write this opera after witnessing the success of Mascagni’s famous verismo work Cavalleria rusticana (hey, let me know if I should give it the Raya Recounts treatment someday??); because these two works share many similar themes (and are also quite short in general; around 75 minutes or so??), starting with the New York Met Opera in 1893, it has become something of a tradition to stage them both in the same evening. This double bill is colloquially referred to as “Cav/Pag”, and there have been lots of disputes in the opera circles on social media about which work is superior (I absolutely refuse to answer this unnecessary dilemma!! They’re both great in their own very different ways. I could probably write a whole essay about that, but this is not what we are talking about today).

The libretto was written by Leoncavallo himself for this very opera, and he claimed that it was based on an actual murder case that his father, who was a judge, presided over when he (today’s composer/librettist) was still a child; it apparently involved one Gaetano d’Alessandro who, with the help of his brother Luigi, murdered one Gaetano Scavello, a servant in the Leoncavallo household, because they were both in love with the same girl. (Read here Leoncavallo’s own account of how the opera came to be.) However, there doesn’t seem to be any other evidence of this being true. Actually, when Pagliacci became a thing, the French author Catulle Mendès sued Leoncavallo for plagiarism because he thought that the plot was similar to his own play La femme de Tabarin, BUT he had to drop the charges because someone else sued HIM for plagiarism for this very play.

This title was suggested to me by an anon ask back in early January. Whoever you are, I hope you didn’t find this too long of a wait! Because this work is shorter than those treated in the previous installments, this post will most likely be much shorter than the previous ones, not counting the obligatory unsolicited commentary.

As usual, the solo characters’ names will be bolded when introduced (and in this case, both bolded and italicized for the characters of the show-within-the-show), and I will give potentially bad Italian translations for the important numbers (damn, so much Italian in this series!).

I apologize in advance if the “keep reading” option doesn’t work; it has been failing me for this specific post, and literally pushed me on the brink of breaking down crying. I hate this hellsite.

Spoilers, of course!

The Prologue starts off with a orchestral prelude (technically in C major, but it’s pretty tonally adventurous, at least in my opinion) that features at least one musical motif that we will definitely hear later on, and at some point during it, Tonio, a baritone with really bad kyphosis (we’re in 2023, and we should normalize the fact that the term “hunchback” is considered derogatory. Thank you, @madmozarteanfelinefantasy, for making me realize that long ago) dressed in his Commedia dell’arte costume, comes in from behind the still-closed curtain and directly addresses the audience, introducing himself as the Prologue (Prologue: Si può? Si può?; “Could you? Could you?” or something like that. It’s not every day that you see an opera character breaking the 4th wall!).

He claims that the author himself is using the ways of old-fashioned performing arts in his work, which is why he sent him (the Prologue) to speak to the audience. But NOT to give out that typical speech about how they should not be alarmed because the tears and agonies that will be shown onstage are not real and blah blah blah blah blah (man, this gives me severe flashbacks to reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream back in Grade 10 English class), but rather to tell them quite passionately that the author chose to depict a real story that he was reminded of one day, that he penned it with genuine tears and sobs (are you sure it was not ambition to match/surpass Mascagni at this verismo thing?? 😏), and that all the love, hate, screams of rage and cynical laughter that will be shown onstage will be depicted as in real life, and that the performers are real people of flesh and blood who breathe the same air as the audience (man, for a debut in verismo, Leoncavallo really be fucking hammering the meaning of verismo into our brains). That being said, he calls for the show to continue, and disappears behind the curtain.

The orchestra briefly reprises the main theme of the prelude before the curtain actually opens on Act 1. We are at a village located in the Italian province of Calabria, somewhere near the town of Montalto (Leoncavallo’s childhood homeplace), on the Feast of the Assumption (well, it literally says “on the day of the feast of mid-August”, but I guess that’s what it means), sometime between 1865 and1870 (yes, all these details are indicated in the libretto and the score). We hear an out-of-tune trumpet and a bass drum in the distance, and the peasants from the village, all men, women and children, rush to see where that sound is coming from (we also hear the offstage voices of two principals, but I’m too lazy to elaborate because it’s not very important). They joyfully announce the return of “Pagliaccio” (the Italian word for “clown”, but also a relatively close equivalent of the Commedia dell’arte stock character Pierrot) and his troupe of traveling performers (Chorus: Son qua! Son qua!; “They’re here! They’re here!” It slaps so fucking hard).

