OPERA REVIEW : Carlos Kleiber Dominates ‘Otello’ at the Met

Carlos Kleiber must be the most mysterious, most elusive, most willful, most eccentric, most capricious and most venerated conductor since Arturo Toscanini. He is something of a genius, and he can write his own rules.

He is hard to book. He makes himself available each season, it seems, for a limited number of cancellations.

He agrees to work only if, when and where he feels like working. Then he often changes his mind at the last moment.

He demands total control, high fees, lofty respect, and generous rehearsals. He despises publicity machines. He permits no interviews. He refuses to allow broadcasts of his live performances.

He was supposed to conduct Verdi’s “Otello” in San Francisco a few years ago, but never made it to the podium. Many were disappointed, few were surprised.

According to Ernest Fleischmann, he won’t deign to negotiate a guest engagement with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Audiences don’t even see much of him these days in his home town, Munich, where he used to set the world standard for “Der Rosenkavalier.”

In recent seasons, however, the German maestro--who happens to be the son of another great conductor, Erich Kleiber--has sporadically graced the pit of the Metropolitan Opera. Two years ago he led a reportedly spectacular revival of “La Boheme.” This year he was in charge of a controversial new “Traviata”--for which he actually managed to lead two of five scheduled performances--plus a revival of “Otello.” Significantly, perhaps, his name does not appear on the roster announced for 1990-91.

Monday night, at the final “Otello” of the season, he bade what local aficionados hope was only a temporary farewell to New York. It turned out to be a dazzling performance, but only in the pit.

Kleiber transformed the mighty drama into a magnificent symphony. With the Metropolitan Opera orchestra playing like one of the world’s finest virtuoso ensembles, he explored vast dynamic extremes and painted with an astonishing array of instrumental color. He made the score flash, soar and shimmer with an uncanny combination of passion and calculation.

The storm really thundered. Otello’s heroic rage shrieked. Iago’s raucous treachery groaned with elemental fury. The lyrical flights of Desdemona were cushioned in radiance.

Kleiber illuminated telling orchestral details. He sustained tension and momentum, virtually without pause. He earned the sort of ovations usually reserved for divas in excelsis.

Still, there were problems. Favoring speed over introspection, he often pushed the singers beyond vocal comfort. He allowed them little space for breathing, little opportunity for expressive expansion.

He also made at least one dubious editorial decision. Following Toscanini’s example, he assigned the melodic lines of the second-act madrigal to solo voices rather than the customary chorus. The soloists elevated for this fleeting episode, alas, were feeble.

So, for that matter, were the all too familiar principals. For this revival, the Met reunited the central triumvirate of the disastrous Franco Zeffirelli film. The same protagonist and antagonist had appeared in the last “Otello” at the Music Center, and the same leading lady had been victimized in the most recent San Francisco version.

Placido Domingo probably is the leading Otello of the day. That suggests a sad indictment of current standards.

On this occasion, he settled, once again, for a conscientious routine. As the tragic Moor of Venice, he mustered little nobility, little power, little agony and little pathos.

Justino Diaz complemented him as a strained and ineffectual Iago. Katia Ricciarelli’s technical limitations reduced Desdemona’s arching rhetoric to unreliable cries and whispers.

The reasonably elaborate sets, the cumbersome costumes and the conventional staging scheme--all attributed to Franco Zeffirelli--date back to 1972. At that time, Zeffirelli had not yet succumbed totally to the easy success of vulgar excess.

Some day, perhaps, New York will have an “Otello” that treats the drama as seriously as the music. Someday, perhaps, the Met will have an “Otello” worthy of Carlos Kleiber.