OPERA REVIEW : Neblett Dominates ‘Tosca’ With Bravado

Back in the golden age of opera--the most recent one--Tosca wasn’t a particularly difficult role to cast. Even if an impresario couldn’t get Milanov, Tebaldi or Callas to impersonate Puccini’s tempestuous diva, he still might turn with pride to Kirsten or Albanese, Crespin or Price, Steber or Olivero. . . .

Now, bona-fide dramatic sopranos are almost as rare as dodo birds, and genuine spintos have become alarmingly scarce too. Often as not, the heroine is entrusted--out of desperation at best, vain optimism at worst--to misplaced lyric screamers.

Carol Neblett, who took over the assignment at the second Opera Pacific “Tosca” on Sunday afternoon, commands the right equipment as well as appropriate credentials. Her voice is big, plush and sometimes actually radiant. It opens at the top and rides the mighty climaxes with ease, yet scales down to a ravishing pianissimo in moments of introspection.

Neblett is, moreover, tall, assertive and sufficiently glamorous to dominate the stage as any respectable prima donna must. She knows what she is doing, and usually does it with flair.

On this occasion, she flirted most persuasively with Cavaradossi in Act I, suggested a nice tone of self-mockery when jealousy clouded the romantic picture, and instantly registered proper contempt for nasty old Scarpia.

She sustained “Vissi d’arte” with majestic fervor--slow tempo and intrusive gasps notwithstanding--and strode through the murder mime with careful authority. She earned credit for respecting the composer’s wish that Tosca sing, not speak, the climactic declaration over Scarpia’s corpse, and managed to project reasonable urgency in her suicidal leap from the roof of the Castel Sant’Angelo.

One could not claim that she was well-costumed--the uncredited designer (wardrobe improviser?) tended to make her look matronly rather than girlish--and her histrionic gestures often seemed calculated. Her tone occasionally emerged unsteady, and she sometimes breathed in odd places.

Still, she gave a generous, assertive performance. It was the real thing.

Arthur Davies, her patently British Cavaradossi, registered constant sympathy and intelligence, although his lightweight tenor had to stretch a bit for the heavyweight outbursts. James Dietsch stressed macho bluster rather than dangerous insinuation as a Scarpia who bore a disconcerting resemblance to John Belushi. With both gentlemen, passion seemed in short supply.

The supporting cast again included John Atkins as a compelling Angelotti and Thomas Hammons as a hammy Sacristan, plus a gaggle of nonentities.

John DeMain sustained enlightened security in the pit, while David Pfeiffer directed traffic traditionally (apart from some fussy business that allowed Spoletta to whisper a torturous last-minute message to the hero as he faced the firing squad).

Everyone and everything, not incidentally, sounded abnormally tubby and, worse, abnormally loud. One hates to revive the ugly subject of amplification at the acoustically troubled Performing Arts Center, but ominous microphones could be seen flanking the stage apron. One doesn’t see them at the Met or the Music Center.