Shakespeare, Mozart, Puccini : OPERA REVIEWS : A Fine ‘Figaro’ at Music Center

No shenanigans. No gimmicks. No cliches. No caricatures. No exaggerations. No innovative distortions.

Whew.

The Music Center Opera takes the human comedy of “Le Nozze di Figaro,” which opened at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion on Friday, very seriously.

This doesn’t mean that the production, borrowed from the Chicago Lyric Opera, reveres tradition for its own tired sake. It merely means that the director, Peter Hall, and his associates have gone back to Mozart and Da Ponte--possibly back further to Beaumarchais--for their inspirations.

This may not be a perfect marriage. The singing is a bit uneven. The musical perspective seems more romantic than baroque. One can quibble.

Still, Hall and Stephen Lawless, his faithful directorial ally, really care about the characters, their needs and their frustrations. That makes all the difference.

This “Figaro” savors telling motivation and expressive detail. The action springs forward with a disarming air of spontaneity in recitatives that really sound like casual conversation. The words count.

Interrupted by a single intermission, rather than the usual three, the long and convoluted narrative flows naturally, almost quickly. Compositional sprawl is minimized and cumulative tensions are heightened.

The intrusion of farce is permitted only where it is logical and irrepressible: in the mistaken-identity hysteria of the garden scene. And here it is strikingly effective because it sets off the cathartic pathos of understanding and forgiveness that follows (“Contessa, perdono . . . “).

The musical standards of this “Figaro” turn out to be somewhat less lofty. Lawrence Foster, the conscientious if somewhat bland conductor, has opened all the conventional cuts. Even Marcellina and Basilio get to attempt their bravura arias in the last act. Foster has restored the high Cs of the second-act terzetto to the Countess. In general, one must admire his integrity, not to mention his concern for matters of poise, balance and propulsion.

Like hungry little Oliver, however, a Mozartean ingrate wants more. He wants more moon-struck lyricism for Susanna’s “Deh vieni, non tardar,” more ironic fury for Figaro’s “Aprite un po’ quegli occhi.” In the enlightened days of 1990, he wants some linear embellishment, a few cadenzas, consistent appoggiaturas.

Although the Los Angeles cast can boast several international stars, the participants obviously appreciate ensemble values. That is rare, and wonderful.

Young Rodney Gilfry introduces a very wide-eyed, very intelligent and very mellifluous Figaro. With agile wit, he holds his own against the mature, magnificently befuddled Count of Thomas Allen, whose darker baritone encounters vocal problems only in the climactic fioriture of “Vedro mentr’io sospiro.” It may be worth noting, incidentally, that Allen has frequently sung the role of Figaro, and Gilfry will soon depart for Germany where he is to sing the Count.

Arleen Auger is a somewhat matronly, unaristocratic Countess, and on this occasion she sang her two great arias with unaccustomed, gingerly caution. But she certainly knows the style. Angela Maria Blasi--tiny, adorable and totally innocent of arch soubrette manners--sounded engagingly wistful if sometimes a shade too wispy as Susanna.

Frederica von Stade remains the Cherubino of one’s dreams. She somehow manages to be impetuous, cheeky, sensitive, shy, smug, erotically combustible and self-amused, all at the same delirious time. Also, she happens to sing as one hopes angels sing.

The buffo roles were discreetly delineated by versatile members of the local team. Marvellee Cariaga stumbled a bit in the formidable flourishes of “Il capro e la capretta,” yet she managed to make the usually crotchety Marcellina sympathetically as well as amusingly maternal. Michael Gallup dispatched the pomposities of Bartolo with crisp abandon. Jonathan Mack offered a beautifully vocalized Basilio (that may be an oxymoron), though the impact of the sly old intriguer was compromised by sketchy characterization.

Dale Wendel, like all Barbarinas, looked cute and piped prettily. John Atkins revealed an unsuspected flair for character comedy as a blustery Antonio. Stephen Plummer stammered dutifully and unfunnily as Curzio.

John Bury’s raked, warm-hued sets and muted costumes (a bit dowdy in the case of the Countess) exerted their own atmospheric allure. The Chicago decors seemed small, however, for the Pavilion proscenium--one doesn’t automatically achieve intimacy merely by leaving the sides empty--and the banks of stage lights visible in the wings remained an irksome, Brechtian anachronism.

Francis Rizzo’s thoughtfully phrased supertitles were, well, supertitles: distracting or helpful, depending on the viewer’s priorities. They actually came close to destroying the poignant climax of the opera (the audience tittered at that sublime moment when the Count finally begs for forgiveness).

At least the instant translations reinforced the syllabic rhythm of the Italian text. And, for once, an attempt was made to time the word-flashes in a way that would discourage premature laughter (“Ecco tuo padre....”).

This was, in all, a happy marriage.