Make Mine a Puccini Sunrise

How do you make a Puccini Sunrise? Not with tequila! Try sake, cherry blossoms, and a dash of delusion. Yesterday as I was moving smartly to catch a train, the morning was brilliant and cool. It was the first sunny morning in years—or so it seemed. My brain radio responded by matching the rhythm of my steps with the sunrise music from the third and final act of Madama Butterfly.

Act II ended with the splendid “Humming chorus” during which Butterfly, her toddler, and her devoted servant Suzuki poke holes in the rice paper wall of their house, peering out for the first glimpse of Lt. B. F. Pinkerton’s return. Butterfly had seen his ship arrive in the harbor, and she and Suzuki despoiled the garden of every flower to decorate in joyful anticipation of his longed-for return. Night has fallen as Act II ends. Only Butterfly remains awake.

The prelude to Act III opens brutally with the stern and foreboding Japanese melody associated with Butterfly’s alienation from her people. Tender but anxious phrases lead to a new section of passionate music describing Butterfly’s fervent delusions, climaxing in a phrase that reminds us of her rapturous wedding night. (There are even some upward-yearning phrases that remind me of the famous Tristan & Isolde music.) All this we imagine running through the poor girl’s mind as she struggles to stay awake through the long night.

Now we hear the sound of work chants ("Oe, oe") coming from Nagasaki harbor. Puccini calls for the metallic clanking of chains and other sounds to let us know that the sea farers are setting off in the gray dawn. The first intimation of joyous day comes as Puccini combines a number of sprightly Japanese tunes, repeating them a little louder and with greater orchestral depth each time in the same way Rossini built his famous crescendos.

While the volume is still soft, Puccini calls for bird calls (made with a fun little instrument called a nightingale that burbles when you blow air into a cylinder filled with water). Ever increasing the excitement, Puccini adds bright instruments, like trumpets, the perky piccolo, and cymbals until the whole orchestra is dancing to the sparkle of the sun on the bay, and Butterfly’s home is filled with light. It’s a stunning piece of orchestral description!

Alas, it’s a cruel trick. Pretty soon Butterfly’s world will be destroyed. Other composers did it, too—they temporarily lighten a somber mood and give the audience some relief. There’s a more important function for these outbursts of joy: they heighten the contrast between the protagonist’s private sorrow and the seemingly carefree outer world. In Verdi’s La traviata, for example, the dying Violetta closes her window against the sound of mad Carnival rejoicing. In Werther, Massenet uses the sound of children singing Christmas carols as a counterpoint to the Werther’s death by suicide.

Geez, this is some heavy stuff. And all brought up by a brisk walk on a beautiful morning!

There’s a really interesting video that marries this prelude to Act III with scenes from a fascinating Madama Butterfly movie directed by Frédéric Mitterand. Be aware that the video you’re seeing is a montage of scenes from the film, but after seeing the beautiful images you’ll be tempted to rent the movie. It’s a heartbreaker.