New York Diary : Some bloated Verdi at the Met, a creaky ‘Pinafore,’ a frayed Philharmonic

Standards aren’t what they used to be, but tickets cost more than ever. Much more. The halls yawn with empty seats. Audiences seem bored. The multitudes who dash for the exit at the stroke of the final cadence do so at risk of being trampled. A fair number start dashing even before the first stroke.

In matters of music, Fun City just isn’t much fun any more. At least it wasn’t much fun in mid-January.

Even the lavish, hyper-hyped, bigger-than-life, million-dollar “Aida” at the arch-conservative Metropolitan Opera is in trouble. The subscribers come primarily to applaud the scenery and the horses, and in this regard the management gives them much to applaud. However, the standing-room habitues, a more sophisticated and more demanding crowd, stay away. It is a bad sign.

If all had gone as planned, the new “Aida” would have been staged by Franco Zeffirelli, the over-indulged past master of conspicuous operatic consumption. His scheme proved too rich even for the Met’s blood, however, and too cumbersome for Lincoln Center logistics.

Undaunted, the company turned instead to Sonja Frisell. This much-traveled operatic factota was charged to make “Aida” look spectacular without flirting with bankruptcy or over-extending the warehouse. Collaborating with the set designer Gianni Quaranta--best known, perhaps, for the plush cinematic decors of “A Room With a View”--she gave New York a terrific, splashy, exotic, kitschy, empty show.

If only the scenery could sing.

The enlightened traffic cop assembled a cast of thousands. Well, if one didn’t look too closely at the same reappearing faces, it looked like a cast of thousands.

Frisell and assorted friends cluttered the stage picturesquely, exhumed a lot of quaintly ancient rituals, grouped the masses in ever-pretty formations. Toying with the fancy machinery at their disposal, they conjured mighty walls from nowhere.

On cue, they summoned a huge, self-propelled set from subterranean vaults. They embellished the vast stage with portable pillars, towering statues and archeological artifacts so authentic they might have been lifted straight from the hoary pages of the “Victor Book of the Opera.”

This “Aida” certainly was grand. Unfortunately, it seemed grand primarily for the sake of being grand.

Not incidentally, despite the vast miracles of modern technology at its disposal, the Met chose to observe three lengthy, unnecessary intermissions. The evening ended shortly before midnight, and not a moment too soon. Some traditions die hard.

Great singing actors--or even great singers--might have held their own under the extenuating theatrical conditions. Given a few golden throats or inspired theatrical personalities, the production-number distortions and distracting elevator-orgies could heve been of secondary importance. Unfortunately, vocal paragons are scarce in Verdi at the Met these days.

They are scarce everywhere.

On opening night--by all reports, a distinctly problematic opening night--the principals included Leona Mitchell as the titular slave-princess, Fiorenza Cossotto as her tempestuous rival, Placido Domingo as the tormented warrior-hero and Sherrill Milnes as his baritonal nemesis. James Levine, the beleaguered artistic director, conducted.

By Jan. 18, everyone except Mitchell had moved on to more pressing duties. At the 662nd Met “Aida” since 1886, it was Verdi essentially by rote. It was operatic business as usual.

Mitchell, who had introduced her problematic Aida to Southern California in Orange County last season, seemed even more problematic, and more egocentric, in these potentially lofty surroundings. She looked lovely, struck predictable prima-donna poses and faithfully imitated Leontyne Price’s chest-tone mannerisms. She also managed to float some exquisite pianissimo phrases, a few of them in tandem with Verdi’s prescribed note values and Ghislanzoni’s specific text.

Stefania Toczyska, a San Francisco Opera stalwart, abused her lower register in Amneris’ music in quest of dramatic fire. This took an obvious toll on her top voice, leaving her with a desperately threadbare sound for the climactic outbursts of the trial scene.

Vladimir Popov, the loud, bleating, ex-Soviet Radames, revealed ringing tenoral resources at the mercy of clumsy emission. In such company, Alain Fondary’s solid Amonasro and Paul Plishka’s sonorous Ramfis resembled happy fugitives from some distant golden age.

Christian Badea inherited Levine’s baton, if not his flexibility in accommodating wayward sopranos. Nevertheless, the talented and temperamental young Romanian did enforce considerable verve, force and lyrical flow on his own terms. He obviously deserves a better production, under better conditions.

Compared to “Aida,” the current version of “Il Trovatore” (new last season) is a model of simple abstraction. The simplicity here connotes blandness, alas, and the abstraction goes no further and no deeper than window-dressing chic.

One cannot help feeling that Ezio Frigerio’s unit set--a network of black marble steps, mobile pillars and painterly projections--and Fabrizio Melano’s three easy movement-patterns were predicated on practicality, not on artistic conviction. The visual milieu is decorative, static and, at best, neutral.

Levine conducted the Jan. 21 matinee crisply yet passionately. The splendid orchestra and chorus gave their all for him. On the stage, unfortunately, his best efforts--and Verdi’s--were compromised by the work of undisciplined has-beens and well-intentioned would-be’s.

