Low Camp, High Art--and Vice Versa : Santa Fe Opera audiences willing to embrace novelty as well as luxuriate in safe, familiar pleasures

Some things do change. Some things change even in the irrational, potentially lofty world of the lyric muse.

The Santa Fe Opera, now celebrating its 33rd season, used to be an ambitious, struggling, quaintly modest all-American mirage. It was the private toy, and the dream-gone-public, of a stubbornly idealistic, sadly second-rate conductor named John Crosby.

To outsiders in those distant days, Santa Fe was a sleepy little desert city known primarily for its high altitude, artists’ colony, ski facilities and Indian market.

Now the Santa Fe Opera has become a slick, ambitious, high-powered, quasi-international festival, and a popular tourist mecca all by itself. It clings to its adventurous image, but, with the passage of time, seems to have become a little prosperous, a little paunchy and a little smug. Ev erything operatic, of course, is relative.

Santa Fe itself has retained its chronic--some might say terminal --charm. The turquoise-and-silver jewelry, howling-coyote sculptures, primitive adobe facades, lethal margaritas, tough blue-corn tortillas and honey-buttered sopaipillas still exert their special compulsion. So do the ageless cactus flowers, not to mention the superannuated flower-children. But the New Mexico capital has grown drastically in size, as well as glamour, sophistication and snob appeal.

Some visitors find it very important to stay in the right expensive hotel (assuming rooms are still available), to eat in the right trendy-folksy restaurant (if a table still happens to be available), to frequent the right gallery (especially if the visitor can casually drop the name of Georgia O’Keeffe as if she were an old friend) and to attend the right socially prominent party (one crashes if an invitation cannot be wangled).

Old Canyon Road has become chic-boutique heaven. It also has become a classy yet bucolic haven from ubiquitous shopping-mall placidity and plasticity.

Those who don’t want to go to the opera (or can’t commandeer one of the 1,773 seats available each night) can find some solace in other arts nearby. A tiny summer theater has materialized a couple of blocks from the old plaza, offering intimate musicals as well as vintage drama. Numerous mini-museums dot the marvelously cloudy horizon. A splendid, far-reaching chamber-music festival holds forth in a variety of attractive locations, including an ancient church.

Beyond all that, one can find choral concerts, modern-dance concerts, poetry readings and art movies in Santa Fe. A really famous flamenco virtuosa appears nightly in one of the hotels.

Still, during the Santa Fe summer, the opera is the thing. A new off-ramp takes the visitor from the Taos highway to the quasi-alfresco theater on the hill, some 7 miles from town. The famous, venerable road sign still volunteers useful advice: “OPERA TRAFFIC KEEP LEFT.”

The performances begin at 9--when it is reasonably dark. This means that the longer operas, “Der Rosenkavalier” for instance, end after midnight. No one seems to mind.

Aficionados, laden with blankets and in some cases with umbrellas, arrive early to observe the magical sunset and to absorb the vast panorama of anonymous mesas, Sangre de Cristo Mountains and Los Alamos lights. The lights also can be seen during performances, flickering behind the open stage if the set designer happens to be sensitive to natural resources.

On balmy nights, the mood can be so euphoric that it comes close to stifling any base critical impulses. Luckily, balm tends to be reasonably scarce around here.

On cold nights, the concession stands do a brisk business in weak coffee or cocoa spiked with strong brandy. On stormy nights, dramatic intrusions of wind, rain and lightning can embellish the action and discommode those seated in the central, unroofed portion of the auditorium. No one seems to care--much.

John Crosby has come up with a general formula for his repertory. Each summer he tries to offer two standard items, two contrasting examples of esoterica and something very new.

It is a healthy formula. Luckily, his audiences seem nearly as willing to embrace novelty as they are eager to luxuriate in safe, familiar pleasures.

Santa Fe prides itself on discovering and nurturing talent, most of it young and most of it American. The company also prides itself on cultivating ensemble values. Occasionally, however, a star turn is permitted, even encouraged.

Such was the case with Massenet’s “Cherubin.” The opera itself, never staged professionally in this country, is a strange, fragile fusion of perfumed banalities and charming poignancies, anno 1905. The titular hero of this period piece is borrowed from Mozart and Da Ponte, but neither the convoluted libretto nor the formula score does much to honor the noble source. And there is no Figaro in sight.

If it is to make any sense today, “Cherubin” demands, above all, a stage director with a light, elegant touch. Giulio Chazalettes, unfortunately, contented himself with ponderous cliches, encouraging his cast to undertake a lot of prancing, mugging and leering.

Under the clumsy circumstances, it was easier than usual to surrender to Frederica von Stade, here irresistibly breathless, guileless and impetuous as the love-sick incipient officer en travesti (a role created by Mary Garden). On a less exalted plane, one could admire the sweet lyricism of Sheryl Woods as the girl who really loves Cherubin and the flamboyant lyricism of Karen Huffstodt as the vamp who discards him.

The rest of the cast was grim. So was the amateurish incidental choreography.

Mario Bernardi conducted with elan. Ulisse Santicchi’s decors looked lavish (the costumes were borrowed from Milan). Everyone worked hard, but it wasn’t enough. Crosby & Co. ended up suggesting that “Cherubin” really deserves the oblivion it has achieved.

