Music : A New ‘Fledermaus’ Flutters in San Francisco

A strange thing happened at the War Memorial Opera House on Friday.

A capacity audience actually watched the comings and goings of the singers, listened to the words and reacted appropriately. The audience laughed at the jokes, whether spoken or sung. It applauded in the right places, and really seemed involved in the action, no matter how silly.

Lotfi Mansouri, current paterfamilias of the San Francisco Opera, had done something daring, something counterrevolutionary, something wise. He played “Die Fledermaus” in English. And even though he had personally pioneered the infernal supertitle, he forswore that verbal redundancy for this comic venture.

Liberated from the distraction of textual projections atop the proscenium, the audience could concentrate on the stage. For once, the observers didn’t have to read the opera. Yet--miracle of miracles--they still seemed able to comprehend its convolutions.

In the best of all possible worlds, Mansouri would have used this happy occasion to produce a “Fledermaus” of disarming wit and compelling charm. Alas, one isn’t likely to find the best of all possible worlds in an opera house.

The new production of Strauss’ comedy has its obvious advantages. It was attractively designed, some needless glitz notwithstanding. It was neatly conducted and, in many instances, well cast. Nevertheless, it fell into some awkward stylistic traps, frequently substituting sitcom conventions for narrative inventions.

A classy “Fledermaus” demands a light and elegant touch. This was a ponderous “Fledermaus.”

It also was a long “Fledermaus.” Mansouri hindered momentum in the ball scene by interpolating a ballet suite that, for all its deft choreography, outstayed its welcome. Even worse, he allowed the opera to unwind, adding a guest-star turn that shattered both mood and idiom as a diva in modern dress invaded waltzing Vienna to volunteer a Verdi aria.

Under the circumstances, one had to be grateful for isolated favors. Wolfram Skalicki’s clever, double-tiered, picture-book sets exerted their own fascination, even when they mixed stylization with realism. Thierry Bosquet’s costumes looked lavish, sometimes too lavish.

The musical mastermind was Julius Rudel, a canny veteran of many lesser “Fledermice.” He conducted with welcome verve if without much sensuality or lilt.

Mansouri deserves credit for devising fluid, intricate traffic patterns, and for creating undeniably pretty stage pictures. If only he hadn’t relied on so many ancient cliches. If only he hadn’t encouraged his actors to mug, prance and leer.

At least they mugged, pranced and leered with gusto. Theodore Baerg introduced a desperately dapper Eisenstein whose bright, ringing baritone found no terror in the tenor tessitura. As the amorous Alfred, Jorge Lopez-Yanez mocked Latin machismo as well as operatic bravura with a youthful smirk and a fine bel-canto flourish.

Donald Adams, the peerless Gilbert-and-Sullivan basso, dominated the stage as Frank. Superbly blustery, splendidly crisp and harmlessly crusty, he made the friendly warden a not-so-distant cousin of Colonel Blimp. At Skalicki’s lovely, lively pigeon-house, he found a sweet stooge in the laughed-out Frosch of Arte Johnson.

Ildiko Komlosi of the Budapest Opera made her local debut as an aristocratically decadent, nicely understated, perpetually bored (roll those r’s) Orlofsky. One would like to see her as the other Strauss’ Octavian.

The women in skirts proved less felicitous. Elizabeth Holleque looked glamorous as Rosalinde but encountered difficulties with the florid flights. Her Csardas, presumably delivered in the unoriginal Hungarian, nearly ended in disaster. Barbara Kilduff, the pert Adele, looked disconcertingly like Lucy of “Twin Peaks.” She exerted a lot of soubrettish skill, but little glitter and less erotic allure.

Timothy Nolen sounded threadbare as a decidedly sinister Dr. Falke. A long Broadway run as the Phantom of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s would-be opera may have taken a toll on his once-resonant baritone. As the fussy Dr. Blind, Gary Rideout proved once again that stammering simply isn’t funny.

None other than Helgi Tomasson devised the intricate Balanchineesque ballet sequence. It was executed with stellar panache by two of his own leading dancers: Evelyn Cisneros and Giorgio Madia.

The surprise guest in Act II turned out to be Deborah Voigt, an ersatz heroine on leave from a more serious ballo , in maschera . Here she sang “Ernani, involami”--complete with cabaletta--with statuesque prima-donna manners and resplendent tone, if without much grace or color.

For the English text, Mansouri adapted the ancient translation of Ruth and Thomas Martin. Although it failed to further the cause of sophistication, it did score all the basic points. And it did spare us the idiotic polyglot pretensions favored at the mighty Met.