OPERA REVIEW : San Francisco Stages a Cinematic ‘Boris Godunov’

The most interesting, and most troubling, contribution to the sprawling new production of “Boris Godunov” at the War Memorial Opera House comes from a man who isn’t even here: the Russian director Andrei Tarkovsky.

The adjective new , in this case, may be something of an exaggeration. Tarkovsky, a renegade auteur from the world of film, died at 55 in 1987.

A victim of official Soviet disapproval and, ultimately, persecution, he found himself exiled in the West in 1982. His controversial staging of Mussorgsky’s opera was commissioned by the Royal Opera in London the next year. Ironically, a replica finally was presented at the Kirov of post- perestroika Leningrad in 1990, and the decors of that version, designed by Nicolas Dvigubsky, have now been imported to San Francisco.

Stephen Lawless, the British director, assisted Tarkovsky in the original Covent Garden staging. He has overseen revivals there, as well as the Kirov version and a Vienna edition last year. Now he is preaching an admittedly modified variation of the Tarkovsky gospel for the first time in America.

Watching the rather tired, somewhat dated and ill-focused spectacle at the San Francisco Opera on Saturday, one had to wonder how much has been savaged, or at least ravaged, by the passage of time. One also had to wonder what Tarkovsky might have tried to do with the historic masterpiece if confronted with the specific forces available here. Although this unreasonable facsimile is billed as his production, it is hardly likely that he ever saw anyone involved in it--apart from Lawless.

What may have looked engaging and adventurous a decade ago in London, especially as envisioned by a brave refugee from Soviet realism, seems banal and stodgy as dutifully reheated for San Francisco today. The unit set--a dubious concept in this dramatic context to start with--merely looks cheap. The introduction of abstraction and symbolism now suggests cliched evasion.

A broken arch dominates a raked platform center stage. An all-purpose bigger-than-life pendulum materializes conveniently within the bedraggled arch in moments of spiritual agitation. Picturesque piles of sculpted relics--”the debris of history,” we are told--clutter the sides. The scene is haunted by ghostly visions. Dutiful choristers impersonate the victims of oppression with gestures of grossly stylized agony.

Abandoning all suggestion of definite locales--forget the Novedyevichy monastery, the Kremlin square, the Lithuanian inn and the Kromy forest--Tarkovsky concentrated on character delineation. He obviously wanted to deal with the stagy equivalent of the cinematic close-up. He wanted to focus on psychological, not physical conflicts.

The idea was sound. To make it succeed, however, he would have needed better lighting, better actors and a smaller theater than San Francisco could provide. A more generous rehearsal schedule might have helped too.

Under the troubled circumstances, one often had to savor intentions rather than achievements. One had to ponder what might have been. At least Tarkovksy dared try to banish the excesses of histrionic convention. At least one could applaud a production that did away with empty spectacle for its own quaint sake.

This, not incidentally, was a marathon production. Iconoclasts might call it a 4 1/4-hour obstacle course. Utilizing the vital Shostakovich orchestrations and the exhaustive Pavel Lamm reconstruction, Donald Runnicles--the new music director of the San Francisco Opera--kept cuts to a minimum. Actually, as a perverse fate would have it, a few more cuts in this rare instance might not have been unkind.

Runnicles managed to sustain narrative tension valiantly over the long haul. He inspired some brilliant playing from the not-always-brilliant San Francisco orchestra, and got about as much impassioned sound as one had a right to expect from the relatively scraggly chorus. He also led--and, where appropriate, accompanied--the huge cast with obvious dramatic sympathy.

James Morris brought sonorous, burnished tone, ample dignity and abiding restraint to the episodic agonies of Boris Godunov. He offered no interpretive revelations, but he held the center of the stage with honor. The American bass, it should be noted, was singing the role for the first time in Russian.

Two authentic Russians illuminated the proceedings with character and authority. Vladimir Ognovenko, who had assumed the title role with the Kirov in New York, was a marvelously tough and crusty Varlaam here (no buffo mannerisms for him), and Sergei Leiferkus introduced a Rangoni of spidery malice reinforced by extraordinary vocal point.

Gwynne Howell exuded basso dignity as old Pimen. Mark Baker reveled in the heroic impetuosity of the false Dmitri. Wieslaw Ochman, himself a former Dmitri, moved with craggy insinuation to the nasty machinations of Shuisky.

Susan Quittmeyer (a.k.a. Mrs. James Morris) enacted the scheming regal platitudes of Marina with such intelligence and such focused intensity that one almost overlooked her miscasting. The role really requires a mezzo-soprano of greater breadth and depth than she can provide.

Outstanding in smaller roles were Catherine Cook as the lusty Innkeeper, Craig Estep as the idiotic Missail, Laura Claycomb as the innocent Xenia, and Steven Cole (replacing the oddly cast countertenor, Brian Asawa) as the pathetic Simpleton. Reveka Mavrovitis as Fyodor and Olga Markova-Mikhailenko as his Nurse were both sympathetic in demeanor, both a bit feeble in vocal output. Victor Ledbetter made pleasant sounds but slighted the bel-canto opportunities that come with the cameo of Shchelkalov.

The 3,200-seat house was not sold out Saturday night, and the applause tended toward the polite rather than the ecstatic. A full-scale “Boris Godunov” remains a formidable challenge, even in sophisticated San Francisco.