The Unsung Heroes of Opera By Thomas Wolf
The death of Roger Englander this month at age 94 received a much deserved obituary in the New York Times. But it reminded me just how many unsung heroes there are in the field of opera where composers, singers, conductors, librettists, and set designers receive so much acclaim. Deservedly, the obituary focuses on Englander’s seminal role in Leonard Bernstein’s ground-breaking, Emmy Award-winning televised “Young People’s Concerts.” As the article states quite rightly, “Mr. Bernstein was their undisputed star. But he left the TV production to Mr. Englander.” On the other hand, the article barely mentions another key collaboration between the two men—the 1946 American premiere of Benjamin Britten’s opera “Peter Grimes” at the Tanglewood Music Center in western Massachusetts.
Roger Englander with Leonard Bernstein
Much is written about that production in opera history books—how it was commissioned by the Koussevitzky Music Foundation and dedicated to the memory of Natalie Koussevitzky, wife of the Boston Symphony’s conductor Serge Koussevitzky; how Koussevitzky trusted his young protégé Leonard Bernstein with conducting the opera; and how in a pre-curtain speech Koussevitzky, who had a penchant for over-the-top “pronouncements,” told the audience that it was the greatest opera since “Carmen.” One thing that is rarely mentioned is the critical role played by Roger Englander as stage manager for that historic production. Clearly, with all the work he did to make the production a success in what was still a challenging performance environment for opera at the relatively young summer music venue, he is one of the opera’s unsung heroes.
Englander’s role in that “Peter Grimes” production brought to mind a second unsung hero who just happened to be associated with another American premiere of a Benjamin Britten opera at Tanglewood. His name was Aloysius Petruccelli and the opera was Britten’s comedy “Albert Herring,” premiered there on August 8, 1949. The history books will tell you that the production was directed and conducted by my uncle, Boris Goldovsky, and was well received. Warren Storey Smith in the Boston Post wrote: “Add another success to the long list achieved by Boris Goldovsky. The first American performances, under his direction, of Benjamin Britten’s comic opera, ‘Albert Herring,’ at Tanglewood were a triumph, both as regards the opera itself and the production . . . Mr. Goldovsky’s people can sing as well as act.”[i] David Lloyd, a tenor who would go on to a distinguished career both as a singer and as an opera producer and administrator, sang the title role and was prominently mentioned in Storey’s article. But one gentleman who was not was the opera’s production manager—Aloysius Petruccelli.
Photo from the American premiere of Benjamin Britten’s “Albert Herring” at Tanglewood in 1949
(from the Boston Symphony Orchestra Archive)
Thanks in part to Petruccelli, the production was so successful that Uncle Boris decided to repeat it at the Boston Opera House a few months later on a Sunday afternoon—January 15, 1950—after a short tour. And it was here that Petruccelli’s genius for solving problems was in full display.
Petruccelli was an incredibly hard worker and, especially when productions were new, he seemed to work from early morning until late at night. When I knew him, he went everywhere with a clipboard and with different colored magic markers hanging from a chain around his neck, constantly making notes in a code that only he understood together with multi-colored diagrams. He and I worked closely together on fourteen of Uncle Boris’ national opera tours where I served as company manager and we became great friends. Whenever there was a problem of a technical nature, I relied on him. Every once in a while, his energy flagged and exhaustion set in. On one occasion, he and I were to have dinner together in a hotel restaurant in North Dakota to discuss a problem with the lighting equipment in a poorly equipped theatre. “Sorry, I’m late,” he said. “I just had the most peculiar experience. As I was taking a shower, I noticed the water coming down my body was all different colors. I was amazed and impressed with the hotel until I realized I hadn’t taken the chain of magic markers from around my neck. I have to admit, I guess I am a little tired.”
