In his late, lamented opera show on New York's WKCR-FM, Stefan Zucker and his call-in listeners were constantly torn between the merits of expressive singing and pure Bel Canto loveliness. Even for these opera buffs, Maria Callas was an acquired taste, thrilling in her best moments, shrill and ululating in her worst, but most precious for what she represented: opera as a way of style, of purity, of life. (She also led a personal life that was, for gossipy Opera Fanatics, to die for.) Like the tragic twin of Full Gallop's Diana Vreeland, the Maria Callas of Master Class is an exacting mistress who nonetheless sees herself as the victim of declining standards all around her. Whereas Vreeland remains willfully, even cheerfully blind of her financial difficulties, Callas is all too aware of the agonies that pushed her to the top. She was the homely fat girl, who, lucky enough to find a husband who adored her, dumped him for a shipping magnate with as little use for opera as a polar bear has for a diamond earring. Cherished by millions, mocked by hundreds (and more tormented by the latter than buoyed by the former), Callas had one decade of extraordinary success, then lived off her fame and dwindling gifts through the 60's and 70's.
Terrence McNally's altogether captivating play imagines a master class conducted by Callas, wherein she punctures the naive amateurism of a light soprano (Karen Kay Cody), warms to the self-confidence of a handsome tenor (Jay Hunter Morris), and offers advice -- not without jealousy -- to an imposing younger diva (Audra McDonald). We're also let into the world of Callas' memories: her triumphant debut, her masochistic relationship with Ari Onassis. Just how deeply we get into Callas' psyche is proved by the fact that at first, we cringe at her candor in evaluating poor Sophie, yet by the time the agitated Sharon readies herself for the caballetta from Verdi's "Macbeth," we begin to second-guess Callas' reactions. We even groan at Sharon's errors in judgment a split-second before Callas does.
It's tempting to give all the credit to Zoe Caldwell, for her Callas -- wounded, stern, flaky, aching -- is not a performance, it simply is. One can't imagine a more ideal match of actress and role. Yet to call Master Class a mere vehicle for Zoe Caldwell (and considering McNally's own diva worship, he probably wouldn't mind) is to short-change the play itself; funny, insightful, effortless in its grace. Bravo autore, bravissima diva!
