OPERA REVIEW : Attila the Bass in San Francisco

It took “Attila” 145 years to reach the San Francisco Opera. The wait has been long, but bearable.

This primitive essay in blood-and-guts bel-canto--which offers fascinating previews of coming Verdi inspirations amid a horde of crank-em-out formulas--actually made it to Los Angeles first. The New York City Opera brought “Attila,” in all its gory glory, to the Music Center a decade ago in the same picturesque production now recycled at the War Memorial Opera House.

Remember “Attila”? It was that rip-snorting, razzle-dazzling, high-screaming, oom-pah-pahing, loosely historical mishmash in which Verdi reduced everything to mellifluous basics.

Given a neat staging scheme by Lotfi Mansouri and spare but handsome sets by Ming Cho Lee, it looked like one of those kitschy operatic cartoons so popular in the New Yorker. Justino Diaz portrayed the not-so-menacing titular Hun in Los Angeles, with Marilyn Zschau as the vengeful warrior maiden who steals his heart, plunges his own sword into it and, oh yes, specializes in impossible coloratura leaps. Sergiu Comissiona conducted.

Even with a new collection of participants on the stage and in the pit, not much has changed with this “Attila” since 1981. The ancient cliches are all intact, and they are treated, for the most part, with stylish and enlightened care.

It is easy to laugh, or at least to smile, at the creaky plot, the silly posturings, the all-purpose musical conventions and the pretty tunes that tend to go exactly where the listener expects. “Attila” is cabaletta heaven.

In 1846, Verdi still had “Macbeth” in his future, not to mention “Aida” and “Otello.” The roots of those masterpieces can be found here, however, and they are imposing roots.

“Attila” is a very grand, very old-fashioned, very naive opera. It desperately wants to be taken seriously. Unfortunately, a casual observer may find it difficult to oblige in the cool light of 1991.

The Scourge of God, turned back from Rome in AD 452, turns out to be a man of honor (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) who booms high-basso arias and fears only the rectitude of Pope Leo I. Attila’s briefly beloved Odabella (whose father he recently killed) fluctuates between heroic bravura and lyric introspection. Foresto, the inevitable tenor quasi-hero, sings ardent cavatinas on command.

Ezio, the Roman conspirator, exudes noble baritonal bonhomie, not to mention the spirit of the Risorgimento as he makes Attila a climactic, poetic offer that cannot be refused: “Avrai tu l’universo, resti l’Italia a me”--”You can have the universe, leave Italy to me.”

Amid the lofty set pieces, Verdi provided massive ensembles, stirring choruses, even a little hootchy-kootch ballet divertissement. This is opera with something for nearly everyone. It is opera by the numbers. Luckily, some of the numbers are very good.

The San Francisco forces went through all the grandiose motions with disarming conviction on Sunday afternoon. Gabriele Ferro conducted with reassuring sweep, and with passion that seldom precluded grace. Laura Alley re-created Mansouri’s staging scheme with obvious respect for her boss, for the composer, for the librettist and for the ghost of Cecil B. DeMille.

Ming Cho Lee’s forecurtain--a rendering of Raphael’s fresco depicting the confrontation between Attila and the Pope--set the scene nicely for his faintly stylized evocations of 5th-Century camps and ruins. Hal George’s costumes, modified for the motley physiques in residence, looked quaintly lavish.

All this would have mattered little, however, if the cast had been weak. No problem. San Francisco put some of its best voices forward.

Samuel Ramey roared and brooded darkly, also beautifully, as the nearly-noble central savage. Savoring pectoral as well as vocal exhibitionism, as is his wont, he modeled Attila’s scanty costumes with proper pagan panache.

Elizabeth Connell may have looked a bit prim and matronly as Odabella, but she sang her formidable music--brazen two-octave flourishes capped by a high C, for starters--with fierce abandon, astonishing ease and comforting accuracy. Later, she traced the gentler cantilena with silvery tone and arching legato finesse.

Vladimir Chernov, remembered for his Posa in the Music Center’s unfortunate “Don Carlo,” looked dignified and sounded opulent, if a bit monochromatic, as the Roman emissary. Antonio Ordonez revealed splendid tenorial resources compromised by a dangerously unreliable technique as the knightly Foresto.

Philip Skinner doddered plangently as the forbidding Bishop of Rome. Craig Estep, fresh from murderous escapades on behalf of Henze and Mishima, did what could be done with the minor duties of Attila’s Breton slave.

The capacity audience--attracted either by Verdi’s rare experiment or by Ramey’s bare chest--seemed to love everything.