OPERA REVIEW : San Francisco Exhumes ‘Don Quichotte’ : Massenet: Following in the footsteps of Feodor Chaliapin, Samuel Ramey turns sublime madness into a lyric triumph.

Cervantes sings again.

This time, however, the impossible dream bears no Broadway glitz. Don Quichotte--a.k.a. Quixote--is tilting at distinctly operatic windmills in San Francisco.

Jules Massenet’s sugar-coated portrait of the eccentric man of la Mancha has not fared particularly well in the opera house. Although “Don Quichotte” served as a grateful vehicle for Feodor Chaliapin at the Monte Carlo premiere back in 1910, the opera has been revived only sporadically in the interim.

Basically, its survival in the repertory has depended on the whim of popular bassos who want to be profondo in quest of romantic grotesquerie. Vanni Marcoux actually eclipsed Chaliapin in the composer’s favor as the protagonist. In recent years, both Ruggero Raimondi and Nicolai Ghiaurov have triumphed in the challenge. San Diego ventured “Don Quichotte” on behalf of the unforgettable Norman Treigle in 1969, only to introduce a very young Michael Devlin in the role when Treigle fell ill.

Now it is Samuel Ramey’s turn. At the War Memorial Opera House on Sunday, the American basso didn’t attempt much of a character study. He pasted some appropriate gray whiskers on his youthful face and donned a whispy wig. Otherwise, he remained the handsome matinee idol to whom we have become accustomed.

On the surface, his Don might just as well have been named Giovanni. One expected him to proudly bare his hairy chest at any moment.

Ramey let us forget about the aging knight of the doleful countenance. He conveyed little of the sublime madness that should illuminate the hero’s quixotic manners and quirky stances. He did convey essential dignity, however, and he sang very nicely.

Sang very nicely? That is a ridiculous understatement.

Ramey sang beautifully. He sang magnificently.

He sang with firm, warm, rolling, even tone. He sang with ease that flagged at neither range extreme, with extraordinary lyrical suavity and reasonable dramatic point.

When the spirit moved him, he even sang softly. Muted dynamics have never been a Ramey specialty. But here, in moments of ecstatic reflection, he floated pianissimo tones that created their own aura of mystical pathos. It was a happy revelation.

Any vocal performance of such quality would justify the exhumation of a work as flawed as “Don Quichotte.” Compounding good operatic fortune, San Francisco managed to complement Ramey with two eminently worthy colleagues and a remarkably sympathetic conductor.

Michel Trempont as the doggedly devoted Sancho Panca provided an ideal counterforce--dramatically earthy and musically elegant. He steadfastly avoided comic caricature and, despite rather slender baritonal resources, tugged the assembled heart-strings heftily in the climactic scena beginning “Ca, vous commetez tous un acte epouvantable.”

Last seen here as Waltraute, Katherine Ciesinski portrayed Dulcinee, the mezzo-soprano vamp with a heart of gold and an abiding love of pearls. She sang with vibrant insinuation and acted with alluring abandon that nearly validated the inherent cliches.

In the well-staffed pit, Julius Rudel made Massenet’s perfumed banalities sound sensuous, urgent, even noble. This American conductor from Austria really knows his way around the fragile French repertory.

It would be nice to report that San Francisco provided an appropriately compelling theatrical framework. Unfortunately, the physical production turned out to be a thing of shreds and patches.

The innocuous, painterly canvases were borrowed from Chicago. Pierluigi Samaritani, the designer, demanded that his name be removed from the credits, however, when numerous modifications distorted his original scenic vision. One cannot blame him.

The all-purpose costumes, also attributed to no one, came from the warehouse of the Opera de Marseilles, as did a monstrous, nightmarish puppet that rose in the sky near the windmill--breaching the quasi-realistic style of the production in the process.

Another import from Marseilles was the stage director, Charles Roubaud. He functioned primarily as a traffic cop.

Victoria Morgan’s incidental dances looked like frantic exercises for some ballet troupe gone a-slumming. The chorus, trained by Ian Robertson, made nice noises and struck friendly poses.

The stage pictures certainly were stilted. At least they were pretty.

And so--for all its sentimental vapidity--was the music.