The idea that opera is a controversial influence on society is not a new idea per se. Beginning in the early 17th century, the idea of “opera” in its formal meaning began to spread, and by the end of the next century, it had become a seminal part of cosmopolitan life in Baroque (then Classical) Europe. That being said, during the 18th century onwards, opera served a plethora of overlapping functions for everyone from the aristocracy to the general populace. Politics could be waged through opera, classes could mix without stigma for the first time, and, most importantly, the governing rulership could exert control over the public in ways never before seen, using everything from censorship to curated aesthetics to do so. However, it can not be forgotten that being an opera singer, male or female, in the 18th century was scandalous and was not given the high regard that the job holds today. 

As researcher Jane Matz Mary noted, “Men of the [18th century] aristocracy vied with each other to become the lovers of famous prima donnas.” Even without male suitors, women in 18th century opera were seen as, in anthropologist Vlado Kotnik’s words, “lustful, debauched, and engaged in illicit sexual activities.” As Kotnik explains further, the 18th century conception of the operatic ‘prima donna’ was one laced with potent misogyny, while for men, the ‘castrati’ (male singers castrated before puberty) were seen, at least in 18th century England, as soberly threatening to norms of masculine performativity. During the next century, the opera singer became far less scandalous of a position for both men and women, with technical and artistic mastery bestowing upon many a celebrity-like social standing. Nevertheless, discourse on opera’s moral implications remained a hot topic.

So critical was opera’s ability to openly interrogate, influence, and inspire public discourses on morality that the term ‘Traviata-ism,’ coined by British doctor William Acton, became a Verdi-inspired reference to the prevalence of brothels and sex workers within late-19th century England, while Violetta’s life was personified in the controversial Parisian archetype of the ‘lorette.’ During the ‘long 19th century,’ the greater topic influencing operatic discourses on morals and behaviour was that of ‘Nationalist Romanticism,’ the heyday of Nationalism as a movement, and the creation of national mythoi based on fabricated readings of national histories.

One can look to Glinka, Rossini, Verdi, von Weber, Erkel, Smetana, and Wagner as bastions of what is called ‘musical nationalism,’ though it would be wrong to argue operatic nationalism began in the 19th century. Nevertheless, fast forward to the 21st century, and opera (and operatic commentary) is one of the most vociferous outlets for all things, including and not limited to morals, beliefs, taboos, vices, criticisms, behaviors, and politics. 

But what about the religious commentary on opera and its potential influences on the devout? During the 18th century, the rise of Enlightenment secularism and religious ambivalence allowed for the establishment of secular opera. In places like Rome and Venice this led to opera’s use in events like ‘carnivals.’ Here classes mixed and lusts were fulfilled, no matter how socially ‘immoral.’ Even now, with ‘regietheatre’ performances of highly controversial 20th-century operas like Hindemith’s religiously critical opera “Sancta,” opera is as provocative as ever. Within the cinematic world, there is a film that personifies one shade of opera’s controversiality. Directed by German Jewish immigrant Max Nosseck, in the 1940 Yiddish-language film, ‘“Overture to Glory,” opera becomes the backdrop for many non-operatic issues which, unfortunately, have become more than relevant today.

As Was Then, So Is Now

The film’s story is rather simple. A Jewish cantor of the Vilna Synagogue (the Great Synagogue of Vilnius, once in Vilnius, Lithuania, before being demolished and looted by the Nazis), is tempted away from his faith after finding success as an opera singer with the Warsaw Opera. There are many historical elements here, giving context to the sobriety of pulling away from the faith towards opera, as our Jewish protagonist, in the midst of wartime Lithuania, is drawn to an opera house in Poland.

Opera in Warsaw, Poland—a city boasting the intimidatingly large Grand Theatre—is a very historic tradition dating back to the mid-18th century, with Italian, French, Polish, and German opera creating a cosmopolitan environment. It would be a drastic understatement to say that opera helped Poland recover, both spiritually, emotionally, culturally, and even politically, after the horrors of the Second World War.

As Polish historian Jerzy Miziołek noted, the spectre of late-20th century Communism was the next burden after fascism that Poland had to face.  Nevertheless, opera proved extremely popular. Perhaps surprisingly, “from 1965 to 1970, 25 premieres were given; there were 1,155 performances, seen by a combined audience of more than two million, half of whom were Warsaw residents.” Once the Polish-Russian relationship was formally severed in 1989, Polish operatic cultural infrastructure went through a period of regeneration. One instance during this recovery was the blossoming of the Teatr Narodowy (National Theatre), sharing the same location as the Grand Theatre.

