OPERA A LA CARTE : ADAMS ENLIVENS ‘PIRATES’

Opera a la Carte, Richard Sheldon’s endearing and enduring Los Angeles-based ensemble, has spent 16 years trying to preserve ancient and admirable Savoyard traditions.

It is a modest company, staffed for the most part by young Americans whose performances have sometimes seemed more eager than able.

Donald Adams is to Gilbert and Sullivan what Lauritz Melchior was to Wagner. Adams served the late and moderately lamented D’Oyly Carte company from 1953 to 1969 as the very model of a modern major buffo. Among other things, he was--and no doubt still is--the most devastatingly succulent of Mikados, a Dick Deadeye who could be repulsive and adorable at the same delectable time, a brash and blustery Pirate King betrayed by a heart of trifle (as in pudding).

Adams left D’Oyly Carte in the nick of time, as stagnation began to dull the rituals, as vocal and dramatic standards started to sag, and as economic fortunes threatened to decline. He continued to bear the Victorian comic-opera torch under other auspices, nobly, while D’Oyly Carte staggered to its inevitable demise, an unworthy mini-successor trying to fill Adams’ bigger-than-life shoes, slippers, and basso-boots.

Saturday night at Ambassador Auditorium, Adams made a guest appearance with the local team in “The Pirates of Penzance.” One approached the performance with a bit of trepidation.

Would the authentic Pirate King--the good-natured, oh-so-British one with the booming voice, the magnetic personality and the mercurial humor--overpower his hosts?

No, it turned out. He wouldn’t.

Adams was his usual irresistible self--puffy and powerful, bluff and benign, crisp and commanding. Like the best of wines, he gets even better with age. But he is too sensitive, too too civilized to stoop to scene-stealing. He is a British gentleman, to the last phony whisker.

He scaled his performance to match the surroundings, without making the slightest sacrifice in wit or whimsy. At the same time, he gave the domestic Cartians some obvious inspiration as well as some useful object lessons.

Sheldon, of course, needs neither. He has long been a Major-General of supreme, crusty authority. He has long been superior, in fact, to any Major-General who trod the D’Oyly Carte boards after the departure of Martyn Green.

Sheldon’s voice may sound a bit thin and scratchy these days, but that poses no problem in this role. Saturday night he projected the wily patriarch’s stuffiness with virtuosity that stopped far short of excessive indulgence. He also sang his introductory patter song with dizzying, probably unparalleled, speed, coupled with impeccable clarity.

If the others in the cast failed to sustain the same level of stylish bravado, they all--well, nearly all--performed with skill and/or infectious high spirits.

Alison England still has a few technical kinks to work out of Mabel’s stratospheric flights, but she managed the mock-Italian coloratura with generous aplomb, shaded the line delicately and played the arch-ingenue with nice, deadpan quasi-innocence.

Paul Harms’ Frederic suffered from a certain degree of tenor constriction but benefited from wide-eyed, boyish quasi-ardor.

Eugenia Hamilton made a suitably plump and pleasing person of poor Ruth. Donna Oden brought sassy charm to the incidental duties of Edith. A meek Rollin Lofdahl found the Policeman’s lot to be even unhappier than is customary.

Although Sheldon is no slave of duty when it comes to re-creating traditional devices, he respects his vaunted material and honors the past. Under his knowing guidance, the chorus of 20 cowardly pirates, quaking constabulary and chronically demure damsels mustered complex, appropriately satirical maneuvers, always with relish and often with polish.

Frank Fetta conducted a rather dull-sounding pit band with more precision than verve.

The scenic elements turned out to be the weakest concepts in this generally encouraging effort. The cardboard sets of David Barber, the primitive lighting scheme of Debra Garcia, and the drab costumes of Minta Manning and Doris Surany all pretended that a lowly budget precludes a lofty imagination.

Still, perhaps it would be wise not to carp or criticize, for it’s very evident these attentions were well meant.