Grand Passions

By Michael Walsh

LA TRAVIATA

Directed by Franco Zeffirelli

Musically, Giuseppe Verdi's opera La Traviata begins at the end, and so does Franco Zeffirelli's new film. The attenuated strains of the prelude depict not the high spirits and even higher passions of the heroine's demimonde, but the lonely, last-act gasps of a woman dying of consumption; the camera prowls through her empty apartment like a would-be lover who never got the bad news. Suddenly there is a blast of trumpets and the scene is abruptly transformed, flashed back to a glittering party. As the music gathers force, so does the action; magnificent chandeliers are reflected in a thousand champagne glasses. Enter Violetta, laughing. For now, the watchword is joy, but the last word must be, inevitably, tragedy.

Strong emotions are the very stuff of grand opera, yet film has had a hard time portraying them in all their complexity. Ingmar Bergman's The Magic Flute delighted in the playfulness of Mozart's fairy tale but missed its underlying seriousness. Joseph Losey's Don Giovanni emphasized the same composer's brooding drama but failed to locate it within the realm of the human comedy. Zeffirelli's La Traviata strikes just the right note. Visually stunning and musically thrilling, it is the finest operatic movie yet made. It should appeal even to those who have resolutely resisted opera's charms.

The secret of successfully translating opera from stage to screen lies in respecting the musical source but exploit ing the film medium's restless, inquiring mobility. As both a film maker (Romeo and Juliet, The Champ, Endless Love and an experienced opera director, Zeffirelli understands both genres. In Soprano Teresa Stratas (Violetta) and Tenor Placido Domingo (Alfredo), he has chosen two exceptionally convincing singing actors. But film also demands motion, sweep and scope, so at intense moments the camera breaks free of its traditional front-row-center moorings and begins to roam. As counterpoint to Alfredo's second-act aria, in which he ardently--if prematurely--credits Violetta's love with taming his fiery spirit, there is a gentle pastorale of lovers picnicking on the grass and gamboling by a stream. Later, a spurned Domingo angrily drags Stratas down a long corridor, bursts into a crowded salon and throws her to her knees as the trombones sound a brusque challenge. It is a chilling moment in its combination of visual image and musical statement, and one that cannot be duplicated in the opera house.

Stratas, all flashing dark eyes and soaring (though sometimes rough-edged) voice, dominates the action. She may be the wayward woman of the opera's title, but when she turns her killer glance on Domingo in the first act, it is clear that he is the one who is really lost. Even with a full beard and tousled head of auburn hair. Domingo cannot disguise the fact that he is at least 15 years too old for the callow hero, but he makes Alfredo into an unusually impetuous, even violent personality. As Alfredo's father, veteran Baritone Cornell MacNeil is the picture of implacable bourgeois respectability.

Purists may object to the musical cuts and to the startling extension of a couple of ensemble numbers. But such considerations are minor when weighed against the film's headlong vitality and passion. Zeffirelli has captured Verdi's force in a rare, powerful way. --By Michael Walsh This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.