RARE STRAUSS ILLUMINATES SANTA FE

Most American opera companies are cautious enterprises that thrive primarily on hand-me-down Verdi, Puccini and Wagner. Not Santa Fe.

When the dauntlessly unrealistic John Crosby built his lyrical mirage in the high New Mexican desert 30 years ago, he knew he didn’t want, didn’t need, to play by the commercial rules.

He decided to survey neglected repertory as well as popular favorites. He chose to explore operatic terra incognita. He dared to indulge some personal whims. He strived to create stars--preferably young, American and theatrically credible--not just to engage them.

In the intervening decades, alfresco opera in Santa Fe has endured some historic hardships. Fire destroyed the original redwood theater in 1967, but within a year a better-equipped, 1,700-seat opera house rose like a phoenix from the ashes. Crosby has earned universal praise for his dedication and vision but widespread criticism for his generally prosaic conducting. Some of the repertory excursions have led to triumph; others have ended in artistic cul-de-sacs.

Like all operatic ventures, Santa Fe has seen good years and bad years. Unlike most operatic ventures, however, it has seen few boring years.

Aficionados who cannot survive without a regular fix of “Aida,” “Trovatore,” “Manon Lescaut,” “Manon,” “Faust” and/or “The Ring” have learned to spend their summers elsewhere.

Crosby & Co. have offered only four Verdi operas since 1957, and none has enjoyed special distinction in the arid realm of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Puccini has hardly fared better. Massenet and Gounod remain unknown commodities, and the only effort on behalf of Wagner has been a rather unfortunate “Fliegende Hollander.”

The potential compensations, on the other operatic hand, have been extraordinary. Five major works of Hans Werner Henze received their U.S. premieres here. Six Stravinsky operas have been performed. Berg’s “Lulu” began its American odyssey in Santa Fe back in 1963. Local audiences are comfortably conversant with such names as Schoenberg, Penderecki, Hindemith, Rochberg, Eaton and Berio.

And then there is the matter, especially close to Crosby’s heart, of Richard Strauss.

Santa Fe is well on its way to being the first American company to perform the entire Strauss oeuvre . While the mighty Met and Chicago and San Francisco concentrated on such staples as “Rosenkavalier,” “Salome” and “Elektra,” Santa Fe was blithely giving America its first look at major productions of “Daphne,” “Intermezzo,” “Die Liebe der Danae” and “Capriccio.” This year, with a very rare production of “Die Schweigsame Frau,” Crosby has added the 11th Strauss opera to the local repertory. For next year, he promises a provocative double bill juxtaposing “Feuersnot” with “Friedenstag.”

The only other company in the world that can rival this record of devotion happens to be the well-endowed Staatsoper in Strauss’ own hometown, Munich. Next year, the Bavarian capital will honor its favorite son by presenting every one of his operas during the annual summer festival. Wolfgang Sawallisch will conduct most of the performances. The prospect must be driving Crosby crazy.

Nevertheless, he can take considerable comfort in the success he achieved here with “Die Schweigsame Frau.” It is a wonderful opera, and, despite a casting quibble and a language problem, Santa Fe has mounted it with tender, loving, lavish, elegant care.

It is difficult to understand why “Die Schweigsame Frau”--or, if you will, “The Silent Woman”--has not enjoyed universal acclaim. The text by Stefan Zweig (based on “Epicoene,” the same Ben Jonson play that inspired Donizetti’s “Don Pasquale”) is witty, literate, eminently operatic. The virtuosic score--sometimes funny, often poignant, always attentive to character definition--reveals Strauss’ unflagging affinity for the human comedy.

The opera, a classic tale of trickery and reconciliation, abounds in complex ensembles, amusing in-joke quotations, bel-canto parody, sensuous love music, crusty monologues and, as is always the case with this composer, rapturous or ethereal cadences. It demands a great deal of its performers, but offers a great deal in return.

The world premiere in 1935 faltered in the shadow of the Nazi regime. The name of the librettist, a Jew, could not even be printed in the program. Subsequent productions in German houses drew mixed responses. Then, in 1959, came the definitive Salzburg version, conducted by Karl Bohm and staged by Gunther Rennert with a cast of paragons including Hans Hotter, Hilde Guden, Fritz Wunderlich and Hermann Prey.

No reasonable observer would claim that the Santa Fe production, seen Aug. 7, reaches comparable heights. But it does serve Strauss and Zweig most honorably.

Actually, it might have served Zweig even more honorably if an English translation had been used. There is much parlando point in the opera, much toying with the subtleties and ambiguities of the words. Most of this was lost on an audience that could do nothing but read a skimpy synopsis, sit back, relax and enjoy the mellifluous ride.

The opera evolves, and revolves, about wealthy old Admiral Morosus. He is a retired war hero, a potential misanthrope and a recluse who, having barely survived a cannon attack, cannot abide noise of any kind. Strauss makes him a powerful, booming, tragicomic basso profondo with a formidable exterior and a heart of tarnished gold. It is a great role.