Indeed, a group of people enters the stage in a cart drawn by a donkey (obviously replaced with a truck or something in most modern-ish productions) (in the libretto, the men are dressed in their respective character costumes, which they will change out of later in that scene, but nearly every production I have watched has them dressed in everyday outfits throughout the whole scene, probably for practical reasons).

You’ve got Canio, the leader of the troupe, who is the one beating the drum; Nedda, his wife, who is literally just sitting there; Beppe (actually, there is a lot of debate as to whether his name is actually Beppe or Peppe, because Peppe is what is written in the older scores and libretti, but Beppe is the spelling we usually see nowadays, so that’s the one I will be going with) who is the one leading the donkey, and Tonio, the most-likely Tired Of Life™ Ugly Designated Fool we have met earlier. Everyone cheers for Pagliaccio (Canio, that is), the prince of clowns who supposedly drives troubles away with his cheerfulness (I mean, this is rural Italy in the 19th century, obviously he is going to get a massive fan-club).

After thanking the crowd (and loudly beating his drum to stop them from interrupting him), Canio, a tenor with a significant amount of vocal maturity required (and THIS time, it does actually make more sense for this age to reflect that!!!!), announces that he and his troupe are putting up a show this evening at the twenty-third hour*, where they will see antics involving, among other things, the good Pagliaccio setting a trap and getting revenge. It’s at the twenty-third hour, do not forget!

(*Note: the actual term here is “ventitre ore”, which does translate to “the twenty-third hour”, but according to what I read, this is NOT supposed to mean “11 PM”, but is actually a timekeeping method from rural Italy way back in the days, that calculated the time based on the parts of day during which the Angelus (or “avemaria” in Italian) was recited, meaning that in this case, the show will be presented between vespers and the evening Angelus/avemaria, i.e., sometime before/at sunset. That makes much more sense than 11 PM tbh.)

Anyway, the villagers confirm that they will indeed be there at the twenty-third hour, and a bit of confirmation-repetition ensues between them and Canio. After that, Tonio goes to help Nedda off the cart, but Canio beats him to it and slaps him, telling him to fuck off (not literally, but you get what I mean). Everyone laughs at him, and Tonio internally swears revenge. A villager (who is either a baritone or a bass because his music is written in bass clef, but there is literally zero info besides that, and I have the vocal cords of a little girl so I can’t give a more precise decision) asks Canio if he wants to join them for drinks, which he accepts, and Beppe (who happens to be a tenor with much less required vocal maturity than Canio) asks to join in as well.

When Canio asks Tonio if he wants to come as well, Tonio tells them to go ahead, saying that he wants to clean the donkey. Another villager (a tenor, given his music in treble clef) jokes that Tonio wants to stay alone in order to make a pass at Nedda, but Canio does not take it very well. He warns the villagers not to play such games with him, and explains that while onstage as Pagliaccio, if he finds his wife with another man, he would simply give her a silly lecture and then calm down and probably get the crap beaten out of him or something (I’m not sure if that’s exactly what he means) and the audience laughs and cheers and all’s well that ends well, in typical Commedia dell’arte fashion. But if he were to actually find Nedda cheating on him in real life... well, the story would have a very different ending (Un tal gioco, credetemi; “Such a game, believe me”. I’m not sure if this really qualifies as an aria. Foreshadowing much??). Nedda, a soprano with a voice much more youthful and lyrical than her husband (which is kinda telling), very briefly internally expresses uneasiness of some sort. The male chorus of villagers asks him if he is really serious about this. Canio replies: “excuse me, I love my wife!” (it’s not clear to me whether he is actually answering yes or no to the question, and the different translations I have seen seem to conflict with each other.) As he says that, he kisses her on the forehead.

