OPERA REVIEW : S.F. Revives ‘Rake’ in Hockney’s Sets

The San Francisco Opera is in the state of flux. Terence McEwen’s generally undistinguished tenure as general director has come to an abrupt end. For most practical purposes, the reign of Lotfi Mansouri, his successor, hasn’t begun yet. Still, it looks and sounds like business as usual at the War Memorial Opera House.

The business Thursday night involved one of the happier concoctions of the McEwen era, “The Rake’s Progress.”

When the current production of Stravinsky’s wry yet poignant gloss on Baroque manner and mannerism was first seen here in the summer of ‘82, the sights were better than the sounds. The sights, after all, involved David Hockney’s comic-book Hogarth sets. The extraordinarily clever, brash and charming designs, originally intended for the tiny theater at Glyndebourne in 1975, had lost little in the process of logistic translation.

The sounds, unfortunately, tended to lose impact in the open spaces of a 3,252-seat cavern. At the time, we wanted to blame the local acoustic. Now one suspects the performers were at fault.

With John Mauceri in the pit on this occasion, Stravinsky’s piquant bel-canto soared. The harmonies shifted with quirky precision. The rhythms zig-zagged with jolting wit. The ostinatos chugged with gentle urgency. And even without the redundant crutch of supertitles--in this case insulting to the singers as well as distracting to the audience--one could understand most of Auden and Kallman’s brilliant British text.

The cast proved equally sensitive to the needs of composer and librettist. Jerry Hadley, making his belated San Francisco debut, sang Tom Rakewell with lyrical sweetness that did not preclude a nice heroic ring in the climaxes, acted with wide-eyed ardor that gave way to tragic pathos in the Bedlam scene. Susan Patterson could not muster optimum bravura as Anne Trulove, especially when the line dipped into the lower register, but she capped the first act with a gleaming high C, sustained vocal radiance, and exuded blond purity without cloying.

William Shimell, a welcome newcomer from London, pointed the macabre maneuevers of Nick Shadow with elegant understatement and sang with crisp baritonal fervor. Victoria Vergara contended with some vocal problems but must be the most glamorous, most vivacious Baba since Blanche Thebom donned beard and pantaloons at the Met in 1953.

The supporting cast was deft. Jonathan Green, still perfectly prissy, returned as Selem, the auctioneer. Judith Christin as Mother Goose, the brothel-keeper, emerged admirably gutsy and giddy. James Patterson, though largely unintelligible, brought a sonorous basso and benign demeanor to the platitudes of papa Trulove.

John Cox, the knowing stage director, again kept the disparate dramatic elements in mildly macabre focus. He even managed to avoid the traps of caricature, excessive invention and vulgarity in the process.

This was a stylish night at the opera. A surprisingly large, remarkably attentive audience applauded accordingly. Sophistication is alive and well in San Francisco.