OPERA REVIEW : A Conventional Marriage for Figaro

Figaro, the baritonal barber of Seville, got married again, Saturday night at the Civic Theatre. It was a nice wedding.

As its final contribution to the official season of Mozartean delirium, the San Diego Opera mustered something old (the work itself) but little new; something borrowed (sets, staging scheme and costumes) but little blue (apart from a dubious bit of would-be comedy in which Basilio sniffed Susanna’s underwear).

This, essentially, was “Le Nozze di Figaro” by the book.

It is, of course, a good book, and the San Diego forces treated it with respect. The communal spirit was willing.

One should be grateful. A stubborn ingrate might argue, of course, that some fresh insights would have been welcome, that there is more pathos here than met either eye or ear, and that few of the participants could be regarded as paragons of style or virtuosity. Still, it would take a performance far less competent than this one to dull Mozart’s masterpiece.

The score was in the well-practiced hands of Edoardo Muller, an Italian (in spite of his half-German name) whose forte would seem to be brisk efficiency. He does not bother to linger over melodic miracles, and he doesn’t seem to care a bit about such authentic niceties as embellishments and cadenzas. Nevertheless, he values forward momentum, understands the importance of linear poise and accompanies the singers with reassuring sympathy.

John Copley’s predictable solutions to the inherent theatrical problems have been seen in numerous California productions over the years--here (in 1986), in Los Angeles with the New York City Opera and in the lavish San Francisco version that was imported for this occasion. Apart from a few vulgar lapses, the solutions look eminently reasonable. The action is fluid and the jokes are well focused. For many observers that, no doubt, is enough.

Zack Brown’s realistic sets and relatively prosaic costumes place the elegant human comedy in a rather dim and tacky Spanish villa. According to the designer’s vision, the Almavivas could not have inhabited a very high rung on the aristocratic ladder. At least the stage pictures are pretty.

Although the cast delivers no star turns, it is solid and it obviously appreciates ensemble virtues. The characters interact nicely, give-and-take generously.

John Pringle of the Australian Opera makes his American debut as a nimble and sympathetic if rather dry-sounding Figaro. Although his baritone is higher, lighter and perhaps smaller than tradition dictates, he applies it cannily to Mozart’s mercurial demands.

David Malis can provide only modest timbral contrast as Almaviva. His top tones ring with fervor; his low tones don’t ring at all. Nevertheless, he performs with impetuous authority, and suggests in passing that attention has been paid to the lyrical model of Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau.

Cheryl Parrish, familiar from San Francisco, repeated her vocally ethereal, dramatically earthy Susanna. Rita Cullis, a British soprano making her first appearance with a U.S. opera company, introduced a rather stately Countess whose open tones occasionally became strident under pressure. She managed some lovely pianissimo effects, however, most notably in the reprise of “Dove sono.”

Emily Manhart brought a handsome mezzo-soprano and proper ardor to the adolescent swagger of Cherubino. Unfortunately, breathiness compromised her first aria, and faulty intonation marred her second.

Judith Christin, the ubiquitous Marcellina, was a splendidly silly goose as always. One of these days, we hope, someone will allow her to restore the big aria in Act IV. Francois Loup complemented her as a Bartolo who dared mute the buffo gags.

Jerold Siena did what he could to minimize the crass distortions visited upon poor Basilio (his aria also fell by the garden-scene wayside, as is its regrettable wont). Sylvia Wen simpered sweetly as Barbarina, James Scott Sikon bumbled sonorously as an all-too-alcoholic Antonio, and Beau Palmer stammered excessively as an otherwise compelling Curzio.

The first-nighters were so busy reading the infernal supertitles that they tended to ignore the sublime music. Under the circumstances, the Count’s climactic, potentially tragic plea for forgiveness--”Contessa, perdono”--emerged as something of a laff riot.