OPERA REVIEW : Music Center Gags Rossini’s ‘Barbiere’

We are almost finished celebrating the 200th anniversary of Mozart’s untimely death (Dec. 5, 1791). Thank goodness.

Now it is almost time to celebrate the 200th anniversary of Rossini’s leap-year birth (Feb. 29, 1792).

Friday night, the Music Center Opera officially honored the Italian bel-canto genius--or pretended to do so--with a “Barbiere di Siviglia” borrowed from the Lyric Opera of Chicago. The production added new levels of meaning to our concept of coarseness.

The delicate comedy was smothered in irrelevant sight gags. The elegant music was cheapened with plodding vulgarities.

Poor Rossini did receive some homage in John Conklin’s designs, which, in turn, paid delirious homage to the Belgian painter, Rene Magritte. The well-fed composer’s amiable features kept materializing on props, curtains and back-cloths, in company with painterly cloud panoramas, flying chairs and a full surrealistic moon that happened to rival the real one outside the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.

The whimsical cutout settings, complemented by Michael Stennett’s black-or-crimson costumes, did not encourage anyone to take the music or the drama very seriously; and, make no mistake, comic opera is serious business. Still, the decors turned out to be undeniably stylish, and, in their own silly way, undeniably amusing. Too bad they couldn’t sing.

The cast assembled for this occasion was, to say the least, uneven. Even paragons of the golden age, however, would have had trouble competing with the theatrical shenanigans, the dumb puns and repetitive burlesque routines concocted here by the director, John Copley.

Figaro, in the tall and handsome person of Rodney Gilfry, goes through quite a physical workout during “Largo al factotum.” The bravura entrance aria is difficult enough to sing standing still, but this is ridiculous:

Gilfry starts out sleeping in an upstairs bed, wakes, pulls back the covers to reveal his lanky, muscular body clad only in skivvies, feigns embarrassment, proceeds to rise and greet the audience, empties a chamber pot out the window, gets dressed, slides down a convenient firehouse pole, shaves himself and shoos away some cutesy kids who are rude enough to usurp his climactic street calls.

Oops. I almost forgot. During the exposition, he indulges in the first of several crotch-groping jokes (“Figaro la ,” indeed). Under the hectic circumstances, the patter song seems a little breathless.

That’s not all, folks. Fiorello and cohorts lug a red piano onstage (“ Piano , pianissimo, eccoci qua”--get it?) for the Count’s serenade, during which the tenor flourishes a huge Pavarotti hankie. During her arietta, Berta hides under a gray tent so she can strip down to--surprise--a scarlet nightie. A real cannon blasts the wig off poor Bartolo’s head during Basilio’s “Calunnia” aria (“Come un colpo di cannone “ -- get it?). Later, blood splatters as a sadistic Figaro virtually slices off the doctor’s finger.

At the end of the first act, the convoluted plot is actually abandoned. Music stands are set up around the stage. A stupid servant appoints himself mock conductor as the ensemble pretends to sight-read a disparate collection of other Rossini scores.

Irrelevance reigns. So does gimmickry.

Compounding--or reinforcing--the problems, Randall Behr conducts with a heavy, all too permissive hand. He favors thick textures, allows rhythmic propulsion to flag and looks the other way when his singers want to indulge in vocal mugging.

No one can say that the singers don’t work hard. Frederica von Stade, oddly dressed as a mock-Baroque flapper, brings charm, agility and canny sweetness against the odds to the duties of the resident ingenue. Gilfry does all--well, almost all--that is asked of him with admirable suavity and fleet bravado.

Raul Gimenez, a debutant tenorino bianco from Argentina, looks sympathetic and sings Almaviva’s florid cantilena with finesse, so long as he doesn’t have to apply too much pressure. It was a mistake, however, to ask him to provide his own feeble guitar accompaniment for “Se il mio nome sapere voi bramante.”

Reliable members of the local roster were entrusted with both of the crucial bass roles. Michael Gallup resorted to stock buffo bumbling as Bartolo, and found the high tessitura of his aria something of a trial. Louis Lebherz had to look unduly seedy as Basilio, but he didn’t have to sound that way.

Although Berta describes herself as a hopeless old maid (“vechietta disperata”), Suzanna Guzman sang and acted the role with gutsy, youthful allure. John Atkins seemed encouraged to confuse Fiorello with Leporello.

Despite defections at intermission, most of the opening-night crowd registered enthusiasm. Never underestimate the appeal of a laff riot.

This “Barbiere di Siviglia,” incidentally, replaced a more ambitious and more costly item on the current Music Center agenda: Strauss’ “Der Rosenkavalier.” At least one member of the audience would have preferred to see Frederica von Stade as Octavian rather than as Rosina. Unfortunately, the best-laid plans of mice and Hemmings. . . .