OPERA REVIEW : Strauss’ ‘Frau’ at Met Begins Texaco’s 50th Year

Contrary to popular opinion, Texaco did not invent the Metropolitan Opera. The oil company did not even sponsor the first broadcast from the Met.

Texaco has merely sponsored the last 49 years of broadcasts. Merely. . . .

No other organization has ever provided remotely comparable support for a radio project. For nearly half a century, Texaco has altered the Saturday-afternoon habits, while possibly uplifting the aesthetic spirits, of a significant portion of the nation. All singing commercials should be that noble.

For the first broadcast of the 50th season, the listener might have expected a gala performance of one of the all-time airwave hits--”Aida,” perhaps, or “Boheme” or “Traviata.” One might have expected some glamorous new production with an all-star cast. It did not work out that way.

The vehicle on Saturday turned out to be Richard Strauss’ sprawling and convoluted “Die Frau ohne Schatten,” admittedly a festive choice but also a forbidding one. The production in question dates to 1966, the first Met season in the “new” house at Lincoln Center. The current cast, though solid, wasn’t exactly par for a house that some stubborn optimists insist is the world’s best--a house, not incidentally, where a good seat costs $95.

As a perverse fate would have it, the most celebrated participant didn’t even show up. Bernd Weikl--probably the foremost interpreter of Barak today--withdrew earlier in the week. A spokesman explained that he had returned to Europe because of illness in his family.

In the good old days, the Met would simply have drafted another equally seasoned, equally important singer from the German wing to serve as replacement. These days, the Met doesn’t have another equally important singer on the roster for this assignment. It doesn’t even have a German wing.

So into the breach came James Courtney. Who, you might ask, is James Courtney?

He is a bass from San Jose who has been singing minor roles with the company for a decade. In “Die Frau,” he originally had been scheduled to undertake the fleeting contrapuntal squabbles of Barak’s one-armed brother.

The promotion to more imposing duties would seem warranted and overdue. Courtney obviously has not had an opportunity to explore--much less learn to project--the subtlety, the innate wisdom and good nature of the character. He does not yet color the words with much imagination. Like many a Barak before him, he cannot make an extended pianissimo climax of “Furchte dich nicht,” arguably the most poignant phrase in the entire opera. Nevertheless, he saved the show and did so honorably.

Courtney commands an incisive, wide-ranging, middleweight bass that survived the four-hour marathon with apparent ease. He held his own against the mighty orchestral competition, and performed with pervasive, sympathetic authority under trying conditions.

The elemental heroes of the afternoon, however, could be found in the pit. Christof Perick conducted with urgency, grandeur and fine romantic breadth. He understands and savors the idiom. He also knows how to bring out the best in the superb Metropolitan Opera orchestra. The three women’s roles, each incredibly arduous, were cast with canny Straussian veterans. Janis Martin, the most consistently successful, enacted the agonies and ecstasies of the Dyer’s Wife with intelligent passion. Singing with stamina and amazing freshness, she remained unfazed by the high tessitura and resisted the obvious, treacherous temptation to force.

Johanna Meier, a model Marschallin in the 1970s, was neither the steadiest nor most radiant Empress in memory. Still, she did have stylish savoir-faire in her favor.

Helga Dernesch commands the right temperament, the right vocal color and the right dramatic force for the role of the evil Nurse. She is a resourceful, compelling artist. At this stage of her career, unfortunately, the range extremes impose severe strain, and she solves some problems in terms of omission rather than emission.

Robert Schunk suffered Strauss’ cruel demands upon the principal tenor stoically. Like most pretenders to this Emperor’s dubious throne, he all but strangled on the dramatic outbursts, though he did meet the lyrical portions of the challenge competently. As the Messenger of Keikobad, Franz Mazura sounded as if he had fought one Wagnerian war too many.

Nathaniel Merrill’s staging scheme, now entrusted to Bruce Donnell, is firmly anchored on enlightened tradition. There can be no revelations here, but no unpleasant surprises either.

Robert O’Hearn’s fairyland decors toy incessantly with the stage machinery. Ornate sets rise and sink, turn and roll at the slightest provocation.

The spectacle is still quaintly amusing. Too bad Strauss and his stern librettist, Hugo von Hofmannsthal, wanted it to be profoundly eloquent.