The churlish Morosus finds himself embroiled with a keen know-it-all barber, an incipiently overwhelming housekeeper and, most important, a troupe of Italian opera singers led by his tenorial nephew, Henry.

In a series of confusing maneuvers designed to tame the wild curmudgeon and, at the same time, secure his testament, Henry arranges a mock marriage between his wife, Aminta, and his recalcitrant uncle. Sweet Aminta first pretends to be the personification of timid and silent virtue; then, when the phony vows are sealed, she pretends to be a screeching shrew.

Ultimately, this brings Morosus to his senses. In a blissful Straussian benediction, all is forgiven.

The only serious problem in the Santa Fe cast involves Marius Rintzler, the veteran Romanian basso who portrays Morosus. He certainly knows his way around the role, having sung it at Glyndebourne and in Germany. He still exudes a certain grudging charm. Moreover, when the line does not dip too low, he still can snarl some healthy sounds out of the side of his mouth.

Unfortunately, his small stature and his general aura of frailty make this Morosus no threat at all to the invaders in his home. Under the circumstances, the invaders become a horde of bullies who enjoy picking on an elderly weakling. Without a really prepossessing adversary, the theatrical balance goes askew.

Otherwise, all goes very well. Erie Mills negotiates the nearly impossible coloratura flights of Aminta with purity and ease, and expresses the inherent emotional paradoxes with aplomb. Mark Thomsen masters the high tessitura and lyric urgency of Henry deftly. William Workman is disarmingly fleet as the masterly, nimble-tongued barber.

The strong supporting cast is dominated by Jean Kraft, who steadfastly avoids caricature as the faithful housekeeper. In the scraggly bel-canto troupe, Judith Christin steals scenes delightfully, even though she mangles the bucolic Bavarian dialect Strauss substituted for Cockney. Jamie Louise Baer makes the most of the back-up fioritura-soubrette duties, and much cheer is spread by three splendid, splendidly differentiated, bassos: John Kuether, Gimi Beni and James Ramlet.

Although he may slight some of the lyrical contrasts and the gentler nuances in the score, Crosby conducts with authentic flair.

Goran Jarvefelt, the appreciative stage director, plays the comedy straight, the eroticism fairly explicit and the pathos unsentimental. He manages to be clever, for a change, without stooping to gimmickry. He also enjoys the advantage, here, of an adorable set by Carl Friedrich Oberle, half London town house and half misplaced frigate.

The other major novelty of the season turned out to be “The Nose” (previously reviewed). On Aug. 5, Edo de Waart conducted with fierce fervor, and Lou Galterio brought enlightened stagecraft to a snippy, slightly obscure sociopolitical satire that fuses the raw orchestral energy of Shostakovich, anno 1930, with the archaic whimsy of Gogol. Alan Titus enjoyed a genuine star turn as the unfortunate hero in search of his wayward proboscis.

“Ariodante,” the first Handel opera to grace the Santa Fe repertory, emerged Aug. 8 as a glamorous orgy of Baroque manners and mannerisms. The endless parade of interchangeable ornate arias was entrusted to a fine ensemble of bravura specialists led by the astonishingly lush, agile and heroic Tatiana Troyanos, the limpid-toned Benita Valente and the alluring Janice Hall. James Bowman brought uncommon dramatic tension and a huge, sometimes ungainly countertenor to one erstwhile castrato role, while Neil Rosenshein offered a nice, conventional “masculine” tenor in another. Kevin Langan attended nobly to the royal basso duties.

Nicholas McGegan conducted with scholarly brio. Abetted by John Conklin’s stately, semi-abstract designs, John Copley created a series of eloquent tableaux and helped the singers strike noble poses. Michael Stennett’s costumes looked magnificent.

For many in the damp and/or rainy house, the project was a triumph of imagination, ambition and good taste. For a few, it was something of an endurance contest. Count this period ingrate among the unhappy few.

The bread-and-butter fare never seems to fare particularly well in Santa Fe. This year’s casualties were an uninteresting “Madama Butterfly” and a disastrous “Le Nozze di Figaro.”

The “Butterly” (Aug. 3) was decently cast, casually conducted by Crosby, traditionally staged by Bruce Donnell, cheaply decorated by Conklin. Miriam Gauci, a young soprano from Malta, sang the title role prettily when she the orchestra didn’t swamp her in the grand climaxes.

The “Figaro” (Aug. 4) succumbed to terminal crudity. George Manahan conducted as if speed were his only concern. The vulgar Jarvefelt-Oberle production of 1985, now overseen by Ken Cazan, concentrated on stupid gags. The cast brought back memories of the New York City Opera on an exceptionally careless and joyless night.

Poor Mozart was mauled in the pit and on the stage. Still, one could find some distraction, even consolation. Ferocious, silent lightning continually creased the somber sky above the distant glow of Los Alamos. Even when the opera is bleak, Santa Fe casts a unique spell.