OPERA REVIEW : A Nice Awakening for Brunnhilde

It’s June, June, June, and “Rings” are busting out all over.

Wagner’s epochal “Ring des Nibelungen” tonight begins a consecutive four-night stand on the home screen, courtesy of the Metropolitan Opera and Public Television. Meanwhile, the San Francisco Opera is embarked on a controversial four-cycle marathon of its own, arousing large, essentially undiscriminating audiences to instant ecstasy whenever musical climaxes threaten to beckon.

The installment on Saturday was the so-called scherzo of tetralogy, “Siegfried.” The performance began at 7, ended at 11:40, and cost up to $125 for a good seat.

One can recall more exciting performances, better-cast performances, certainlymore subtle and more poetic performances. Still, this one had vigor in its favor, and a certain degree of primitive grandeur too. It actually rose to imposing heights when the heroine made her belated entrance during the last half hour. One must be grateful.

Peter Schneider has inherited Edo de Waart’s baton, which was to have been passed to John Pritchard (who died last year). The Viennese maestro conducted with the technical control and authoritative calm of a man who has been there before.

He did not coax much elegance from the 90 players crowded into the pit. He wasted little time searching either for heroic majesty or for introspective nuance. When in doubt, he tended to be loud, just loud. He did enforce forward propulsion, however, that reinforced the proper scherzo associations. And he did sustain reasonable tension en route to Wagner’s whomping cadences.

The innocent bullying and vague priapic yearnings of the title character--a bizarre fusion of L’il Abner, Nazi Youth, Nature Boy and Superman--were entrusted once again to Rene Kollo. Five years ago, this quasi- heldentenor had virtually no competition in the role. Now he has acquired a comfortable mid-life paunch (cruelly undisguised by the costume department), a vocal wobble that compromises purity of tone under pressure and a genuinely heroic rival in Siegfried Jerusalem (catch him on PBS Wednesday).

One had to acknowledge Kollo’s enduring intelligence and his endearing dedication. One also had to register alarm at singing that could be sweet and suave one moment, strained and strident the next.

In the rhapsodic finale, this Siegfried awakened Janis Martin as Brunnhilde. During her long sleep, the former warrior-maiden had managed to change from silver battle gear into a filmy white negligee--a curious, symbolic indulgence also permitted in the “realistic” Met production.

Unfazed by sartorial illogic, Martin sang with radiant sweep, a broad, equalized range and considerable lyric finesse. Here, at last and at least, was a restrained Brunnhilde who could produce all the right notes at the right dynamic levels, who understood the inherent emotions and who savored a grand tradition. She delivered the goods and, even though she may have lunged at the dreaded high Cs, she made it all seem easy.

James Morris, the ubiquitous Wotan, imbued the Wanderer’s autumnal music with splendid warmth and breadth, actually relishing the high tessitura. He also struck imposing, all-purpose poses.

The dwarf contingent was competently represented by Helmut Pampuch, a properly crafty if vocally feeble Mime, and the canny veteran Franz Mazura, who now offers more bark than bite as Alberich. James Patterson sounded marvelously monstrous as the amplified voice of the dragon, Fafner, but the basso’s human frailties became all too apparent when--following the dubious Patrice Chereau example--he was required to resume his human form and normal voice.

Janet Williams piped prettily as the unseen little birdie who tells Siegfried her fateful coloratura secrets. Birgitta Svenden, like most mezzo-sopranos drafted for contralto duty, resorted to deep-toned huffing and puffing as the eternally maternal Erda.

Peter McClintock oversaw the entrances and exits carefully in the absence of the original director, Nikolaus Lehnhoff. John Conklin’s designs, replete with naive-Romantic images inspired by Caspar David Friedrich, looked quaint in Mime’s grubby kitchen, postcard-picturesque at the Valkyrie’s red-glowing rock.

The ultra-prosaic supertitles spared us at least one obtrusive laugh. When Siegfried removed the ample breastplate of the sleeping Brunnhilde, he jumped back in wonted horror and, as always, exclaimed his immortal contribution to the annals of German understatement:

“Das ist kein Mann,” or, if you will, “This is is no man.”

Here, the screen atop the proscenium went blank--suddenly, blessedly blank. Some observations are best left untranslated.

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