OPERETTA REVIEW : A Plodding ‘Princess’ in Orange County

Anyone who has been touched, even remotely, by the Austro-Hungarian empire knows Emmerich Kalman’s “Csardasfurstin,” a.k.a. “Csardaskiralyno”.

As of Friday, Orange County knows the lovely, gooey period-piece too, under the loosely translated title, “The Gypsy Princess.”

The operetta, a formula exercise about a lofty prince who loves a lowly showgirl, probably seemed old-fashioned even when it was first performed in Vienna three-quarters of a century ago. No one minded.

Everyone in old Europa loved the romantic duets, the rousing choruses, the lilting waltzes, the whomping ensembles, the catchy folk rituals and the clockwork comic routines.

Everyone sang along. Everyone clapped in support of the snazzy Magyar rhythms. Everyone overlooked the convoluted, sentimental, quaintly sexist plot.

Kalman was rightly regarded, in most quarters, as an idiomatic successor to Johann Strauss and, as such, the obvious equal of Franz Lehar. For some reason, however, his finger-snapping, paprika-snorting princess with a heart of mush didn’t succeed as an American import commodity.

Disguised as “Riviera Girl,” she flopped on Broadway in 1917. Attempts at revival proved all too feeble.

Under the circumstances, one would love to hail the Opera Pacific production as a belated triumph. Unfortunately, what should have been dazzling nostalgia turned out to be dutiful ritual.

Standard cliches regarding Viennese operetta always invoke champagne. For “The Gypsy Princess” one gladly would have settled for something a little less bubbly--say a nice old Tokay. Costa Mesa delivered goulash soup.

With ketchup.

Bruno Walter used to say that all Viennese operettas should be treated as if they had been written by Mozart. They demand subtlety, elegance, a light touch. Without such graces, they sink in a sea of vulgarity.

“The Gypsy Princess” didn’t exactly sink at Segerstrom Hall. But it did have trouble treading water.

The light touch? Forget it.

The voices, despite the legitimate operatic ambience, boomed and roared via microphones. Everyone and everything sounded super-raucous. The booms and roars, moreover, emanated from loudspeakers at the side, not from the hard-working, occasionally fast-moving singers. The vaunted Volksoper in Vienna and Gartnerplatztheater in Munich do not permit this sort of sonic distortion.

Still, all need not have been lost. A little refinement would have provided a lot of compensation. No such luck.

One waited in vain for insinuating inflections, for gentle erotic innuendo, for lyric expansion, for piano --never mind pianissimo --shading. One waited in vain for verve, for wit and, most important, for charm.

Nigel Douglas’ modern translation of the libretto by Leo Stein and Bela Jenbach stumbled over dumb jokes and archaic imagery. At least Opera Pacific spared us the redundancy of supertitles.

Kenneth Rowell (who apparently does not deserve a biographical sketch in the sloppily edited program) designed the mock- Jugendstil sets and unflattering gowns. Opera Pacific purchased them from the Australian Opera in Sydney. The price, one assumes, was low.

Chris Nance kept things moving crisply in the pit. Just crisply. Arthur Allan Seidelman, the director, functioned primarily as a traffic cop, and not a particularly deft one. Dan Siretta cranked out choreography by the numbers.

The delicious tunes were entrusted to singers who might have benefited greatly from exposure to some old recordings. Anyone who has heard Kalman’s music ennobled by the likes of Fritzi Massary, Jarmila Novotna, Sari Barabas, Richard Tauber, Nicolai Gedda, Georgi Nelepp and Rudolf Schock would appreciate the crucial difference between belting and bel-canto .

Vivian Tierney came from London to introduce a gleaming spinto soprano and a rather prim persona in the potentially flamboyant title role. Fred Love partnered her blandly as the prince who woos beneath his station.

Ron Raines exerted push-button bonhomie as his baritonal sidekick. Jan Grissom simpered pertly as the aristocratic soubrette in residence. Marshall Borden and Dorothy Constantine provided stock silliness as elder royal couple.

One member of the cast demonstrated what might have been. Sandor Nemeth, a veteran of many operettic wars at the Volksoper as well as the Metropolitan Theater in Budapest, delineated the world-weariness of the Count von Kerekes with compelling, easygoing cheer. A dapper dancer, a clever linguist and a suave stylist, he was irresistible.

Perhaps he should have directed the show. Perhaps he should have played all the parts.