OPERA REVIEW : A Sprawling ‘Don Carlo’: San Francisco Tries Again

Six years ago, the San Francisco Opera under Terence McEwen did something really daring.

In a rare quest for historical fidelity, the company created a production of Verdi’s sprawling, extraordinarily poignant “Don Carlo” that actually honored the composer’s original ideas--no matter how impractical those ideas may have been.

The local authorities decided to play the opera in the elegant French of the Paris premiere, not in the familiar, often awkward Italian translation subsequently adopted. They also chose a reasonable facsimile of the massive five-act version, not the cruel reduction that became a popular compromise even in Verdi’s time.

The good musical intentions at the War Memorial Opera House were hardly matched by the theatrical realizations. The staging scheme fluctuated between tired convention (John Cox’s traffic patterns) and ridiculous invention (Stefanos Lazaridis’ trendy, meekly symbolic quasi-unit set, which centered most of the action on a strange little sandbox).

Even with built-in visual distractions and distortions, however, this “Don Carlo” was a revelation. San Francisco placed the grandiose music-drama in the right stylistic milieu and played it on the right expressive scale.

So much for progress. This season, Lotfi Mansouri, McEwen’s successor, has brought the production back--all five acts of it. Thank goodness for long favors. But the French libretto of 1867 has been abandoned. Philippe II is Filippo again, and Elisabeth de Valois is Elisabetta.

Basically, this is the dubious Modena edition of 1886. Andrew Porter, an eminent Verdi scholar, dismisses it as “a scissors-and-paste job.” “There is no evidence that Verdi had anything to do with it,” observes the Earl of Harewood in the Kobbe bible, “though he must have allowed it.” So much for authenticity.

One wonderful passage not heard in Modena--or anywhere else in Verdi’s Italy--actually has been restored. In the prison scene, the anguished King leads tenor and chorus in a magnificent concertato that literally foreshadows the Lacrimosa of the Verdi Requiem. Discarded by Verdi before the first performance and recently rediscovered, it existed only in French. To use it here, Mansouri had to interpolate a modern Italian translation.

That probably was the least of his problems. He also had to decide what to do with the hand-me-down physical production.

The sets are pretty much what they were. The good news is that the silly sandbox is gone. The bad news is that it has been replaced by what resembles a silly playpen.

The plastic shower curtains that pretend to represent trees in some scenes are, alas, still in use. So, on the other hand, is the designer’s most helpful inspiration: a set of ominous, tiered walls that harbor clustered statues of shrouded monks.

At key moments, the walls are supposed to move, creating a metaphorical prison even for those characters who may be nominally free. The Inquisition looms.

Saturday night, it nearly cranked to a halt. A mechanical mishap got the walls stuck during the insurrection scene, trapping the players in the wrong spaces. The curtain had to be lowered prematurely. After a short delay, a bizarre cut and two public apologies, it rose again for what was supposed to be the tragic resolution of the opera. Under the chaotic circumstances, no one seemed quite in the mood anymore.

Essentially, this remained a “Don Carlo” better heard than seen. Peter McClintock, a resourceful young man listed in the program as an assistant stage director, now gets all the credit--and all the blame--for what transpires within the proscenium. That isn’t quite fair to him, and it certainly isn’t fair to the famous, anonymous director from whom he has inherited this clumsy narrative apparatus.

On this occasion, the most compelling passions emanated from the pit, where Donald Runnicles found ample agitation for Verdi’s tumultuous drama, ample grandeur for his arching cantilena. The orchestra sounded a bit scraggly, the chorus a bit feeble. The cast, dominated by four stalwarts from Covent Garden, seemed a bit uneven. Still, the communal spirit was sympathetic.

Robert Lloyd, the only holdover from the French team of ‘86, brooded magnificently as the unhappy Filippo. Even when he darkened his formidable basso with a mock-Slavic nasal twang, he sang with incisive power, imposing resonance and suave introspection.

Richard Margison, making his San Francisco debut in the title role, revealed a big, bright, open lyric tenor capable of a nice heroic ring and, under the right conditions, sensitive dynamic shading. He isn’t exactly a histrionic paragon, but he knows the value of restraint, savors the virtue of crisp articulation.

Thomas Allen was so ardent, so urgent, so idealistic in the virile stances of Rodrigo that one wanted to overlook the signs of indisposition that all but destroyed his performance. He sang artfully, as always, but could hardly disguise his vocal distress.

As the dreaded Grand Inquisitor, Gwynne Howell seemed neither terribly old (the libretto says he is in his 90s) nor terribly forbidding. He did produce nice, dark, healthy basso sounds.

The non-British contingent was led, often gloriously, by Carol Vaness, undertaking Elisabetta for the first time in her career. She does not float the supple pianissimo top notes that mark the greatest Verdi sopranos. Nevertheless, her technique is reassuringly secure, her scale marvelously even, her command of the grand line and dignified gesture always imposing.

Nina Terentieva, the Russian mezzo-soprano, has improved her rough-toned Eboli since she appeared in the disastrous Music Center “Don Carlo” two years ago. Although she sings the difficult music conscientiously, she still seems tentative rather than tempestuous, coy rather than seductive.

Kevin Langan, who now has all three bass roles in this opera in his repertory, proved that only a first-rate singer can ennoble the brief yet crucial duties of the mysterious monk at San Yuste. Camellia Johnson sounded woefully earthbound as the celestial voice at the auto-da-fe.

The English supertitles, stubbornly geared not to the Italian but the quite different French text, inspired a good deal of mood-shattering mirth. There’s the painful rub: The projected captions are conditioning audiences to pay too much attention to the words. Verdi’s sublime music isn’t remotely funny, but with everyone reading, who’s listening?