ZSCHAU SINGS ‘TOSCA’ : SAN DIEGO OPERA OPENS THE EASY WAY

Some operas virtually play themselves. Take, for example, Puccini’s blood-and-gutsy “Tosca.”

It boasts a primitive melodramatic plot that most unfeeble-minded audiences can follow even without supertitles.

It has been performed often enough in the past 87 years to breed familiarity even among people who otherwise can take or leave--mostly leave--the lyric muse.

It is all about love and passion and piety and heroism and political intrigue and lust and murder. Nice gentle, universal things like that.

It has a heroine who gets to sing--sigh--”Vissi d’arte” (sometimes flat on her tummy), a hero who gets to sing two beloved hit songs before dying oh-so-dramatically before a firing squad, and an oily, lecherous, Iago-esque villain whom everyone loves to hate.

It is relatively short.

What more could anyone want?

The world has applauded exciting “Toscas,” sloppy “Toscas,” tired “Toscas,” silly “Toscas,” brilliant “Toscas,” compelling “Toscas,” breathtaking “Toscas,” lavish “Toscas,” ragbag “Toscas,” rote “Toscas.” . . .

Some of the above have been applauded right here in San Diego, which has been plying the “Tosca” trade happily and profitably for more than a quarter century.

Puccini’s wonderfully tawdry little shocker has a way of managing to be effective even when it isn’t given first-class treatment. It can, of course, approach high art on the rare occasions when it is taken really seriously--when it is directed by a Zeffirelli, conducted by a De Sabata and sung by a Callas-Di Stefano-Gobbi triumvirate.

Nevertheless, it also works pretty well when served by uninspired operatic chefs who cook with ordinary water.

They were cooking with ordinary water, for the most part, at the grand and stuffy opening of the San Diego Opera season Saturday night.

Nothing went wrong. The cast was solid. The conductor was excellent. The sets were functional, even handsome in a grandly cheap sort of way. The staging was utterly sensible, utterly traditional.

The first-nighters got their money’s worth even if this wasn’t a “Tosca” for the blase sophisticate. Even if it wasn’t a “Tosca” for the connoisseur. Even if it wasn’t even a “Tosca” for the garden-variety thinking person.

The most vital impulses emanated from the pit, not the stage. Thomas Fulton conducted with just enough flamboyance to savor rousing, high-powered climaxes, and with more than enough lyrical indulgence to validate the tenderer emotions. He also proved himself a fine orchestral technician and an exceptionally considerate accompanist.

The all-important protagonist was Marilyn Zschau (no relation, one trusts, to any California political aspirant). She is an attractive woman, a competent actress, the mistress of a big, somewhat unruly lirico-spinto soprano.

She went through all the appropriate movements--dramatic and vocal--on Saturday without imposing any strikingly individual distinctions. Her Tosca was no grande dame, no obvious diva, no pathetic victim--just a nice, intelligent, somewhat mercurial lady with a dark, occasionally unsteady, frequently arresting voice.

We have seen and heard far worse.

Vladimir Popov, a tenor trained in the Soviet Union, complemented her with a nice-sounding, rather crude Cavaradossi who seemed nearly as much in love with himself as with the would-be diva.

His voice emerged bright, monotonous, penetrating, high in decibels and low in resonance. His characterization consisted of a lurch, a stagger, a hand on the heart and a wave to the balcony.

More impressive was the reliable, round-toned, well-schooled, unfamiliar Baron Scarpia of George Fortune. Although he happens to be an American, he has long served as house baritone at the West Berlin Opera. He must be a useful man to have around.

Apart from Richard McKee’s hearty Sacristan, the supporting cast proved undistinguished. Where, one wonders, are the successors to De Paolis and Cehanovsky?

Sam Wanamaker, a man of films and the so-called legitimate theater, staged the proceedings deftly, in the manner of an enlightened traffic cop. The manner may not be ideal for the adventurous ‘80s, but, given the conventional decors of Allen Charles Klein, there can have been few alternatives.

The now-ubiquitous supertitles, borrowed from Houston, fooled the audience into thinking much of the opera was a comedy. The captions did, however, avert one already-historic gaffe.

When telling Cavaradossi to alter his portrait of Mary Magdalene so it will look less like her rival, Tosca now asks him merely to use darker paint.

She no longer is made to say this immortally ambiguous line:

“Give her black eyes.”

We must be thankful.