MOLL DOMINATES AS OCHS : SAN FRANCISCO RECYCLES AN OLD ‘ROSENKAVALIER’

“Der Rosenkavalier,” Richard Strauss’ achingly romantic ode to the Vienna of Maria Theresa and to the erotic innuendoes of a predecessor named Mozart, was long overdue for a new production at the War Memorial Opera House.

The old “Rosenkavalier,” an outrageously ugly cardboard-kitsch extravaganza, violated the elegance, the charm and the glitter of this magical score even when the production was first seen here in 1964.

Thursday night, the ever-resourceful Terence McEwen introduced a new “Rosenkavalier” to San Francisco, and not a moment too soon. Unfortunately, it turned out to be not new at all. It was merely economical.

The program credited the sets to Guenther Schneider-Siemssen, who happens to be one of the finest, most stylish designers in Europe. To say that he is Herbert von Karajan’s favored collaborator probably says it all.

What was seen on the stage, however, didn’t look like anything Schneider-Siemssen would recognize, much less acknowledge. Here were cheap, dirty, unimaginative canvases that might have done duty--too much duty--in some provincial European house 40 years ago.

The Marschallin’s garish boudoir looked like something more appropriate for one of her servants. Faninal’s nouveau-riche Stadtpalais resembled a seedy, would-be-glitzy hotel on the wrong side of the tracks in Palm Beach.

The decors, it turns out, were exported from Italy to Chicago 15 years ago. Goodness only knows where they languished before then, and for how long. Sophia Schroek’s attractive costumes, allegedly borrowed from Copenhagen, hardly matched the surroundings.

Under the circumstances, this recycled “Rosenkavalier” desperately needed the redeeming services of a brilliant stage director, an inspired conductor and a cast led by at least four vocal and theatrical paragons. It got a tired stage director, a hack conductor, and a cast that contained two paragons.

Hans Neugebauer of Cologne treated the drama as if it were a somnolent deja-vu charade. This was the sort of staging that can give tradition a bad reputation.

Sir John Pritchard--the conductor and, alarmingly, San Francisco’s new music director--reduced the first act to a murky musical soup. Matters improved somewhat thereafter (they hardly could have gotten worse). Still, the accompaniment of the singers remained inconsiderate if not insensitive, the expressive flair was feeble and the standard of playing by the thin-sounding orchestra tended toward the slovenly.

The stage should have been dominated, especially if one believes all the current hype, by the Marschallin of Kiri Te Kanawa. She certainly looked lovely, and she floated some ravishing high tones. Unfortunately, that isn’t quite enough to suggest mastery of one of the most delicate and most poignant challenges in all opera.

The essential aristocracy and dignity of the character eluded her. She seemed content to strike gosh-I’m-beautiful poses in the tradition of Lisa della Casa. Unlike her Swiss predecessor, however, Te Kanawa didn’t know what to make of the words. In fact, she muffed many of them.

Moreover, the lower half of her too-light soprano tended to evaporate in the vast open spaces. Despite some affecting moments, she painted all the subtle vicissitudes of temper and inflection the same monotonous shade of pink.

Given a narcissistic and superficial Marschallin, not to mention a sluggish maestro, Brigitte Fassbaender didn’t have much to play with, or against, in Act One. The pride of post-Toepper Munich and Carlos Kleiber’s standard Octavian, she nevertheless brought the advantages of undaunted intelligence, elan and authority to this archetypal trouser role.

She sang the lush music rather explosively, however, encountering particular difficulty with the high climaxes. And although her charming, realistically detailed, gawky-boy characterization proved convincing on its own terms, it did compromise projection of the impetuous young knight’s romantic allure.

Luckily, there could be no reservations regarding the Baron Ochs of Kurt Moll and the Sophie of Cheryl Parrish.

Moll played the rustic baron as a big, bumbling bear whose honesty and good nature are diminished only slightly by bad manners and lusty indulgence. He was amusing but never clownish, formidable but never nasty, pushy but never too obnoxious.

He sang the difficult music--really sang it--with a big, warm, black basso that defined parlando nuance with finesse yet rolled out those treacherous subterranean tones with nonchalant beer-barrel splendor. Other Ochses may be more Viennese; none are more imposing.

Parrish, remembered for her adorable Sophie with the Los Angeles Opera Theater last season, took to the big house and the German text like a bird to the sky.

Her limpid soprano soared exquisitely in the rapturous flights of the presentation of the rose. She conveyed a nice aura of spunky rebellion when disappointed by her unknown bridegroom-to-be, and exuded blushing modesty when confronted by the Marschallin. Whether anxious or ecstatic, she conveyed the pretty image of a porcelain doll come to life.

The supporting cast proved less than ideal. The vital but voiceless Renato Capecchi found himself chronically miscast as Faninal. Tonio De Paolo was an Italian Singer who, like many a strong tenor before him, ran out of breath before the end of his aria. The diminutive Florindo Andreolli and the very tall Carla Cook sang decently but reduced the intrigues of Valzacchi and Annina to Mutt ‘n’ Jeff sight gags. Eric Garrett, a splendid Ochs with Los Angeles Opera Theater, was demoted here to the sniveling duties of the Notary, which he performed nobly.

Now, Mr. McEwen, about that new “Rosenkavalier.”. . .