Shakespeare, Mozart, Puccini : OPERA REVIEWS : San Diego Stages New ‘Boheme’

It sounded like “La Boheme” business as usual, Saturday night at the Civic Theatre. Poor little Mimi died prettily, on cue. Rodolfo emitted his stentorian tenoral sobs. The crowd cheered happily. Puccini never fails.

But this didn’t always look like the “Boheme” over which we love to slobber. John Copley, the director, and John Conklin, his designer, had come up with some startling variations on the familiar verismo theme.

It would be hard to regard the innovations as improvements. Call them gimmicks. Call them sight gags. Call them meddlesome intrusions.

The setting for the wintry first act turned out to be realistic, except for a stylized roof that turned out to be far too small for the attic room. No wonder the bohemians were cold.

The second act abandoned literalism in favor of drastic, irrelevant, picturesque abstraction. The Cafe Momus became a daunting collage of antique Parisian posters in the bold Toulouse-Lautrec style. Don’t ask why.

Musetta--a chronically vulgar, apparently alcoholic Musetta--was recast as an operetta diva, and her entourage included a chorus of voyeuristic stage-door Johnnies. Even worse, her entourage also included a cute, cute, cute little puppy dog. For a curtain shtick, Copley placed the furry scene-stealer on poor old Alcindoro’s lap, where the pet pretended to demonstrate that it hadn’t been house-broken.

Hilarious. Simply hilarious.

Rodolfo and friends weren’t just playful with Benoit, their doddering landlord. The young bullies played catch with his toupe and ultimately tossed it down the stairs. Colline danced the gavotte in his skivvies. And so it went.

Oh. I nearly forgot. Marcello entertained a nude model--yes, Aunt Agatha, a bare body in “Boheme”--while reminiscing about his lost love. It wasn’t shocking, but it was distracting.

For some reason, the third act followed tradition in just about every scenic detail. Perhaps that was an accident. Perhaps the theatrical wizards ran out of inspirations. In either case, one was grateful.

One was grateful, too, for some good singing. Despite a temptation to force in the great climaxes, Dennis O’Neill, the portly, sympathetic Rodolfo, impressed with plangent outbursts that were actually offset, once in a while, by sweet pianissimo nuances. Kevin Langan returned as a deep-toned, affable Colline. Theodore Baerg introduced a warm and gutsy Marcello.

As Mimi, Ilona Tokody exuded fragile charm, pervasive vulnerability and brave pathos, all in the best wounded-sparrow tradition. She caressed the line with infinite tenderness, shaded the text with enlightened finesse. Unfortunately, her once lustrous soprano betrayed distressing wear and tear, occasioned, no doubt, by a reckless assault on such dangerous challenges as Aida and Desdemona. What used to shimmer now merely wobbles.

Irena Welhasch, a Canadian soprano who happens to be married to her Marcello, made a rather strident debut as Musetta, the besotted sex-bomb with a heart of tin. Harlan Foss registered proper enthusiasm as Schaunard. Italo Tajo, a veteran of many, many “Boheme” wars, did his canny best to make Benoit and Alcindoro resemble central roles.

Edoardo Muller conducted with fine, old-school authority and not-so-fine old-school sentimentality. He tugged at the heart strings very slowly and very heavily.