The a-Peel of Oranges

BY JOSHUA BORTHS

Prokofiev’s The Love for Three Oranges isn't really about oranges. It is about the power of laughter, love, and mayhem. Through its plot, score, and the ideas that inspired it, this brilliant opera cheekily examines how we shape the stories we tell and find meaning in chaos.

The opera is based on an 18th century play by Carlo Gozzi, who is also famous for writing the story that inspired Puccini’s Turandot. During this “Age of Enlightenment,” art was seen as the best way to educate the masses, and literary factions argued over the merits of different approaches—but Gozzi didn’t buy any of it. To show the silliness of these debates, he wrote a purposely surreal, ridiculous fairy tale with elements of commedia dell’arte (a highly stylized form of improvisational comedy featuring stock characters and biting satire). The play ingeniously featured arguments amongst the cast about the “correct” style of theatre and art. Naturally, they make a mess of things.

The rest of the play involves a mythical kingdom, where the King of Clubs worries about his ailing son, the heir to the throne. The King’s advisors conclude that laughter is the best medicine, and the Prince must laugh to be cured. This important task is entrusted to the clown Trouffaldino, who does everything possible to revitalize the Prince. However, the kingdom is besieged by rival factions including an evil sorceress, Fata Morgana; the traitorous Prime Minister, Léandre; and others who wish to seize power for themselves by stopping the Prince’s recovery. After a significant amount of tomfoolery, the Prince laughs, and goodness wins the day— but the story is only half over. Before “happily ever after,” the sorceress curses the Prince: he will never be happy and must always yearn for oranges. So, the Prince sets out on a quest to find his forbidden fruits, discovering love along the way.

Centuries later, as artists were grappling with the first World War and societal change, debates about the purpose of art, the artifice of theatre, and the surrealism of modern life bubbled to the surface. A Russian dramatist revived the play after observing parallels between Gozzi, the play, and modernist Europe; and all of this found its way into a new The Love for Three Oranges. This version was then handed to the young, precocious composer Sergei Prokofiev as he fled the Russian Revolution in 1917, and it quickly captured his imagination as he traveled to New York City.

Through this seemingly silly story, Prokofiev found an ideal vehicle to explore his zany, bold, and modern music. Each chorus/faction was given a musical world, which in turn infiltrated and structured the opera itself. On the surface, The Love for Three Oranges is a patchwork of musical styles. As soon as one idea settles, new music supersedes it, launching the audience in a different direction. Achingly beautiful melodies are juxtaposed by chaotic choruses, and brilliant scenes are interrupted with circus music. However, despite this musical mayhem, the opera remains cohesive. The vocal writing is compelling, the orchestra is invigorating, and when we cut through the noise, beautiful harmonies and human emotions underpin the whole experience.

After many twists and turns, the opera was completed, translated into French, and premiered in Chicago in 1921 when Prokofiev was only 30 years old. Despite being a century old, The Love for Three Oranges is just as appealingly relevant today. Our world cannot be “perfected” or “corrected” as easily as Enlightenment thinkers supposed, and when we try to advocate our agenda over others, chaos often reigns. However, Prokofiev’s opera—almost magically—is both this disease and its cure. Theatre may not settle our differences or change humanity irrevocably, but through great music and frivolity, we can come together to laugh (or cry) which can make the world a slightly more comprehensible one.