More successful, in its brazen campy-kinky way, was the first local production of Cavalli’s “La Calisto” (1651). John Cox updated the proceedings--the usual mythic melange of picturesque nymphs and cunning satyrs, mortal gods and godly mortals, mistaken identities and knowing masquerades--with deep respect for the cute, the timeless and the irreverent. As is customary in Santa Fe, he savored any opportunity to stress sexual ambiguity or sensual innuendo. Robert Perdziola, the resourceful designer, seconded every trendy motion.

The excellent cast was headed by Tatiana Troyanos, lush and authoritative as the virgin goddess Diana who lusts, after a fashion, after the limpid Calisto of Janice Hall. Most notable among the others happily caught in one semi-amorous web or another were Kevin Langan (the sonorous, cigar-chomping Jove), Mikael Melbye (the flitting Mercury), Drew Minter (the piping countertenoral shepherd), John Fryatt (the executive nymph in matronly drag) and Kathryn Gamberoni (the sweetly hermaphroditic Satirino).

Justin Brown conducted Raymond Leppard’s suave, moderately stylish performing edition with appreciative brio.

Judith Weir’s “A Night at the Chinese Opera,” which received its U.S. premiere here, is witty and crafty, potentially stark and eloquent. A bold and bizarre fusion of ancient Asian drama, Marx Brothers comedy, Brechtian tragedy and political parody, its impact would seem to depend on an intimate theater and a cautious stage director.

The Kent Opera reportedly provided both for the first performances, much lauded in Cheltenham two years ago. Santa Fe, alas, provided neither.

In the wide open spaces here, the words tended to get lost, along with the fragile expressive subtext. The fundamental emotive definitions blurred in Robert Carsen’s gimmicky production, Michael Levine’s clever sets notwithstanding.

George Manahan conducted with just the right combination of efficiency and passion. The cast performed with dedicated zest. The orchestra sputtered and soared with apparent conviction. Still, one felt as if the crucial, clever narrative were taking place in some all-too-distant room.

Santa Fe has always been most compelling when the company dealt with the unknown, least impressive when it tried to tame old warhorses. The latest versions of “La Traviata” and “Der Rosenkavalier” proved, once again, that the tried doesn’t invariably ring true.

“Traviata” looked hopelessly, clumsily conventional as staged by John Copley in cumbersome, garish sets by Perdziola (the lavish costumes of Michael Stennet came courtesy of the Australian Opera). The raison d’etre for the endeavor, no doubt, was Sheri Greenawald, rather brittle in tone though eminently touching as the introspective, vulnerable Violetta.

Crosby surrounded her with an aggressively competent entourage of comprimarios and an inadequate pair of Germonts: Richard Drews as a painfully constricted Alfredo and Brent Ellis as a stiff and cranky Giorgio. Both encountered serious pitch problems.

The most encouraging contribution to a rather dismal evening came from the young conductor, John Fiore. Taking over from John Crosby, he demonstrated a rare grasp of the arching Verdi cantilena plus rare sympathy for the singers’ individual needs.

The operas of Richard Strauss have long enjoyed special favor with Crosby. “Rosenkavalier,” however, had not been ventured here for 20 years. The pause has not refreshed.

Copley stressed vulgar burlesque in his stage maneuvers. He allowed Baron Ochs to act more like an ox than a baron, and actually permitted his retainers to take the preposterous liberty of testing the Marschallin’s bed. And so it went.

Conklin’s confusing sets began with a nice, realistic boudoir for the Marschallin. With her anteroom remaining oddly in place, this gave way to an incredibly tasteless foyer for the nouveau-riche Faninal manor. Then, without warning, the designer shifted stylistic gears for an cluttered Expressionist jumble that supposedly represented the seedy inn. At least David Walker’s costumes, on loan from the English National Opera, retained a semblance of sanity.

The problematic, ill-matched cast should have been dominated by the Marschallin of Ashley Putnam. For all her persuasive intelligence, she she looked more like a Barbie doll than a mature Viennese princess. It is true that the composer and librettist thought of Marie Theres’ as a 32-year-old. If she is to be played that way, however, Octavian and Sophie must register as credible teen-agers. That certainly didn’t happen here.

Even more problematic, Putnam found the vocal line uncomfortably low, the orchestral component uncomfortably thick and the demands for aristocratic bearing just plain uncomfortable.

Unlike many a more famous colleague, Eric Halfvarson can sing every unreasonable note Strauss prescribed for Ochs--high and low (very low), loud and soft, fast and slow. On this occasion, unfortunately, he concentrated on bellowing and grunting. Crude to the end, he missed the charm of the character, along with the muted nobility. He deserves better direction.

Jeanne Piland, remembered from numerous New York City Opera assignments and Tchaikovsky’s Joan of Arc in Reno, returned from Europe as a bland, chubby Octavian, opposite the tough looking, ethereal sounding Sophie of Cheryl Parrish. Peter Strummer projected an authentic Faninal. Richard Drews as the Italian Singer simulated the Pavarotti manner if not the Pavarotti tone.

Crosby stirred up a great deal of business-like noise in the pit. It all sounded primitive and prosaic.

Some things don’t change.