At this moment, we hear what is supposed to be the sound of bagpipes (tho in the score, it’s apparently meant to be represented by oboes??). According to the chorus, it’s pipers who are accompanying a gaggle of happy couples on their way to church. Sure enough, church bells start ringing vespers. After Canio reminds them yet again that the show is at the twenty-third hour, the chorus happily leaves to go to church, all while imitating the “din don” sound of the bells (Chorus: I zampognari!; “The pipers!”. In the libretto, the aforementioned pipers and couples appear onstage at one point, but I don’t think that’s necessary), while Canio and Beppe go offstage with some of the men from the village.

Nedda, left all alone onstage, expresses worry over the apparent violence in Canio’s manner, fearing that he might uncover her secret thoughts. But she brushes that off as silly, fearful dreams, and decides to focus instead on the beautiful mid-August sunshine, which fills her with life and a desire she can’t identify. She looks up at the sky, and sees a bunch of birds flying above (represented in the orchestra by high woodwinds and violins playing tremolo (meaning “trembling” in Italian; in this specific case, it’s quickly alternating two notes that are not too close to each other); she mentions their screeching). She asks herself what they are seeking, where they are going, all that. She mentions that her mother, who was a fortune-teller, understood their birdsong, and used to sing it to her when she was a child; she imitates it by trilling (i.e., alternating two notes close to each other very quickly. I myself have yet to learn this technique in singing, tho my teacher did say long ago that I would someday).

Nedda goes on to talk all about how birds fly in the sky, free like arrows, defying clouds and the sun, following a dream. Nothing can stop them, not even the wind, storms, rain, or lighting, as they fly above chasms and seas (insert that one John Cena “Are you sure about that?” meme that probably no one else rememebers bc it dates back from when Vine was still alive). Perhaps they are vainly seeking a strange land they have been dreaming of, but they are driven by a mysterious power that pushes them to fly on and on (Recitative and ballatella (probably meaning “ballad” or something like that): Stridono lassù; “They screech up there”).

At some point during Nedda’s aria, Tonio has come onstage. When Nedda finishes, she notices him. He explains that he was enraptured by her singing. She dismisses him in an amused manner and tells him to join the others at the tavern. He tells her that while he may be a deformed guy who arouses nothing but mockery and disgust, he harbors sincere dreams of love, and experiences genuine anguish whenever she passes by him disdainfully, she literally has him under her spell!

Nedda obviously does not take him seriously, and tells him that he will have time to give her this declaration of love again when they perform onstage this evening, but that he should spare himself the trouble right now. As he angrily insists that he truly wants her right now and that he will make her his, she continues to mock him and then threatens to call Canio (damn, on one hand, Tonio is definitely a massive dick who doesn’t take no for an answer, but on the other, Nedda is most likely mocking him for his physical difference, at least in great part, which is definitely quite assholish; but that also applies to everyone else in this opera). At which point Tonio attempts to force himself onto her, but she grabs Beppe’s whip (the one used for the donkey) and whacks him across his face with it. As he leaves offstage, Tonio swears on the Virgin of the Assumption that she will pay for this. Nedda calls him a snake, saying that his soul is as deformed as his body (yes, actual line in the libretto. Tonio’s characterization did NOT age well at all).

Immediately after that, someone else joins Nedda onstage. It’s Silvio, another baritone who is definitely much hunkier than the previously-seen one, and a young local from the village who happens to be Nedda’s lover. So she is indeed cheating on Canio as was feared!! Man, it’s not every day that you see the soprano cheat on a tenor with a baritone; usually it’s the other way round. Anyway, Nedda chides Silvio’s rashness in showing up at this hour of day, but he assures her that they risk nothing because Canio and Beppe are still drinking at the tavern, but even so, he was careful to sneak through a scrub he was familiar with to join her. Nedda tells him that he narrowly avoided bumping into Tonio, who just told her he loves her and attempted to force himself onto her, but that she managed to push him away with the whip.

Silvio takes pity on what happened to Nedda, and then begs her to stay with him, because once she leaves the village with the troupe at the end of the holiday, what will become of him, of his life? He tells her that if it’s true that she never loved Canio, that she hates her job and all that touring around, and if her love for him (Silvio) is not some made-up bullshit, she should run away with him tonight (Duet: Nedda! Silvio!... Decidi il mio destin; “Nedda! Silvio!... Decide my destiny”. It’s over 10 minutes long, I swear). Nedda desperately begs him not to tempt her with such a crazy idea, and says it’s best for them to part, but assures him that she cannot tear him from her heart, and that she will only live off her love for him. After they both repeat some of their respective lines at the same time in a musical fashion, Silvio accuses Nedda of not loving him anymore.

