This article examines the new finale by Luciano Berio for Puccini's Turandot, commissioned by the Festival de Musica de Gran Canarias and prèmiered in 2002. This finale constitutes a priviledged point of view from which to revisit not only the composer's life-long engagement with musical works of the past, but also his theatrical aesthetics, thrown into sharp relief by the particular challenges of this endeavour. Berio's compositional process is carefully reconstructed, from his interventions on the libretto to his respectful yet creative use of the numerous sketches left behind by Puccini. Particular attention is then paid to Berio's choice of reminiscences from earlier scenes of the opera, as well as to his citations from Wagner's Tristan, Mahler's Seventh Symphony and Schönberg's Gurrelieder. A separate section is devoted to Berio's most original contribution: a long orchestral interlude at the moment when Calaf kisses Turandot. The article concludes with a detailed scrutiny of Berio's orchestration.

Although widely perceived as untraditional and unpatriotic, Sondheim’s 1991 Assassins is neither; it is in fact based securely on themes and strategies developed within the mainstream tradition of the American musical. In both respects, it shows particular affinity to Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma!, a relationship that becomes especially evident when considering the latter’s basis in Lynn Riggs’s Green Grow the Lilacs. The author examines related background, dialogue and individual songs from each musical, the latter including ‘Pore Jud’, ‘Lonely Room’ and ‘People Will Say We’re in Love’ from Oklahoma!, and ‘Everybody’s Got the Right’, ‘The Ballad of Booth’, ‘Gun Song’, ‘Unworthy of Your Love’, ‘Another National Anthem’ and the book depository scene from Assassins. Yet Assassins departs from the mainstream in one important respect: by failing to foreground adequately a sympathetic viewpoint (despite the addition of ‘Something Just Broke’), the show seems to place its dominant characters in opposition to the audience, who represent its real protagonist, the American people.

‘First performed in 1840 and praised by Liszt for its orchestration and workman-ship, the score does not deny Meyerbeerian influence. The present recording, which sounds as if it has been taken from a live performance in the theatre, has a first-class cast and is altogether fascinating.’ The object of this encomium is La vestale by the Italian composer Saverio Mercadante (1795–1870), the first commercial recording of which was issued on CD in 1989. The quotation, taken from a leading record magazine, seems representative of the response that recordings of Mercadante's works can currently expect: scarcely a single review fails to mention Meyerbeer's positive influence on Mercadante. But how far is one in fact justified in linking these two composers?

A mythical giant, a Malagasy slave, a song, an accomplished baritone, an outraged critic; these seemingly incompatible figures are bound together in the Paris premiere of Giacomo Meyerbeer's L'Africaine in 1865. They are the fundamental elements of my story of the opera's third act, a narrative web binding together early modern nautical history, epic poetry, grand-opera dramaturgy, and the nineteenth-century politics of operatic performance and listening in an exploration of how the opera's rather fictionalised account of Vasco da Gama's first sea voyage to India five centuries ago bears witness to the strength of the historicist project in grand opera.

Leonardo Vinci's Li zite 'n galera (The Newlyweds on the Galley) has been afforded a moderate degree of attention by musicologists because it is the first Neapolitan commedia per musica to survive with music almost completely intact. It is also Vinci's first extant opera, and has thus been considered in terms of the light it sheds on the style of his later drammi per musica for which he is better known today.

Lucretia's principal virtue is her undoing. Her chastity is vaunted as the guarantor of Collatinus's honour and standing, as the trigger for Tarquinius's lust, and its brutal loss as the symbol of the corruption of the Etruscans and thus the catalyst for Junius's ascent to power. She is established in a patriarchal system as a desexed woman, as innocent as a child, who can only exist as a chaste wife. When her virtue is polluted by rape, she has no choice but to kill herself in an attempt to restore her function as chaste wife.

Britten's opera encodes the naming of Lucretia in terms redolent of the oppressive ‘speech-acts’ of Peter Grimes. Through tonal and motivic association the projection of her innocence and the ‘stain’ introduced by her rape are worked into the opera's design at the level of long-range musical structure. Through analysis of the thematic implications of musical process in the work, this article opens to view the complex and at times conflicting moral hermeneutics of the work.

When Luigi Bassi entered the stage of the Prague National Theatre in 1787 to create the title role of Mozart and Da Ponte's Don Giovanni, he could have drawn inspiration from a rich tradition of theatrical, pantomimic and marionette representations of the legendary Don Juan, to which this new opera was the latest contribution. Previous incarnations had been shaped by the likes of Tirso de Molina, Molière, Shadwell, Purcell and Gluck; yet it is Mozart and Da Ponte's version that has for us become the definitive: the Don as paradox; an uncomfortable blend of the despicable and the admirable, hero and anti-hero. Lecher, rapist, liar, cheat, murderer, he is the brutal epitome of macho striving for power and domination, yet clothed with a seductive panache, conviction and bravado — the reckless-heroic libertine phallocrat who would rather face the fires of eternal damnation than curb his appetites.