MUSIC REVIEW : S.F. Opera Stages Bloodless ‘Queen’

Tchaikovsky’s “Pikovya Dama,” a.k.a. “The Queen of Spades,” is a marvelous, brooding, turbulent, ultra-romantic opera that explores such matters as obsession, passion and madness, not to mention hauntings, curses and suicides.

You never would have guessed it Monday night at the San Francisco Opera.

For his final production of the season, Terence McEwen put together a production that is neat and pretty, careful and clean, polite and correct. Somehow it isn’t quite enough.

Emil Tchakarov, the Bulgarian conductor who opened the new Houston opera house last month with a tepid “Aida,” provided speed and clarity here when one wanted blood and guts. He kept things moving crisply, but the strings never throbbed, the brass never thundered and the cast was never encouraged to perform as if lives were at stake.

Basil Coleman, the British stage director, created picturesque groupings in front of the merely decorative sets designed by Robert O’Hearn in 1982. This was the sort of production in which characters stand around and make handsome sounds, always keeping their emotions in check. It was as if a genuine display of dramatic involvement would be a rude indulgence.

Poor Pushkin.

Understatement has its place in the scheme of operatic things. Of course. But this was ridiculous.

Tchaikovsky’s vital, violent, soaring musical drama was reduced to a concert in costume. The singers might have mutinied in quest of expressive liberation. Unfortunately, this collection turned out to be a rather timid lot.

The center of attention should have been Regine Crespin, who, according to rumor, is bidding San Francisco adieu in the small but crucial title role. She has enjoyed a most distinguished career, and few who saw her as the Marschallin, Sieglinde, Amelia, Kundry or Didon and Cassandre will forget her.

An aging dramatic soprano, however, does not automatically become an affecting character mezzo. As the ancient and sinister Countess, she sounded light and insecure, and looked far too glamorous.

The text, reinforced by supertitles, describes the woman, for all her aristocratic bearing, literally as a crone, a hag and a witch. She must, in turn, be mysterious, formidable, grotesque, pathetic. Mme. Crespin was content to make her gently middle-aged, and, at best, slightly petulant.

She was undeniably suave, elegant, dignified, feminine, even chic--very much like the Marschallin of yore. As such, she was all wrong.

And so it went. As Gherman, the chronically crazed hero, Wieslaw Ochman struck introspective anti-heroic poses and sang, for the most part, sweetly. As Lisa, the fatally impetuous heroine, Stefka Evstatieva remained impassive while emitting big, warm, lush soprano tones that turned a bit strident under pressure.

Timothy Noble as the hearty Count Tomsky encountered difficulties at both baritonal extremes. J. Patrick Raftery showed signs of vocal distress as a youthful but already unsteady Yeletsky.

Kathryn Cowdrick as Paulina, Susan Patterson as Chloe and Philip Skinner as Surin sang very nicely. In this context, alas, it couldn’t help.

The endless dance divertissements, devised by Vassili Sulich, seemed silly, self-conscious and intrusive. They always do.

The Monday night subscribers, notoriously undemonstrative, sat on their hands through most of the evening. For once, the response seemed justified.