At this point, Tonio, who has appeared somewhere onstage, unseen by the lovebirds, makes his presence known to the audience by internally going “ha!! I’ve caught you, slut!” (yup, because “sgualdrina” = “slut”), before quickly leaving. Meanwhile, Nedda desperately tells Silvio that she does love him. Silvio asks her why did she bewitch him, why did she kiss him with such ardent passion if she is just going to leave him the next day? (Okay so in the libretto, the stage direction says “lovingly, trying to charm her”, but the words alone sound pretty whiny.) Nedda replies that she has forgotten nothing, that she wants to live a life of calm, peaceful love with him, and that she is completely giving herself over to him. They both decide to forget everything (presumably agreeing to run away together, I guess), and they intensely re-profess their love for each other, with Nedda asking Silvio to kiss her.

They obviously start making out after finishing the duet (well, it doesn’t actually say so in the stage directions, but it wouldn’t make much sense for them not to make out after all those repeated “kiss me!” lyrics). As they do, Tonio and Canio sneak onstage. Tonio advises Canio to walk up to them slowly to surprise them. Meanwhile, Silvio starts to take leave of Nedda, telling her to meet him here in the middle of the night. Nedda assures him that she will, and adds: “Until tonight, and I will be yours forever”. It’s when these exact words are uttered that Canio cries out, alerting Nedda of his presence, who desperately urges Silvio to flee, which he does. Nedda tries to stop Canio from chasing Silvio, but he pushes her aside and runs offstage in his pursuit. As he does, Tonio laughs cynically, and Nedda sarcastically congratulates him in a disdainful way. Tonio says just as cynically that he has done what he could, but that he hasn’t lost hope of doing better. Nedda expresses her disgust, and he responds that she doesn’t know how happy he is.

Canio returns onstage, very pissed; Silvio has managed to outrun him. He furiously asks Nedda the name of her paramour, which she absolutely refuses to give him. Canio goes as far as to threaten her with a dagger (dude, what the fuck?!!!), but Beppe comes onstage on time to stop him from doing anything, telling him that the people are leaving the church and coming to the show. Canio struggles against him, still demanding the name of Nedda’s lover. Beppe asks Tonio to restrain him, and urges everyone to get dressed for the show (dude sure has his priorities straight, even within the risk of homicide). He reassures Nedda that Canio is violent but a good person (once again, “are you sure about that?”). Most likely after Beppe and Nedda leave, Canio is still in the midst of a violent hissyfit, and Tonio tells him to keep it together for the time being, since it’s very likely that the guilty lover will attend the show and give himself away. Beppe briefly reenters to remind the two to start getting ready, and he and Tonio go offstage.

Left alone onstage, Canio absolutely despairs at the idea of having to perform while he is in such a state that he is barely able to check himself (THAT’S IT, THAT’S THE ARIA (or Arioso (i.e., a sort of bastard child between recitative and aria) in this case) THAT IS SO INCREDIBLY FAMOUS IT’S A STAPLE OF OPERA REPERTOIRE AND HAS BASICALLY BECOME A MEME IN AND OF ITSELF!!!!! Recitar!... Vesti la giubba; “Perform!... Put on the costume”. Well, “giubba” literally means “jacket”, but I’m going with the common translation for this specific context). But as he dresses up in his iconic white costume and applies the iconic white makeup onto his face, he also tells himself he must make an effort to become Pagliaccio for the time being, because the audience is paying to have a laugh, and so he must turn his tears into laughter, and laugh at his own grief (as indicated in the iconic line “Ridi, Pagliaccio” (“Laugh, clown/Pagliaccio”)) so that the audience will applaud. Man, it’s such an intensely emotional aria that it’s kinda difficult not to feel some sympathy for Canio in that moment (well, depending on who is singing), even though he has been jealous and murder-y for the most part so far. That’s verismo for you. Also, it’s not written in the libretto but most tenors finish singing this aria by sobbing loudly.

