OPERA REVIEW : San Francisco Presents Its First ‘Entfuhrung’ : Mozart: The Bay City had to wait 208 years for a disappointing production of the composer’s fragile tragicomic masterpiece.

“Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail”--that fragile fusion of Singspiel exotica and lyrical pathos--isn’t exactly a rarity on our stages.

Nevertheless, the current version at the San Francisco Opera happens to be the first ever ventured during the international season here. Until now, Mozart’s elusive masterpiece had been relegated to workshop approximations and low-budget efforts at the Spring Opera, a series now sadly defunct.

Believe it or not, “Die Entfuhrung” had to wait 208 years for a major staging in this sophisticated city. Better late, one surely thought, than never. Now one isn’t so sure.

This “Entfuhrung”--conducted by Hermann Michael, directed by Stephen Wadsworth, designed by Thomas Lynch and William Ivey Long--isn’t just a brand new production. It also turns out to be a bland new production.

Michael, replacing the late John Pritchard in the pit, tended to the multifaceted Mozartean challenge Saturday with cool efficiency and solid Kapellmeister authority. The German maestro didn’t make the wit sparkle in the comic interludes, however, and he certainly didn’t do much to underscore the noble passions.

With its 3,214 seats, the War Memorial Opera House is hardly an ideal showcase for the essential intimacy of the work. Still, the mighty Met proved long ago that delicate manners and subtle maneuvers can make an impact even in vaster open spaces. The problem, ultimately, is a matter of focus and style.

Confronting the hopefully charming, potentially moving formulas of the libretto, Wadsworth resorted to irrelevant gimmicks. He told us little about who the characters are, and about what motivates their conflicts. He told us a great deal about the strenuous hurdles of a revolving set, and about the distractions of a cartoon moon on wires that kept rising and falling during the most serious moments.

He also told us that Mozart’s overture is best used to accompany a ludicrous strip tease for a handsome young tenor. In general, Wadsworth’s action scheme seemed awfully ponderous when it wasn’t just fussy and clumsy.

Lynch’s traveling harem set--dominated by a quaint Oriental tower with balconies--looks cumbersome. It also looks cheap.

Long’s pointlessly ornate costumes, on the other hand, look expensive. They create difficulties of their own whenever characters have to negotiate the narrow stairs and slender doorways.

Given all these conceptual liabilities, the cast deserves credit for stamina and dedication. It does not deserve much credit, alas, for vocal power or savoir-faire.

The obvious exception is Kurt Moll, a canny veteran of many “Entfuhrung” wars. He still commands the stage with instant authority. He still manages to growl the impossible subterranean tones of “Ha, wie will ich triumphieren!” He even savors the comic filigree and can simulate a decent trill.

Sometimes, unfortunately, he seemed to be playing Osmin by rote. One couldn’t be sure if he wanted the Pasha’s henchman to be dangerously mean or harmlessly funny. He ended up being neither, and his booming basso didn’t really boom as it usually does. Perhaps he needs the inspiration of more incisive musical and dramatic leadership.

Susan Patterson, the tall and pretty Constanze, lacked the vocal stature, the agility and extended top range this cruel role demands. Cheryl Parrish, her attending soubrette, chirped sweetly as a tough-cookie Blondchen.

Kurt Streit, Peter Sellars’ T-shirted Tamino in Glyndebourne and an American despite his German name, looked terrific as Belmonte but sounded tight and dry. Although he chopped the coloratura phrases into so many little pieces, he did please purists by venturing the aria “Ich baue ganz auf deine Starke,” a florid trial omitted by many a more celebrated hero.

Lars Magnusson, the ubiquitous Pedrillo of our day, dealt in push-button sprightliness. Like most buffos, he strained his bright-toned tenorino in “Frisch zum Kampfe.” Unlike most, he trashed the bel-canto allure of the last-act serenade.

Frank Hoffmann, a distinguished actor from the Burgtheater in Vienna, tried honorably to validate the aristocratic, self-sacrificing platitudes of Selim. For some reason, the audience--too busy reading primitive supertitles to pay much attention to dramatic nuance--found his lofty lines terribly amusing.

Ah, supertitles. . . . .

San Francisco restored a great deal of spoken dialogue, even though most of the singers mangled the German text and most of the audience understand no German. Once in a while, the presumably British Blondchen interpolated an English phrase and brought down the house with the linguistic shock.

Wouldn’t it have made more sense, on both sides of the proscenium, to play “Entfuhrung” in an accessible translation? Wouldn’t an “Abduction” rather than an “Entfuhrung” have reduced the snob factor?

Opera is indeed an irrational art. But it doesn’t have to be this irrational.