Aprile Millo, replacing the originally announced and patently miscast Eva Marton, brought the right vocal credentials to the arching phrases of Leonora: rich, gleaming spinto tone, a wide dynamic range, respect for the legato phrase, a bona-fide sense of style. These rare virtues were offset by occasional technical inequities (cautious fioriture, some misjudged pianissimo attacks) and by a naive, silent-movie approach to histrionic challenges.

None of this discouraged the competitive brava -screamers in the audience from registering conspicuous ecstasy, sometimes at awkward moments. Millo is fast becoming a cult figure here, and this, after all, was a broadcast.

As Azucena, Fiorenza Cossotto gave a classic demonstration of old-fashioned diva narcissism, with vulgar vocal tricks employed to mask declining vocal resources. The rough tone and approximate pitch could not be masked.

Her dauntless fans--one assumes they are fans and not just employees--registered vociferous ecstasy anyway. Obligingly, she managed to steal an unsanctioned curtain call in mid act.

Luciano Pavarotti, nearly everyone’s hero, sang and acted with considerable finesse and surprising involvement as Manrico until high notes loomed. Then he closed his eyes, threw back his head, applied all available pressure, and willed us to hope for the best.

The best at the crest of “Di quella pira” turned out to be a B rather than the traditional C, thanks to canny transposition. The big note was held--proudly, strenuously and stubbornly--until the cows came home and left again.

Sherrill Milnes, confronting a late-career crisis, alternated baritonal bel-canto with bitonal bluster as Luna. As Ferrando, Paul Plishka once again rose nobly to defend minor-basso honor.

The sublime fared badly at the mighty Met. Meanwhile at the modest City Center, the ridiculous didn’t do so well either.

The vehicle on Jan. 17 was “H.M.S. Pinafore,” as presented by the New Sadler’s Wells Opera of London. This wasn’t an elegantly witty production like the model introduced a couple of decades ago by Tyrone Guthrie. It wasn’t a parody of the parody as revamped last year by Brian Macdonald. This certainly wasn’t revisionist Gilbert-and-Sullivan as concocted by Jonathan Miller or Peter Sellars, yet it had little to do with the tried, untrue but sacred rituals of D’Oyly Carte.

This was a “Pinafore” that respected the basic tenets of tradition but did so clumsily, somnolently and with very broad comic accents. As conducted by David White, it was, moreover, a “Pinafore” that slighted Sullivan’s music while it smudged Gilbert’s satire.

The New Sadler’s Wells, a vicissitudinous operetta ensemble, was formed to fill the London gap when the D’Oyly Cartians rolled up their canvases in 1982. Now the original Savoyards are back in business and, ironically, the Wells company is encountering some financial woes of its own.

For its American debut, it mustered a polite, ill-focused, 4-year-old gag festival about British class distinctions directed by Christopher Renshaw. Nickolas Grace, best known here as Anthony Blanche in “Brideshead Revisited,” incongruously took off Prince Charles while popping his eyes as Sir Joseph Porter. Linda Ormiston played Little Buttercup as if she were a plump and pleasing Bette Midler gone astray.

Gordon Sandison bumbled reasonably as the Captain. Thomas Lawlor, formerly of D’Oyly Carte, quivered seedily and amiably as Dick Deadeye. The romantic leads, Rosemary Ashe and Hugh Hetherington, looked fatuous (which is acceptable) and sounded dull (which isn’t).

At the end, everyone sang “Rule, Brittania.”

This “Pinafore” was neither saucy nor a beauty. It offered a few dreamy roundelays but little joy and no rapture.

According to unpopular wisdom, no one pays much attention to the New York Philharmonic these days. Zubin Mehta, the lame-duck maestro, reportedly alienates the press, asks little of his orchestra, favors safe, unimaginative programs and lulls the public into complacency. Much of that seemed true Friday afternoon, Jan. 20.

Avery Fisher Hall was only about half full. The matronly audience came late, applauded perfunctorily in the wrong places (Costa Mesa holds no monopoly on mood disruption) and left early.

The promised agenda made odd bill-mates of Mozart, Beethoven and John Knowles Paine, the Germanic romantic from Maine who lived from 1839 to 1906. When Julia Varady, the scheduled soprano, fell ill, however, Mehta scrapped the conventional Mozart and Beethoven arias. With cavalier disregard for those who bought tickets to hear the scheduled works--and with possible disregard for stylistic balance--he substituted the Four Last Songs of Richard Strauss.

Still, the concert turned out to be more interesting than one might have expected. Obviously in a subdued mood, Mehta got the orchestra to play with welcome richness, breadth and warmth. Paine’s overture to “As You Like It,” at the beginning, and his Symphony No. 1, at the end, revealed little flair or originality but much academic skill, not to mention intriguing echoes of Brahms and Beethoven.

Susan Dunn, the ersatz soloist, sang Strauss’ poignant valedictories with Wagnerian opulence. Although the sound per se was always imposing, the impact could have been enhanced with with greater verbal point and coloristic variety.

Mehta complemented the generalized emotion with marvelously lush but not terribly introspective accompaniment. It was almost like the good old days in Los Angeles.