In 1961, when Grace Bumbry broke the color barrier at the Bayreuth Festival, the German tabloids went wild for “die schwarze Venus,” or Black Venus, and papers around the world followed suit. The reportedly shy 24-year-old American had been cast in Richard Wagner’s Tannhäuser as the pagan love goddess of olden times, partying up a storm underground in defiance of killjoy medieval Christianity. The old guard howled, but Wagner’s grandsons Wieland and Wolfgang stuck to their longswords. “My grandfather wrote for vocal colors, not for skin colors,” one or the other declared in a zinger that has been ascribed to both.
With her erotic allure, flair for the dramatic, classy musicianship, and tones of liquid flame, she was no flash in the pan, La Bumbry. In 1966, The New York Times reported “thunderous” ovations for her role debut as Carmen, in Georges Bizet’s opera, at the Salzburg Festival. A movie of the production, shot that same year under studio conditions, shows what the uproar was about.
No, Carmen is not—as many have said—the female Don Giovanni. Giovanni’s a compulsive sexual conquistador. Carmen’s choosy about lovers, but what she’s in love with is her freedom. Bumbry takes her cue from her character’s opening number, the lilting habanera, which tells of the untamed bird of love, indifferent to pursuit, yet at times susceptible to indifference. As all Seville looks on, Carmen picks the unheeding mama’s boy and lowly brigadier Don José out of a crowd and claims him with a tossed flower that might as well have been a sniper’s bullet. Yet when the rock-star toreador Escamillo makes his first move, she’s unimpressed. Lesser specimens of the concupiscent male sex don’t rate even a glance.
Bumbry’s José is Jon Vickers, the James Cagney of opera, heartbreaking in timbre, volatile of temperament as he descends into degradation and finally murder. Mirella Freni, radiant under an unbecoming beehive, sings Micaëla, José’s good girl back home. As Escamillo, there’s Justino Díaz, vocally rocky but built like a heavyweight. Never mind that true bullfighters tended to a slighter balletic silhouette; Díaz looks quite the dish in the venerable traje de luces (suit of light).
The conductor as well as the director of both the stage production and the movie is Salzburg’s all-powerful Herbert von Karajan. At first glance, his fluent cinematography and novelistically detailed art direction may suggest the popcorn Shakespeares and Verdis of Franco Zeffirelli. In fact, Zeffirelli’s string of hits, which began slightly later, were no souvenirs of prior stage productions but actual movies, shot on picture-postcard locations, peopled with extras who were never just killing time. Whatever his limitations as a filmmaker, Karajan has documented for posterity Bumbry’s Carmen in her relaxed, charismatic glory. What more do we need?
She died in 2023, at age 86, not long after unleashing another media firestorm. With stars of color on the barricades to stamp out purportedly racist cosmetics, Grace spoke up on Facebook in defense of “artistic credibility.” “My make-up cabinet runs the gamut,” the Black Venus told the world, “from Dark Egyptian to Chalk White for Turandot and everything in between.”
Carmen is available for streaming on Stage+
Matthew Gurewitsch writes about opera and classical music for AIR MAIL. He lives in Hawaii
