OPERA REVIEW : S.F. Revives ‘Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk’

“Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk” isn’t the sort of work that automatically pleases the dressy, ultraconservative, socially oriented Monday-night subscribers at the San Francisco Opera.

Shostakovich didn’t prettify his literary source, a story by Nikolai Leskov, with a lot of hum-along tunes. And Leskov’s story--a weird yet wonderful juxtaposition of fierce tragedy, grotesque social criticism, graphic sexuality and slice-of-life decadence and black comedy--isn’t the sort of thing that invites the happy but drowsy folks out front to sit back, relax and enjoy an operatic ride.

The current San Francisco production at the War Memorial Opera House, an intelligent modification of the bargain-basement staging first presented here in 1964, alienates further because it is stubbornly sung in the wrong language.

It offers the bizarre experience of a non-Russian cast singing in odd-sounding phonetic Russian for the benefit of an ever-shrinking audience that doesn’t understand Russian. Even with the enlightening distraction of supertitles, this bit of communicative perversion carries linguistic snobbery a bit far.

Still, the performance manages to succeed, often brilliantly, against the odds.

The heroine of the evening, in more than one sense, is Josephine Barstow. As Katerina Ismailova--a sympathetic, potentially neurotic, essentially love-starved woman pitted against a hypocritical, amoral society--the British singing-actress reveals rare expressive sensitivity. She also exults in bel-canto splendor.

Without conveying the feverish eroticism that marked Anja Silja’s riveting but less well-sung interpretation in the 1981 revival, Barstow capitalizes on dramatic restraint, honest pathos and, most telling, shimmering, sensuous tone that cuts easily through the massive orchestra and soars splendidly above the hostile chorus.

Barstow floats exquisite pianissimo phrases in her monologues, echoing the melancholic nuances of the solo violin obbligato. She seems to inflect the foreign text with delicate and subtle shades of meaning, and magnetizes attention even when standing still. She is too intelligent, and too resourceful, to make a move or a gesture without a purpose.

This performance ranks with her local Salome in 1982. That is saying a good deal.

The supporting cast is worthy of her. Michael Devlin blusters with crude fervor as her nasty, potentially lusty father-in-law. Jacque Trussel, ever macho, sputters with quasi-Heldentenoral ardor as her opportunistic lover. William Lewis whimpers in canny Sprechgesang as her impotent husband.

Crusty cameos are contributed by a whole band of secondary bassos. Philip Skinner bumbles cheerfully as the platitudinous priest, Dale Travis chews his smelly cigar deftly as a caricature police inspector, and James Patterson sounds exceptionally mellifluous as the old convict.

Emily Golden is properly lusty as the floozy who hastens Katerina’s demise, and her own, too, on the way to penitence in Siberia. Paul Gudas is amusing as the resident Nihilist, but Dennis Petersen’s boozy buffo tenor is overpowered by Shostakovich’s explosive orchestra in the aria of the peasant informer.

In general, Shostakovich’s explosive orchestra is nicely, even politely guided by Sir John Pritchard, and the San Franciscans play beautifully for their music director. Other conductors--the lamented Calvin Simmons, for one--have stressed the unruly theatricality of the piece with more bravado. Nevertheless, Pritchard’s no-nonsense approach--predicated on urbanity, clarity and objectivity--enforces its own kind of persuasion.

Gerald Freedman, the stage director, does what he can to motivate and propel the primitive action in a reasonable, nearly realistic, picturesque manner. He is severely hampered, however, by the quaint cardboard-natural window dressing of Wolfram Skalicki’s all-too-dated designs.

Even 58 years after its Leningrad premiere, “Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk” still sounds disturbingly, bracingly modern. The San Francisco production, unfortunately, looks comfortably, disconcertingly old-fashioned.