MUSIC CENTER OPERA : STYLISH ‘ALCINA’ AT THE WILTERN

Tuesday night, with a little help as usual from some British friends, the Music Center Opera attended brilliantly to the glorious Baroque excesses of Handel’s “Alcina” amid the glorious Deco excesses of the Wiltern Theatre.

“Alcina,” you may recall, is a masterpiece of its kind that makes frequent appearances in history books, infrequent ones in opera houses. It lay virtually dormant, in fact, from 1737 until 1957, when an Australian diva named Sutherland began her great florid-flight revival on behalf of the deathless British composer from Germany who happened to write ornate operas in the Italian manner.

This modified-Italian opera is an utterly incomprehensible semi-mythical quasi-allegorical convolution, based loosely on a chunk of Ariosto’s “Orlando Furioso.” The action, if it can be called that, involves an evil enchantress with a high and extraordinarily flexible voice who sings fabulously difficult da-capo arias into the night and, oh yes, turns men into beasts.

“Alcina” also involves an intricate network of deceptions and intrigues plus all manner of amorous entanglements and sexual obfuscations. Two of the men, whose roles were intended for castrati, happen to be played these days by women. One of the bona-fide women spends most of the evening--was it really just an evening?--pretending to be a man.

Then there is the long-lost father who impersonates a not-so-shaggy lion. Or is it the other way around?

After a while, one can’t tell the players even with a program. One can’t even tell them with supertitles. Oh, well.

The music represents a wondrous marathon--some might say endurance contest--of arias followed by arias followed by arias. Some of the arias dazzle with bravura daring. Others ooze pathos and soothe the senses with long, potentially droopy lines. All are excruciatingly difficult.

Between the arias, there are recitatives. Once in a while, one hears--hallelujah!--a chorus. At the very end--eureka!--Handel allows himself, and us, the luxury of an ensemble. After 3 1/2 hours of unadulterated solos, the tiny vocal group-grope comes as a blinding shaft of light.

The impatient impurists in the audience should be grateful, perhaps, that the marathon lasted only 3 1/2 hours. Had it been uncut and festooned with the original balletic divertissement, the performance would have lasted 45 minutes more.

Still, the most dauntless of purists would have good historical, structural and stylistic reasons to question the amputation of the middle sections and embellished-repeat sections of eight--count ‘em, eight--arias.

Baroque opera in general, and “Alcina” in particular, may not please all tastes. It demands even more suspension of disbelief than normally is the case in the irrational world where people insist on singing instead of talking.

Anyone who likes this sort of thing, however, will love it at the Wiltern. The Music Center production, a blowup of a version created last season for Christ Church Spitalfields in London, is both vital and sensitive.

Frank Corsaro, the director, illuminates the conventional murk of the libretto with imaginative metaphor, fluid action and telling psychological portraiture. Bob Crowley has designed a unit set on the open, slightly-thrust stage that easily accommodates timeless Everyman drama, modern symbolism and 18th-Century splendor.

Richard Hickox conducts a small ensemble comprising authentic period instruments--the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra of San Francisco--with wonted elegance, and with welcome impetus too.

One doesn’t know whom to blame for the overamplification that made the harpsichord continuo sound like a washtub from outer space during Act I. Thank goodness, someone had the good sense to turn down the volume after intermission.

In the virtually impossible title role, Arleen Auger looked appealingly devilish on Tuesday and sang like an angel. We knew she would toss off the fioriture with nonchalant accuracy. We thought she would sing with sweetness and purity, with endless breath and expressive point, even with reasonable heft in the climactic outbursts. But we didn’t know that she could be such a compelling, subtle, sensuous actress.

Equally remarkable was the Ruggiero of Della Jones, a warm-voiced British mezzo-soprano who apparently commands unlimited reserves of poise, flexibility and suavity. She knows how to exert force without sacrificing grace, and she sustains the Hosenrolle travesties with urgent dignity.

Eiddwen Harrhy brought much flair, ample virtuosity, relatively dark tone and a nice aura of nasty insinuation to the sisterly sorcery of Morgana.

Jonathan Mack traced the tenorial filigree of Alcina’s unhappy lieutenant with elan and exuded histrionic sympathy.

The strong supporting cast included Stephanie Vlahos, deft in the is-she-or-isn’t-he charade of Bradamante; Virgina Sublett, mellifluous as the befuddled nobleman in search of his/her leonine father; Robert Vafaie, lithe and mute as the leonine father on all fours, and Kenneth Cox, sonorous as the inevitable basso tutor.

The various transformed lovers of Alcina (both genders) stalked the boards with discipline and zest. So did the assorted barefoot-boys-with-chest in the guise of cupid-acrobats, not to mention the usual collection of soldiers and choral onlookers.

This, obviously, was a great night for people who fancy glorious excesses.