GLITTERY PREMIERE : MENOTTI, DOMINGO AND ‘GOYA’

Gian Carlo Menotti must be one of the better second-rate composers of the 19th Century.

Too bad we are nearing the end of the 20th Century.

Menotti at 75 is still cranking out pretty tunes, still basking in lush harmonies, still fabricating primitive, sentimental dramas. He is still paying lip service to ancient, time- dishonored conventions.

He certainly shocks no one. He obviously doesn’t want to. He doesn’t even surprise anyone.

Blissfully unburdened by the passage of time, the compulsion of contemporary thought or the quest for an original idea, he is still trying to write the perfect new opera for people who hate anything that sounds modern.

Over the decades, he has purged from his meager vocabulary the mild and cautious dissonances that used to suggest either a forward-listening sensibility or a weakness for wrong notes. He also seems to have abandoned the comic idiom that could, to some degree, support his penchant for charm within a hyperconservative expressive aesthetic.

Menotti wants to devote his twilight years to heroic historical tragedy. Remember the trials, tribulations and ultimate embarrassments of “Juana la Loca” in San Diego?

The Menotti of ’86 wants to be regarded as a master of romantic nostalgia. In “Goya,” which was given its world premiere by the Washington Opera at the Kennedy Center on Saturday, he emerges once again as a past master of the banal.

The premiere bore all the trappings of an Event. Capital E.

The top ticket fetched $500. The plush Opera House in the marble Kleenex box on the Potomac had been sold out for months.

The dressy first-night revelers were led by Queen Sophia of Spain, escorted by our beleaguered Secretary of State. Mr. Shultz, incidentally, looked even more somber than usual. First secret negotiations with terrorists, now this . . .

The royal entourage included conspicuous politicos as well as the usual gliterati and groupies. Representatives of the Eastern musical establishment hovered everywhere, as did the busier-than-usual paparazzi. Even PBS was here to record the festivities, or unreasonable facsimiles thereof, for a doubtlessly grateful posterity.

The glamour of the event was enhanced, of course, by the participation of a well-publicized supertenor. The titular duties of the great Spanish painter were entrusted to--the publicity machines say inspired by--none less than Placido Domingo.

Menotti may not have given him the role of a lifetime. Still, the fans were happy to see and hear him in a new--well, unfamiliar--challenge. And when was the last time Luciano Pavarotti sang a world premiere?

The Washington Opera reportedly spent $1 million in mounting the mushy extravaganza. The air was alive with push-button bravos for everyone and everything, starting with the scenery.

And, oh, yes. There were supertitles.

Goya, the tortured but inspired 18th-Century artist, meets the mysterious Duchess of Alba in a tavern. He is described by a friend, rather redundantly, as a “lecherous rake.” She is disguised, for some reason, as a chambermaid.

“Ahee cahn seeh thruh yoor closes end pehnt yoor nehket bohdy four mahee bresh cahn seeh fahrder den mahee ice,” sings the ever-ardent Domingo in his best Castilian English and in his best Cavaradossi manner. (An operatic painter, after all, is an operatic painter.)

“I can see through your clothes and paint your naked body, for my brush can see farther than my eyes,” says the would-be poetic message projected on the screen above the proscenium.

The singer’s accented prose is given a simultaneous translation into Menotti’s stilted prose. It is a dubious triumph for modern technology. In the short run, Domingo’s mangling of the language may be preferable to the composer’s mangling of textual poise.

In the long run, one may be hard-pressed to decide which compilation of cliches is more disturbing: Menotti’s music or Menotti’s libretto.

The music sounds much of the time like reheated Puccini. Occasionally it resembles hand-me- down Cilea. Once in a while, it suggests second-hand Mascagni. There are gutsy arias, gushing duets, frilly ensembles, tender orchestral interludes. All are well constructed. All seem shallow, lifeless, deja entendu .

Menotti knows how to deal in the easy effect. Affect, however, is another matter.

The libretto is a rambling, disjointed melange that plays loose with history--which is acceptable--and trivializes its subject--which isn’t.

In the first act, Goya is just another amorous tenor flirting with the mock-exotic diva-as-duchess. In the second act, we meet the flighty Queen of Spain and learn of her rivalry with the exotic diva. Suddenly, the tenor becomes deaf. We don’t know why. We don’t care.

In the third act, the queen poisons the duchess, who dies a pretty death. Then Goya’s life of artistic agony, creative ecstasy and domestic discord flashes belatedly before his, and our, eyes. He dies a pretty death too, accompanied by a sobbing servant, somber chords and shimmering strings.

Menotti pulls out all the stops, earnestly, clumsily and in vain. We have seen and heard it all before. Seen and heard it better.

The Washington forces did what could be done. Rafael Fruehbeck de Burgos conducted with authority and efficiency. Menotti staged the proceedings himself, with touching respect for the hoary rituals of yore. Pasquale Grossi provided lavish, old-fashioned sets and costumes that could, and no doubt will, be recycled for “Carmen,” “Andrea Chenier,” “Adriana Lecouvreur” or “Manon Lescaut.”

The cast was strong. Domingo worked hard and made big, beautiful noises as the all-purpose hero. Victoria Vergara exuded mezzo-soprano allure as the elegant vamp with a heart of gold.

Karen Huffstodt flashed a properly nasty coloratura as the wicked Queen. Louis Otey provided staunch support as the tenor’s baritonal buddy. Stephen Dupont sounded imposing as the tricky prime minister and proved that good bassos don’t need supertitles.

If only the formulas still worked.