Nosseck had moved to America to flee the rise of Nazism in 1939, and directed under the name of Alexander M. Norris. His film came out in 1940, at a time when Polish opera culture was in a state of dire upheaval under Nazi occupation. During the 1944 Warsaw Uprising, much of the National Theatre had been destroyed, although classical music performances still occurred, even in the face of Nazi oppression. Wartime Poland had a relatively diverse musical culture, from musical cafes to philharmonic orchestras, even though all were touched and hijacked by Germanic influence. Before 1942 and the beginning of the Final Solution, musical performances by and with Untermensch were accepted to a degree. Afterwards, the dynamic changed completely.

This film can be therefore considered a classical example of pre-1942 Polish musical culture: before the ideological tide turned to its most gruesome chapter. It should be considered accidental that the film was released at a time when antisemitism was on the rise, Polish artistic culture was under duress, and 1940s Stalinist Russia was proving, ironically, to be a more accepting place than America. There are many examples of 1940s American antisemitism. One stark example was the 1943 speech given by Congressman John E. Rankin, inspired by classical racism and laced with foreshadowing of McCarthyism, where he said, 

When those communistic Jews—of whom the decent Jews are ashamed—go around here and hug and kiss these Negroes, dance with them, intermarry with them, and try to force their way into white restaurants, white hotels and white picture shows, they are not deceiving any red-blooded American…they are not deceiving the men in our armed forces—as to who is at the bottom of all this race trouble.

Secular-Sacred Tensions

The star of Nosseck’s film was real-life Russian Jewish cantor Moishe Oysher. Despite antisemitism, Oysher had made a successful career in America from his sacred and secular singing, being praised for his masculine bravado on film and attractive voice. Having sung at the historic First Roumanian-American Congregation in New York City before the synagogue’s eventual destruction, Oysher was one of many high-profile cantors of the wartime and post-war periods, others being Moshe Koussevitzky, the famous operatic tenor Richard Tucker, and Frank Birnbaum. The idea of a cantor being lead astray, away from the faith and into the world of show business, especially during the interwar ‘Golden Age’ of American entertainment culture, was a variation upon a theme that showed up in everything from literature to films.

As James Hoberman observed, the secular-sacred negotiation of the cantor and the synagogue occurred at a time when both the entertainment world and Jewish cantoring were blossoming. Films like “Voices of Israel” (1931) and Yiddish-language ‘talkies’ (speaking films as opposed to silent films) like “Ad Mosay” (1929) collectively speak to the growing tension between male singers who, if they desired, could leave cantoring and make a career for themselves: but their devotion to the faith constrains these desires. For Oysher, as Hoberman notes, his arrival to New York City in 1928, at a time when Yiddish film was entering into its own ‘Golden Age’ and Jews in the American cinematic scene were becoming a growing force, was met with controversy. The Jewish community considered him to have been already led astray.

Not only had he achieved a career in film, if only mildly due to his cold acting, but his return to cantoring had not been as celebrated as he had initially hoped. In 1937, Oysher secured himself as a cantor, but his 1937 film, “The Cantor’s Son,” helped secure his cinematic fame. In 1943, the film’s plot merged with Oysher’s own life, having signed a deal with Italian opera impresario Fortune Gallo of the Chicago Opera Company. This deal was never really fulfilled, as Jeffery Shandler notes. Having been contracted to sing Eleazar in Halévy’s “La Juive” and Canio in Leoncavallo’s “I Pagliacci,” instead of pursuing opera, Oysher repositioned himself as a Jewish recording artist.

What is fascinating is that another cantor, Yossele Rosenblatt, was also asked by The Chicago Opera to sing Eleazar but said no, even after being championed by Enrico Caruso, because of his faith and his cantoring. This incident is recounted in a 1922 newspaper. In 1954, Oysher returned to cinema but he would pass away four years later. The life of Oysher and the dynamics of pursuing sacred and secular projects simultaneously must have been incredibly difficult, made even more so by negative assessments of Jewish sympathies for Communism within American post-war discourse. In all of this, a great tripartite tension arises: that of devotion to faith versus devotion to art versus devotion to career. Each requires sacrifices specific to the individual.

The film uses opera as a the backdrop for many pressing issues which, for Jews at the start of the Second World War, were heavy on their heart. As the world changes, opera has become a critical form which many opera composers have used to talk about Jewish antisemitism. The choice between one’s faith and a career, one’s faith and safety, one’s faith and freedom are choices many are forced to make everyday, and it is important we remember that, one film at a time.

Listen