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A Sword & a Caress. Few rate the Callas voice as opera's sweetest or most beautiful. It has its ravishing moments. In quiet passages, it warms and caresses the air. In ensembles, it cuts through the other voices like a Damascus blade, clean and strong. But after the first hour of a performance, it tends to become strident, and late in a hard evening, begins to take on a reverberating quality, as if her mouth were full of saliva. But the special quality of the Callas voice is not tone. It is the extraordinary ability to carry, as can no other, the inflections and nuances of emotion, from mordant intensity to hushed delicacy. Callas' singing always seems to have a surprise in reserve. With the apparently infinite variety of her vocal inflections, she can keep the listener's ear constantly on edge for a twist of an emotional phrase, constantly delighted by a new and unexpected flick of vocal excitement.
Quite apart from the quality of her voice, her technique is phenomenal. The product of the relentless discipline that characterizes everything she does, it enables her to ignore the conventional boundaries of soprano, mezzo-soprano and contralto as if they had never been created. She can negotiate the trills and arabesques of coloraturas as easily as she trumpets out a stinging dramatic climax. Like her operatic sisters of a century ago, La Callas can sing anything written for the female voice. Because of her, La Scala has revived some operas (Mozart's Abduction from the Seraglio, Verdi's Sicilian Vespers, Cherubini's Medea) that it had not staged for years because no modern diva could carry them off.
Blood & Tears. As actress. Callas is more exciting than any singer has a right to be. Her acting takes the form of a flashing eye that petrifies an emotion, a sudden rigidity that shouts of a breaking heart, a homicidal wish or a smoldering passion ("It takes nerve to stand still"). Callas' style of movement on stage strangely resembles the striding and lurching of the hamhearted operatic actress, but she moves so gracefully, so alluringly, with such authority, that even opera's baroque gestures take on breathtaking conviction.
In her first Aida at La Scala in 1950, she startled the crowd by stalking about like a hungry leopard instead of taking the usual stately stance for her Act III duet. In the death scene of Fedora, in which sopranos tend to expire stiffly on a divan, Callas staggers from it, sags to her knees, drags herself up, crawls towards her lover's room, collapses again before she finally rolls down and dies. In Norma she has cried real tears. Operagoers. long reconciled to the classic, three-gesture range of other prima donnas, are astounded and delighted.
Hissing Snakes. Maria Callas clawed her way to her present eminence with a ruthless ferocity that awes her enemies and has left her few professional friends. Some have helped her on her way. But from the first the lonely, fat girl from Manhattan saw herself pitted single-handed against a world of enemies. In her triumph, she takes fierce pride in her defiant self-reliance. At La Scala supporters of a rival diva hiss her regularly. It only arouses Callas to cold fury.