(I would like to (not so) briefly interrupt our scheduled program to talk a bit more about this aria, because it’s so fucking iconic that it has been referenced in countless movies, TV shows and commercials. For example, check out this hilarious Rice Krispies commercial (featuring a singing mother-in-law who looks at hell lot like Montserrat Caballé...). Or this absolutely wholesome Coca-Cola commercial that probably would have given this opera a happier ending. Also, for those who don’t remember, on Halloween 2021, my costume was actually Canio/Pagliaccio. Here are a couple pictures, as well as a vid I posted on TikTok. And yes, I am entirely of the opinion that “Vesti la giubba” and “The Show Must Go On” are basically the same song. And speaking of Queen and Freddie Mercury, the opening of the song “It’s A Hard Life” is directly lifted from the melody of “Ridi, Pagliaccio”. Here is a video that directly compares the two.)

Anyway, the act ends on a very sad Canio who has just single-handedly codified the Sad Clown™ trope while faced with the task of acting out something onstage that reflects his own real life. And that’s fucking painful!!!!!!

After an Intermezzo in E minor (switching to E major around midway through) that is definitely less famous than Mascagni’s (but still quite nice, and also includes at least one musical motif we have heard; the first theme also kinda reminds me of the beginning of Ravel’s Tz*gane), Act 2 opens on the exact same location as Act 1, but obviously at a later time of day. We hear the same out-of-tune trumpet and bass drum that opened Act 1. There is a little stage occupying the area (if it hasn’t already been shown in Act 1, as indicated by the libretto), and Tonio, dressed in his costume, is ushering the excited villagers to their seats. According to the chorus basses, there are kids running around (at least I think), which. Yeah, I have definitely seen that. The crowd is getting excited/impatient for the show to start, and there seems to be some squabbling over seats somewhere at one point, it’s just basic pre-show audience chaos. At least until Beppe, who is also dressed in his Commedia dell’arte costume, calls for everyone to get seated with no shouting.

Meanwhile, Silvio, who has blended into the crowd, meets Nedda, who is ALSO dressed in her Commedia dell’arte costume, as well as collecting the audience’s money. She tells him to be cautious, as Canio hasn’t seen him. Silvio reminds her (as he pays for his seat, obviously) that he will be waiting for her (so that they can elope, remember). After their exchange, the chorus repeats their pre-show audience chaos lines, with Beppe calling once for everyone to pay before getting seated, before he retreats backstage with Nedda. The audience continues to call for the show to start, until a bell rings loudly, indicating the beginning of the show, and the curtain of the stage-on-the-stage rises.

The Commedia (Play) (even indicated so in the score) has started. As the (real) orchestra plays lighthearted incidental music that heavily contrasts with the rest of the opera (believe me, it’s important), we see a little room with a table and two chairs. Colombina (played by Nedda) informs the audience that her husband, Pagliaccio, will be home late at night, and wonders where the fuck is that idiot Taddeo? Suddenly, we hear a solo violin plucking some open strings. As the orchestral strings play a soft accompaniment, we see/hear (because in the libretto he’s offstage, but in most productions he’s not, and he is strumming a lute/mandolin/something) Arlecchino (played by Beppe) serenading Colombina, singing typical serenade stuff about desperately pining for her and wanting to kiss her little mouth and asking her to open her window (Serenata (Italian word for “serenade”, obviously): O Colombina. No translation needed).

(Another pointless fun fact! Back when I was in Grade 10, way before I got into opera, my Drama class did a unit on Commedia dell’arte, and we were all asked to pick one stock character to portray and study throughout the whole unit (we were seven students). I picked Colombina, and it was so much fun.)

