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OPERA REVIEW : A Losing Battle in San Francisco’s ‘Fille du Regiment’

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TIMES MUSIC CRITIC

And now--drum roll, please--it’s Kathleen Battle’s turn.

Back in the 1940s, the ornate title role of Donizetti’s “La Fille du Regiment” belonged to Lily Pons. She was chic, she exuded Gallic charm, and she waved a flag while chirping “La Marseillaise.”

Then, after a pause for disdainful neglect, the fragile opera bouffe returned to the international boards as a vehicle for Joan Sutherland and Beverly Sills. The former smiled prettily and sang like a stratospheric angel. The latter offered an endearing portrait of a tomboy diva on a camping trip and sang like a stratospheric daredevil.

Battle, who joined the mock-military ranks this season in San Francisco, has to contend with some formidable ghosts, and the performing conditions aren’t exactly ideal. Still, she commands the resources of a vivacious vivandiere.

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She looked properly pert and adorable on Tuesday in special costumes designed for her by Michael Stennett. She explored the vocal obstacle course sweetly, with tones that suggested a symphony of tiny silver bells. She paid careful attention to the French text, and she proved that she knows what’s best when it comes to adding ornaments.

She certainly gave a trilling performance.

But there were troubles. Apparently lacking forceful stage direction, the prima donna contented herself with a series of poses in lieu of a characterization. She spent most of the evening flashing her devastating dimples, rolling her pretty eyes and--at the slightest hint of a cadence--adopting an oh-so-saucy salute.

She was cute, cute, cute. Also mannered, mannered, mannered.

She did sing the introspective portions of the role with exquisite, sighing lyricism. But she missed maximum brilliance and focus, not to mention rhythmic punch, in the bravura outbursts. And her habit of sliding up to climactic top notes became a bit irksome when her pitch repeatedly failed, just by a hair, to reach the desired goal.

Battle is so talented, so intelligent, so style-conscious that she forces one to expect only the best from her. Perhaps next time. . . .

Lotfi Mansouri, the embattled general director of the San Francisco Opera, framed her in a production he concocted for Sills in San Diego 21 years ago. Los Angeles saw it with some frequency thereafter, courtesy of the New York City Opera.

Beni Montresor’s clever, economical flats still evoke the quaint conventions of street-theater while exerting the allure of a pop-up storybook. Unfortunately, Mansouri decided to abandon his own witty staging scheme, which had been predicated on the not-so-gentle art of parody. Instead, he enlisted Bruce Donnell, who, until he descended to rock-bottom farce in the final scene, functioned as unimaginative traffic cop.

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The air of blandness was reflected, alas, in the ragged pit where Bruno Campanella conducted Donizetti’s elegant comedy with the finesse of a tired band-master.

The singers tried valiantly to avoid the traps of vulgarity. Some succeeded.

Frank Lopardo as Tonio the Tyrolean could not efface memories of Luciano Pavarotti, much less Alfredo Kraus. Who could? Once again, he found it difficult to bridge a breathless pianissimo and a ringing forte. Nevertheless, he exuded animated sympathy, and if his high Cs weren’t exactly ravishing, they certainly were heroic.

Felicity Palmer, the celebrated British mezzo-soprano, introduced a crisply understated comedic flair and lofty Parisian diction, not to mention lowly chest tones, as the Marquise de Berkenfeld. Michel Trempont brought much warmth to compensate for little voice as a gratefully restrained Sgt. Sulpice.

Michel Senechal, comprimario par excellence, was the very model of a prissy major domo. Frederick Matthews magnetized attention as a particularly affable choral corporal.

The cameo appearance of the hyper-haughty Duchess of Krakenthorp at the end of the opera was expanded on behalf of Mollie Sugden, an actress best known hereabouts as Mrs. Slocombe in a BBC sitcom called “Are Your Being Served?” Veddy, veddy English, she dropped all pretense that this was an Italian opera about Swiss personages who happen to speak French. In the process, she dragged the tradition of matronly mugging to new depths of indulgence.

The audience loved her. It was, not incidentally, an alarmingly small audience.

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