TILSON THOMAS CONDUCTS : A POIGNANT ‘BOHEME’ AT BOWL

In the not-quite-so-bad old days, Hollywood Bowl was a reasonably happy summer haven for the occasional concert opera.

In 1973, for instance, the Los Angeles Philharmonic offered a memorable performance of “La Boheme.” It may have settled for routine forces on the podium and in the secondary roles. But it introduced a Mimi named Katia Ricciarelli and, more important, a still-pristine Rodolfo named Luciano Pavarotti.

Sunday night, after a hiatus of a dozen years, Puccini’s most beloved tear-jerker returned to our amphitheater under the airplanes.

This time there were no Pavarottis and Ricciarellis on the agenda. The cast was composed exclusively of talented young Americans and, as usual, the overamplification system made everyone sound like a misplaced Wagnerian trapped in an echo chamber.

There wasn’t even a Los Angeles Philharmonic in the shell. The concert in question utilized the students of the resident Institute Orchestra.

Nevertheless, something magical happened, and 7,513 Bowl-goers noticed. This “Boheme” demonstrated remarkable freshness, poignance, vitality and ensemble force. Puccini triumphed against the odds. And so did Michael Tilson Thomas.

Tilson Thomas isn’t the conductor one automatically associates with Italianate sentiment. For better or worse, he has proven himself a most effective exponent of music that benefits from probing analysis, from cool precision and from jet-propelled bravado. He has always seemed a thinking maestro, and a thinking-man’s maestro.

He could, of course, dissect “Le Sacre du printemps” with his baton, master the intricacies of the the rhythmic convolutions as if Stravinsky had written nursery ditties, yet still generate the wonted visceral appeal. That isn’t quite the same, however, as leading fragile voices and weeping strings through the potentially soggy verismo of the starving poet who loves and loses a tubercular seamstress in the Latin Quarter of 1830.

Tilson Thomas surprised the would-be typecasters Sunday. He amazed and confounded them. The erstwhile quasi-modernist served the inherent pathos unerringly without overstressing it. He discovered and illuminated all manner of telling detail, in the orchestra and in the vocal line--telling detail that the customary routinier tramples with impunity.

In the love and death music, he favored slow tempos and subtle expressive nuances, in the best Beecham tradition. He never dragged, however, never succumbed to the vulgar accent or the sloppy stress, always set off the reflective passages with flights of wit, charm or breezy momentum.

He may not invariably have made the task easy for the mortal lungs at his disposal. “Vecchia zimarra,” for instance, began as a tug of war between a Colline who wanted to surge forward and a conductor who wanted to hold back. In general, however, the flexibility and the long lines demanded by Tilson Thomas turned out to be in the best interest of dramatic impact.

This man belongs in an opera house.

In an opera house, unfortunately, he might not find an orchestra as alert, as responsive, as precise, as well balanced, as virtuosic and as mellifluous as the Los Angeles Philharmonmic Institute Orchestra.

He also might not find a cast so selflessly attuned to the benefits of teamwork.

Roberta Alexander, the Mimi, found some of her high notes tightening just when one most wanted them to open up in climactic radiance, but she impressed with pervasive sweetness, honesty and restraint.

Richard Leech, replacing the indisposed Jerry Hadley as Rodolfo, sang brightly and tastefully. He even ventured “Che gelida manina” in the original key, which is more than one can say for the Pavarotti of the ‘80s. His vibrant tenor tends toward sharpness under pressure, and he might further investigate the power of the pianissimo, but he obviously is an ingratiating artist with a promising future.

The strong supporting cast included Dale Duesing as a volatile Marcello, Karen Huffstodt as a vivacious Musetta (who sustained a lovely diminuendo at the premature cadence of her Waltz), Willard White as a sonorous Colline, Peter Van Derick as an animated Schaunard and Michael Gallup as an amusing Benoit who doubled as an amusing Alcindoro.

The Pacific Chorale, trained by John Alexander, performed its incidental duties nobly.

An anonymous stage director gave the uncostumed singers, stationed on risers behind the orchestra, some self-conscious poses, some contradictory bits of “realistic” business and some silly entrances and exits. The theatrical compromises were intended, no doubt, to enhance the drama in the music. In the end they merely distracted from the music in the drama.

A concert is a concert is a concert. . . .