At this point, Taddeo (played by Tonio; basically a stock foolish servant character) comes in while carrying a basket, unseen by Colombina. He takes the opportunity to ogle her, and his comically exaggerated reaction at her beauty (at least as indicated in the score) makes the audience (of the play-within-the-play) laugh. He contemplates confessing his love for her now that her husband is away. Colombina then turns towards him, and he confirms to her that Pagliaccio is indeed away, and that he has bought the chicken that he was asked to buy (the one inside the basket he is carrying), which he presents to her by dropping on his knees. He tries to confess his love for her, but she interrupts him twice. The third time, during which he calls her pure and chaste as snow and says that he cannot forget her no matter how harsh she is with him, Arlecchino enters through the window while carrying a bottle, and then grabs him (Taddeo) by the ear and kicks his ass, earning laughter from the onstage audience. When Taddeo realizes that Arlecchino and Colombina are in love with each other, he gives them his blessing and decides to keep watch for them (man, that is literally the one thing that the “real life” situation and the show-within-a-show don’t have in common). He exits the room as the onstage audience laughs and applauds.

Arlecchino and Colombina embrace (comically, according to the score. Also, in quite a few productions, all the movements are done in a dance-like sort of way), and then they sit down to eat a dinner fixed by Colombina, complete with the bottle of wine that Arlecchino brought. After they have gobbled down some yummy food and chugged down some yummy wine, Arlecchino gives Colombina a vial of sleeping drug to slip to Pagliaccio when he comes back so that they (Arlecchino and Colombina) can run away together. But then, Taddeo bursts in (still comically), warning the two that Pagliaccio is here, and that he is very upset and knows everything. He goes off to hide away (probably inside a closet or something, like in some productions; in the 2015 Met production, he hides inside a freezer, and it’s hilarious).

As Arlecchino escapes through the window, he reminds Colombina to pour the sleeping drug into Pagliaccio’s cup. Just as Pagliaccio (played by Canio) comes onto the stage-on-the-stage, she replies: “Until tonight, and I will be yours forever”. Canio internally realizes that these were the EXACT SAME WORDS that Nedda said to the guy she was cheating on him with, and he starts to become really upset, but tries to pull himself together to continue with the play. Pagliaccio tells Colombina that he knows there was a man here, and when Colombina denies it, Pagliaccio points out that the table is set for two. Colombina claims that Taddeo was seated with her and hid himself out of fear. She reveals Taddeo, who begs Pagliaccio to believe her, claiming that Colombina is pure and that those pious lips of hers abhor lying! The onstage audience (at least, the score says it’s just the chorus tenors and basses) laughs.

Well, this is enough to push Canio over the edge; completely breaking character, he rails at the onstage audience, and violently demands once again that Nedda give him the name of her lover. Nedda tries her best to keep the performance going by calling Canio “Pagliaccio” twice, but Canio replies passionately that no, he is not Pagliaccio; he has the right to be honest, and the whiteness of his face is because of shame and his bleeding heart’s desire for revenge with blood. No, he is only the guy who foolishly took her in back when she a starving orphan in the street, and gave her a name and loved her to madness (ewww, the implications) (Arietta (or at least, Wikipedia refers to it as an arietta, i.e., a short aria): No, Pagliaccio non son; “No, I am not Pagliaccio”).

Half of the chorus women comment on how this performance seems so real that it’s making them cry, and a few chorus men tell them to shut up. Meanwhile, Silvio in the audience comments internally about how he can barely hold himself back. Canio continues with his rant, going on about how he was so blinded by this delirious passion that he had hoped that if she didn’t love him, she at least felt compassion towards him, and that with every sacrifice he made on his heart, he believed in her more than God himself. But no, he sees nothing but vice in her soul, and the only law she follows is that of her senses (wow, that was difficult to translate!). He tells her that she doesn’t deserve his pain and that he wants to crush her under his feet in his disgust. The onstage audience can’t help but applaud and shout out “Bravo!”; it’s clear that they still think it’s all just a performance (ugh, show, don’t tell, Raya!!).

Nedda (as herself) challenges him to drive her out of here this instant if he judges her unworthy of him. Canio derisively tells her that she is clever, that she would definitely take the opportunity to run off with her darling lover. But no, he will make her stay and tell him the name of her paramour. Trying to get back into character, as the orchestra reprises the lighthearted theme of the Comedy, Nedda tells him that the man who was sitting with her just now is no one but the harmless Arlecchino (it’s not actually indicated anywhere, but usually productions would have him reveal himself, which definitely makes sense).

