Opera : Attila the Hun in White Tie and Tails

My mother--well, somebody’s mother--told me long ago not to say anything if I couldn’t say something nice.

So I’ll say several nice things about the concert performance of “Attila,” which served to introduce the Opera Orchestra of Los Angeles at the Wilshire-Ebell on Friday.

The coffee sold at intermission was unusually strong and very good. The biscotti were sweet and crisp. The ushers were kind and helpful. The theater was clean. The seats were comfortable.

What’s that? You want to know about the music.

OK.

It was nice to get a rare chance to hear Verdi’s early, innocent, gut-thumping, mellifluously tempestuous score. Los Angeles hadn’t encountered it since the New York City Opera brought a gaudy facsimile to the Music Center in 1981.

“Attila” may be primitive, but it has plenty of good tunes and some whomping concertatos. It resounds with fascinating previews of coming operatic attractions.

What’s that? You want to know about the performance.

OK.

Gualtiero Negrini, best known as the long-playing high-singing loud-sounding remarkably convincing Pavarotti-imitation tenorissimo in “Phantom of the Opera” at the Ahmanson, knows the rudiments of conducting. He beats time efficiently, cues scrupulously, mouths the text thoughtfully and looms imposingly on what may just be the loftiest, best-draped podium in Western civilization. He also happens to be something of a dreamer--nothing wrong with that--and he is willing to put his money where his ambitions are.

What’s that? You want to know about the Opera Orchestra of Los Angeles?

OK.

It looks like a good, solid, professional group. It is manned and womanned by some of the best free-lance players in Los Angeles. And Los Angeles commands a wealth of first-rate free-lancers, most of whom take lucrative but frustrating day jobs in movie studios.

What’s that? You want to know how Negrini and the Opera Orchestra of Los Angeles performed “Attila”?

Oh dear.

Negrini & Co. weren’t exactly realistic about their abilities to do successful battle with Verdi’s scourge of man and God. “Attila” is a period piece that demands a controlling hand capable of exerting force and maintaining style while defining mood and character. The cast should include four virtuoso singers equipped with wide ranges--dynamic as well as linear--and lusty temperaments. Everyone must be able to sing with finesse as well as fire. The orchestra ought to function as a compelling dramatic ensemble, and the chorus needs to serve as a fifth assertive protagonist.

Major-league companies have difficulty filling this particular bill. The Opera Orchestra of Los Angeles tried to make do with pluck alone. It wasn’t exactly enough.

Negrini’s metronomic approach precluded expressive expansion. It also kept the colors monochromatic. The orchestra may not have been sight-reading the score, but it gave that impression. The chorus seemed tentative, even in moments of ferocity.

*

Most damaging, perhaps, the soloists, though dauntlessly eager, were cast beyond their capabilities. This one sang flat, that one sharp. One voice wobbled, another cracked. This one shrieked, that one resorted to parlando. Everyone found the reflective aspects of the challenge more congenial than the heroic outbursts.

Rush Tully portrayed the titular Hun in white tie and tails. Michelle Harman-Gulick appeared as the florid warrior-maiden Odabella. Baldo dal Ponte was the arch-tenoral knight Foresto. Timothy Feerer impersonated Ezio, the general who gets to utter the most-famous, most-momentous line in the opera: “Avrai tu l’universo, resti l’Italia a me.” (You may have the universe; leave Italy to me.) Agostino Castagnola (Uldino) and Richard Gould (Leone) did comprimario duty.

The tiny audience at the opening applauded all as if they were close friends.

The idea of concert opera--opera, that is, liberated from theatrical trappings and pretenses--makes good economic sense. It certainly must appeal to those who regard opera as little more than a silly showcase for singers and singing. Still, there must be a better way.

Sorry, Mom.