But it was many years before that event that Petruccelli solved a big problem with the Boston premiere of “Albert Herring.” Once Uncle Boris had decided that the opera should have a few road performances before the Boston show, he gave the assignment of securing them to his booking agent. As it turned out, there was a snafu in scheduling. Boris had neglected to mention the time of the Boston performance (it was to be Sunday at 3 p.m.) and a show was booked for the night before in Montreal, Canada. There was no flexibility about the date—the Montreal presenter was adamant that the performance had to be on a Saturday night—and it was too important a booking for Boris to give up. Nevertheless, the logistics of getting from Montreal to Boston and doing a second performance with so little time between was a problem. Depending on an early morning flight was too risky, given winter weather, and the only other flights available would not have gotten the company to Boston in time. Trains were also not an alternative.
Boris, ever resourceful, started laying out a plan. Scenery could be packed up immediately after the show in Montreal and trucked to Boston overnight. The stage crew could also drive through the night and go directly to the Boston venue and begin set-up early the next morning. With luck, the truck could be unloaded and they could begin work by 6 a.m. and have the show ready by 3:00 p.m. It would be costly to pay for all the overtime work, but Boris would have to do it. The company of singers and orchestra members (a blessedly small number in this particular opera as there are only 13 in the cast and another 13 in the pit) could be driven through the night on a chartered bus and check into a hotel in the early morning, giving them time for a nap.
Boris’s greatest worry was for the principal singer David Lloyd. The title role of Albert Herring is exhausting and Boris wanted to be sure Lloyd got an uninterrupted night of sleep, especially as he would be singing two performances within 24 hours. Boris was willing to hire a vehicle with a bed, but the problem was that David might be awakened at the Canada/United States border in order to clear customs even though in those days, one could take a chance that the car wouldn’t be stopped. But if a customs officer was on duty and chose to inspect the car, who knew if Lloyd would be able to get to sleep again after what might be a long stop?
It was Aloysius Petruccelli, who came up with a solution. “Al Pet” (as everyone called him), who would enjoy a long career working the technical side of productions for countless theatre, dance, music, and opera companies, was famous for cockamamie schemes—which is why Boris adored him. Al took the concept of “out-of-the-box thinking” to a new level—an approach that worked perfectly at Tanglewood where Koussevitzky and those who worked for him encouraged new ideas. Petruccelli always seemed to have at least three solutions to seemingly insoluble problems that Boris brought to him, and one of those solutions usually worked.
Aloysius Petruccelli, Boris’s production manager for the first performances in the United States of Benjamin Britten’s “Albert Herring.” Known in the industry as “Al Pet,” his long career on behalf of numerous theatre, dance, music,
and opera companies led to his claim: “If it’s cultural, non-profit and includes a stage I've been there.”
In this case, when faced with the David Lloyd sleep deprivation problem, the voluble Al Pet, who always talked incessantly while his brain was busy thinking, mused, “Hmmm, getting across the border without stopping? A police brigade? Too noisy and hard to arrange. Flashing lights with no siren? Of course. Why not hire an ambulance? We will put David to bed in the back, kiss him goodnight, and flash our way across the border. We take a chance that no respecting border guard will stop an ambulance in the middle of the night (besides, no one will want to go outside when it is below zero). I will wear a white coat and stethoscope and be the doctor. I will smile, wave, and have our driver keep rolling through. Hey, if it works (which of course it will), David gets his six hours of uninterrupted night-time sleep followed by a second nap at the hotel when we arrive.”
“Do it,” said Boris, as he so often did with Petruccelli. And Al Pet did. David Lloyd as imaginary patient and Al Pet as imaginary doctor went sailing through customs in the middle of the night. By Sunday afternoon, a well-rested David Lloyd was ready to give the Boston audience its much-anticipated first taste of the new Britten opera and Al Pet now owned a doctor’s white coat.
[i] This quote was reproduced in a New England Opera Theatre program from December 11, 1949. It does not give the date of the review but it is likely that it was either August 9 or 10, 1949.