The onstage audience starts laughing, but it quickly dispels due to Canio’s furious attitude; as the people start doubting that there is any acting going on (with some commenting on how this is some serious and dark business, and others telling them to shut up) and Silvio can barely restrain himself, Canio becomes completely enraged by Nedda’s defiance, and demands that she tell him her lover’s name, actually threatening her life. She swears in the name of her mother that she will never tell him; she may be unworthy, whatever he thinks, but she swears to God that she is NOT a coward (sorry). Beppe tells Tonio that they must leave, he’s scared (sorry again, this was the first thing I thought of), but Tonio tells him to shut up. Nedda says that her love is stronger than his disdain; she will not speak, even at the risk of death.

As the fight escalates, there is general confusion going on among the onstage audience; some villagers are restraining Silvio (to be fair, they know less than him what is going on), and Tonio is restraining Beppe the whole time. It all culminates when the basically out-of-his-mind Canio grabs a knife from the table (in some productions, Tonio even slips it in his hand!!) and stabs Nedda in front of the terrified crowd. In her dying breath, Nedda calls for Silvio, who rushes towards her, but Canio immediately figures out who he is and also stabs him to death. We hear the famous final line: “La commedia è finita!” (“The comedy is finished!”, usually shouted out rather than sung), and after a thrilling solo timpani roll buildup, the orchestra plays a bombastic reprise of the “Ridi, Pagliaccio” motif.

(Quick note on the “La commedia è finita!” line: in the libretto and the score, it is assigned to Tonio, but many performances nowadays give this line to Canio instead, sometimes while sobbing over Nedda’s dead body (like the first production I ever watched; from Ascunción in 2015). Many, many justifications have been given for the assignment of the line to either Tonio or Canio, and some productions have tried being more creative with it, from what I heard. As have some memers.)

But all this debating aside, the (REAL real-life) curtain falls on these harrowing happenings.

The end! ❤❤❤ This has been an overly-detailed opera summary with unsolicited commentary, I hope you enjoyed ;)

- Raya / rayatii

(PS: this opera’s title is often mistakenly given as I pagliacci (“The clowns”). But speaking of titles, fun fact, it was initially going to be titled Il pagliaccio (“The clown”), but the guy who initially premiered Tonio asked Leoncavallo to change it to the plural Pagliacci, in order to highlight other characters in addition Canio, particularly his own so he could steal the spotlight. I personally do find the title “Pagliacci” to be better.)

(PPS: sorry for the long post; have this bit from the Simpsons that uses “Vesti la guibba” (transposed down from E minor to B minor, however) and adds another layer of meta to the opera (couldn’t find a clip with a better quality, sorry), this tvtropes theory about Nedda’s origins (which honestly makes so much sense and adds a whole extra layer to her characterization), and a personal reflection about how real-life couples singing the parts of Canio and Nedda (such as Roberto Alagna and Aleksandra Kurzak, who have sung a handful of Pagliacci’s together these recent few years) give the opera a whole extra level of meta so that you get a husband and wife playing a husband and wife playing a husband and wife... Y’know what, there should be a movie about a husband and wife slated to sing Pagliacci together, when an affair with a stagehand or something results in disastrous consequences... AND WHAT IF THEY WERE PLAYED BY A REAL-LIFE HUSBAND AND WIFE??? - okay calm down, Raya.)

(PPPS: I have read/listened in several places about how Canio can be interpreted in various ways; sometimes, he is an absolute cinnamon roll in general, but just absolutely snaps Don José-style when it comes to Nedda’s infidelity (for example, the 2020 Vienna production with Roberto Alagna; not the interpretation I would go with, but it pleasantly surprised me); sometimes, he is portrayed as an alcoholic or something, as a way to explain his violent behavior (for example, the previously-mentioned 2015 Met production with Marcelo Álvarez; at least, it seems to be implied iirc); and sometimes, he is just portrayed as a complete sleazeball from the beginning (for example, the 2015 Salzburg production with Jonas Kaufmann, complete with sketchy tattoos. Yeah well, I didn’t actually watch that production, but I heard a bit about it). All this room for interpretation, no matter what we do or don’t agree with, is a big reason why I find opera to be such a beautiful genre. Yeah okay, this is kinda my way of making up for not referencing enough productions throughout the actual summary, but give me a break 😅)