MUTI CONDUCTS : A PURIST’S ‘RIGOLETTO’ IN PHILADELPHIA

Verdi’s “Rigoletto,” for better or worse, used to be regarded as a singers’ opera.

The tenor-in-tights offered a self-indulgent concert-in-costume capped, and not a moment too soon, by the showy flourishes of “La donna e mobile.” The soprano chirped chronic filigree cadenzas at whim and, sometimes, ascended to a very, very high E never even dreamed of by the presumably unimaginative composer. The humpbacked baritone repeatedly huffed and puffed until he could blow the house down, preferably with a sustained, traditionally interpolated, high G.

Meanwhile, in the understaffed pit, an accommodating, laissez-faire maestro with no mind of his own tried to stay awake while the orchestra pretended to be a big guitar that goes oom-pah-pah.

As long as opera stars have egos and high notes, and as long as the public likes to applaud musical circus acts, things may never change very much. Nevertheless, a few brave and enlightened souls are trying to make things change.

The University of Chicago, in conjunction with Casa Ricordi in Milan, is in the process of publishing a thoughtful, critical edition of the Verdi operas--an edition that scrapes away the nasty barnacles that have long encrusted the scores because of sloppy copying, misguided interpreting and faulty “correcting” of the original manuscripts.

A purified “Rigoletto” appeared in 1982, to the delight of scholars everywhere. Riccardo Muti conducted its premiere at the Vienna Staatsoper a year later. Last week, in concert performances with the Philadelphia Orchestra, the fiery Italian conductor introduced this “Rigoletto” without frills to rapturous audiences at the lovely old Academy of Music.

A quick comparison of the previous and present edition reveals few startling changes. The unsanctioned high notes never actually appeared in the old version. Singers merely added them as a matter of common dishonor. Still, close scrutiny uncovers many small discrepancies, and the details can make a big difference.

Some of the details entail dynamics and phrase markings. There is a lot more pianissimo and a lot more legato in “Rigoletto” than most of us thought.

Some of the details involve orchestration. The offstage banda , we discover, should include strings. Moreover, a few isolated notes, particularly in the final passages of Gilda’s aria, come as surprises, and there are striking variances in ornamention and and stress.

The reevaluated libretto introduces a few unexpected nuances. The last act takes place not, as we thought, on the right bank--” destra sponda”--of the river, but simply on a deserted bank--” deserta sponda.” More interesting, the debauched Duke enters Sparafucile’s inn asking the assassin not for “ a room and some wine,” but for “ your sister and some wine”--”tua sorella e del vino.” It isn’t quite the same.

Muti’s performance Saturday night offered many revelations. It picked up where Toscanini left off in his famous wartime broadcast of Act IV. It was incredibly tight, crisp and propulsive. It was fastidiously inflected, impeccably executed. It made the most of luscious orchestral sonorities, buoyed the vocal lines, explored a vast panorama of introspective affects.

There was no room here for exhibitionism, for sentimentality or for push-button pathos. Muti gave us “Rigoletto” as if it were structurally durchkomponiert , a “Rigoletto” that invited no applause after arias and even discouraged it between scenes. This was a very speedy “Rigoletto,” a very honest “Rigoletto,” a very interesting “Rigoletto” and, in many ways, a very exciting “Rigoletto.”

For all its textual revelations and all its technical brilliance, however, it wasn’t always as poignant as one would have hoped. One longed, from time to time, for the sort of emotional expansion that can come when a singer pauses and lingers over a well-shaped phrase. One even longed--dare a stone-hearted critic admit it?--for the dramatic exclamation point that can come with sparing, purposeful, focused use of the genuinely climactic high note.

Even in matters of musicological fidelity, there may be room for a little compromise.

Despite their expressive straitjackets, the Philadelphia ensemble served Verdi, and Muti, marvelously.

Renato Bruson--Giulini’s Falstaff--mustered considerable tragic force in the title role and, in lieu of roof-rattling, reveled in mezza-voce reflection. Cecilia Gasdia, a very young and much celebrated Italian soprano making her U.S. debut, brought just the right combination of purity and passion to the music of Gilda, not to mention a very pretty trill. Michael Myers, the Duke of Mantua, could produce neither the most sensual nor the most ringing Italianate tones, but compensated with exquisite finesse and reasonable ardor.

The supporting cast was dominated by Stephen Dupont’s black-basso Sparafucile and Alexandrina Milcheva’s voluptuous-sounding Maddalena. The comprimario roles benefited from exceptionally fresh and vibrant voices: Anthony Raffell was the Heldenbariton Monterone, Shirley Close the elegant Giovanna, Stephanie Friede the ear-catching Countess Ceprano.

The youthful men of the Westminster Choir, trained by Glenn Parker, nearly made the courtiers seem a central force.

No one, for once, could take good old “Rigoletto” for granted.