OPERA REVIEW : Splendid Revival of ‘Budd’

For better or worse, the Metropolitan Opera has always prided itself on being the happy home of great singers. Concerts in costume are the specialty of the house.

This is the place where aficionados assemble to applaud stellar vocal feats. Those who want to take opera seriously as drama, however, have not always been pleased, much less stimulated, by the typical Met product.

The prevalent desire for empty spectacle--old-fashioned, lavish, literal, conservative spectacle--has often outweighed any concern for theatrical validity. Still, the mighty Met does prove once in a while that opera can be a thinking person’s art.

The company did just that, without denying any on-going commitment to grandeur, when it first staged Benjamin Britten’s poignant and complex, powerful yet fragile “Billy Budd” in 1978. The production offered revelations on numerous levels.

Peter Pears, Britten’s lifelong companion and inspiration, made a late Met appearance as the agonized Captain Vere--a role he had created back in 1951. Richard Stilwell, defining the innocent purity of Billy, provided the perfect foil for the youthful, sexually repressed, innately wicked Claggart of James Morris.

John Dexter, the stage director, illuminated the inherent psychological conflicts while moving the action with keen fluidity on William Dudley’s miraculously flexible, four-decked nautical set. Gil Wechsler’s lighting scheme reinforced atmospheric images of sea and night. Raymond Leppard conducted Britten’s daunting score sensitively.

Much has happened to the world, and to the Met, in the intervening years. Pears and Dexter have died. Singers and conductors have come and gone. The fragile production has nearly become a repertory staple. Nevertheless, “Billy Budd” has not succumbed to the stagnation of routine.

After a three-year hiatus, the opera returned Saturday afternoon in a performance that was broadcast nationally. Only one of the original principals--Morris as Claggart--was still in the cast.

Some of the character definitions have blurred, and the pervasive aura of crisp British restraint has broadened a bit. The anachronism of an American accent now marks more than verbal articulation. Still, the basic impulses are fondly remembered and keenly respected by all concerned. After 14 years, this production remains one of the Met’s proudest achievements.

Charles Mackerras, the new conductor, reinforces the epic urgency of the the drama without forfeiting an iota of lyric breadth, rhythmic precision or textural clarity. Bruce Donnell, charged with enforcing Dexter’s bold interpretive concepts as well as his tricky traffic patterns, performs his unenviable task valiantly.

Thomas Hampson has inherited the title role. His portrait of the idealistic, good-hearted, naive youth is painted with broad strokes. The subtle details will, no doubt, come later.

At this juncture, he concentrates on sweet gung-ho bravado, conveying an image of rugged self-confidence that sometimes suggests Billy Bigelow as readily as Billy Budd. His forthright projection of the text is always compelling, however, and his dreamy pianissimo tone in the heart-breaking valedictory, “Billy in the Darbies,” is a model of bel-canto finesse.

Hampson’s burly Billy represents a formidable, unwitting adversary for Morris’ equally sturdy Claggart. The erstwhile basso has become a Wotan and a Scarpia since he first impersonated this fascinating villain. He now finds the low notes something of a trial, and he plays more for brute strength, less for sensual insinuation. Nevertheless, he remains a darkly compelling presence on the stage, his threat all the more insidious because of his suave veneer.

Graham Clark, the new Vere, stands between the symbolic forces of good and evil with stoic, painful, introspective calm. He brings striking clarity, telling nuance and muted pathos to the central text, and applies his slender, pliant tenor to the vocal line with both delicacy and heft, as needed. Although it never stoops to the flattery of imitation, his performance honors the exalted Pears tradition.

The huge, uniformly competent supporting crew includes James Courtney as a crusty Flint, Anthony Laciura as a suitably pathetic novice, Mark Oswald remarkably mellifluous as his friend, Bernard Fitch as a treacherous Squeak, Alan Held as a potentially heroic Redburn, Julien Robbins as a dignified Ratcliffe, and John Macurdy--his basso marvelously sonorous after three decades at the Met--as an uncommonly kindly Dansker.

The crucial chorus, trained by Raymond Hughes, sings the sea chanteys with lusty fervor, the troubled outbursts with pointed discipline and the wordless, contrapuntal cry of revolt at Billy’s hanging with savage incoherence. The impact is horrifying, and overwhelming.

This “Billy Budd”--purposefully focused, tellingly detailed and delicately balanced--defines ensemble opera at its best. As such, it defines the Met at its best.