OPERA REVIEW : A Desperate ‘Don Carlo’ : Music: Surrounded by Soviet guests at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, Placido Domingo is the only link to the authentic Italian style.

Most opera-goers regard Verdi’s “Don Carlo” as a quintessential Italian opera. No one can deny that the national label makes stylistic sense.

Most scholars offer the counter-argument that the opera really is French. After all, Verdi conceived the sprawling masterpiece in 1867 for Paris, composing specifically for a French text.

At the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion on Friday, however, “Don Carlo” might just as well have been Russian.

The conductor and the mezzo-soprano came from the Bolshoi. The leading soprano hailed from Moscow. The baritone was a guest from the Kirov in Leningrad, and the central basso a member of the Spendarian State Opera in Soviet Armenia.

If Placido Domingo had not been cast in the title role, one might have called the vehicle “Don Karlofsky.” On the other hand, had Domingo not been singing the title role, the Music Center might have been performing another opera altogether: “Pikovaya Dama” (a.k.a. “The Queen of Spades”) with--ironically--a less Russian cast.

The popular tenorissimo, who happens to double as artistic consultant for our opera company, had originally planned to undertake his first Russian-language assignment on this occasion. Reportedly, he was unable to master the Tchaikovsky challenge in time. Rather than switch protagonists, the Music Center management decided to switch operas, and to surround Domingo with colleagues suddenly liberated by cultural perestroika .

It was a dubious decision. Still, it could have been validated by a brilliant performance. No such luck. What emerged was a dreary, lumbering, misguided effort in which the only sparks of italianita emanated from the Spanish hero.

Yuri Simonov, the conductor, often made beautiful music in the pit. Unfortunately, it related only sporadically to the drama on the stage.

One was nagged by the suspicion that he didn’t know the words of the standard Italian translation. He certainly failed to reinforce textual nuances, and he volunteered few verbal cues.

Simonov long ago proved his persuasion in the Russian repertory. Here, however, he seldom propelled the action forward. He rarely observed the essential dynamic distinctions, and he neglected many of the crucial legato arcs.

He led better than he followed. In this context, it wasn’t enough.

Selecting the right edition of “Don Carlo” is always difficult. Most enlightened companies these days begin with the original Fontainebleau scene, which explains the central dramatic conflict. It was omitted here.

The prefabricated production, borrowed from Chicago, did little to define locales or to enhance moods. Gianni Quaranta’s ugly sets--a series of blank architectural facades and awkward steps ornamented with canvas tree trunks--served primarily to cramp the action. Sonja Frisell’s clumsy staging scheme relied primarily on hoary operatic cliches.

The ineptitude of the theatrical proceedings might have been mitigated by a cast of authoritative singing actors eager to probe for psychological impact. Most of the group assembled by the Music Center merely lurched among the flats, striking silent-movie poses and emitting loud noises.

Natalia Troitskaya played the noble and pathetic Elisabetta di Valois as an all-purpose prima donna. Her assorted vocal problems included a weak lower register, shrill top tones that exploded under pressure and an apparent inability to float a pianissimo line.

Nina Terentieva, singing Eboli for the first time in Italian, introduced a lush yet mushy mezzo soprano that moved cautiously through the fioriture of the Veil Song and tended to wobble in the grandiose outbursts of “O don fatale.” Her characterization of the flamboyant princess focused on two basic maneuvers: clutching the breast to convey passion, pressing fist to forehead to telegraph grief.

Vladimir Chernov, portraying Rodrigo for the first time anywhere, didn’t bother to act at all. Once he conquered his obvious jitters, he revealed a warm, even-timbred lyric baritone that traced the cantilena of the death scene with poise and grace. He gave a nice concert.

Barseg Tumanian, who sang “Ella giammai m’amo” here last year when the Yerevan company visited the Wiltern Theatre and who returned with the Red Army Chorus, suggested none of the intellectual and emotional contradictions that agonize Filippo II. He didn’t even suggest the brooding monarch’s aristocracy.

He did reveal a big, rough, incisive bass--more resplendent at the top than at the bottom--and he did demonstrate that primitive fortissimo tones are his forte. Perhaps he ought to study some Alexander Kipnis records.

Domingo may not be a great introspective thespian. Nevertheless, he resembled Laurence Olivier in this company. He also sang superbly--with freshness and ardor, with lyrical sensitivity and heroic pathos that could climax in a clarion ring. Don Carlo remains one of his most congenial roles.

Dale Wendel looked pretty if not very boyish as the page Tebaldo. She sounded pretty too.

The other members of the local team proved less imposing. Economic exigencies must explain the casting of Louis Lebherz as a not very grand, basically unmenacing Grand Inquisitor with a penchant for bellowing. Richard Bernstein, a novice unwisely drafted as the Monk who may or may not be Carlo V, came to grief in the glorious bass solo that opened the opera. Jennifer Trost provided a properly ethereal Celestial Voice that seemed to reach us via a microphone in the balcony.

The surprisingly feeble Los Angeles Master Chorale, trained by Jonathan Draper, moved stiffly through the turbulence. The oddly bloodless auto-da-fe exerted no more terror musically than it did scenically.

The expanded Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra did Simonov’s bidding conscientiously. Still, one longed for more poetry and less prose.

The Music Center has given us some memorable nights at the opera. Apart from Domingo, this one was worth forgetting.