Opera Review : San Francisco Exhumes the Other ‘Otello’

It took Rossini’s “Otello” 178 years to reach the War Memorial Opera House.

*

Better never than late?

Not exactly. But certain suspensions of memory are useful if one wants to savor this bel-canto curio on its own ornate terms.

Forget Shakespeare.

Forget Verdi.

Forget “Il Barbiere di Siviglia.”

Shakespeare’s text was turned by one Francesco Maria Berio di Salsa into a creaky formula libretto that trivializes the heroic tragedy. Psychological profundity be damned.

Rossini’s music is always pretty, occasionally even inspired. But it trips very lightly over passions that Verdi made tumultuous in 1887.

The opus is labeled opera seria , but most of its melodic and harmonic conventions could serve just as well for opera buffa . All one would need to do is change the words.

And this brings up the discomforting specter of Rossini’s Sevillian barber--who happened to make his debut in 1816, the same year that introduced Rossini’s Moor of Venice to Naples. The pervasive wit, subtle wisdom and breathless musical invention that perfectly defined the comic opera for eternity, or for a reasonable facsimile thereof, prove less useful when applied to this violent tale of love, hate, jealousy and death.

So what’s an opera lover to do when confronted with the elegant naivete of Rossini’s “Otello”?

Sit back, relax, enjoy the lovely tunes, marvel, if possible, at the pyrotechnical displays and ignore the anticlimax of the finale.

The opera abounds in gracefully complex arias and intricately poised ensembles. Much of the orchestral writing is astonishingly colorful. Although the characterizations are always generic, one has to admire anyone who attempts to surmount the inherent vocal hurdles.

Rossini asked his cast to perform high-wire acts without a net. He savored singing as a spectator sport. For better or worse, his “Otello” deserves to be treated as an enlightened concert in costume.

The concert should be fabulous, of course, and the costumes should be wonderful (Zack Brown’s lavish 16th-Century wardrobe serves nicely here). That may be enough. There is little to be gained by the theatrical gilding of this historic lily.

The San Francisco forces, unfortunately, were not content to leave old enough alone. Laurie Feldman, the busy, all-purpose director, and Gerard Howland, the ubiquitous, economy-oriented designer, cluttered the proceedings with gimmicks.

Feldman introduced a masked troupe of commedia-dell-arte mimes on stilts (the Fratelli Bologna) who stumbled in and out of the action to add play-within-the-play commentary. They also reduced the orchestral interludes to accompaniment for inane human-puppet shows.

Fussy? Yes. Illuminating? No.

Howland provided a clumsy but cheap unit set that consisted of two antique portals, a couple of awkwardly raked platforms and a backdrop that accommodated primitive scenic projections. Overpowering everything and everyone was a magnificent statue of a golden lion--36 feet long, two stories high and 3,000 pounds heavy.

Presumably one of the Turkish spoils Otello brought to Venice, the fine feline monster dominated the background for most of the opera. When the curtain rose on the final scene of desperation and murder, however, the stage revealed the huge lion straddling the canopy of Desdemona’s bed.

Ah, symbolism. Alas, misplaced symbolism.

On Saturday, the cartoon image produced laughter throughout the house. The response, though understandable, proved catastrophic to the tragic mood the principals were trying so nobly to sustain.

The singers contended with enough problems without insensitive scenic competition. Rossini’s cantilena, after all, is consistently daunting in its linear convolutions and altitudinous assaults. That’s a grotesque understatement.

All three central males in the opera happen to be tenors. Even worse, they happen to be tenors who can climb with ease--or an unreasonable facsimile thereof--to climactic notes in the never-never-region above top C.

Chris Merritt, who has long specialized in this sort of challenge, accepted the punishment of the title role with stoic authority, with astonishing flexibility and reassuring security at both range extremes (very low as well as very high). Some of the ascending flights sounded a bit squealy. Some of the sustained tones turned a bit unsteady under pressure. Some of the theatrical poses looked silly rather than imposing. Still, this was a valiant, informed performance.

Bruce Ford provided a more mellifluous, almost equally virtuosic counterforce as Rodrigo. Craig Estep, who stretched at one staggering moment for a stentorian E-natural, held his own in the underwritten role of Iago.

Cecilia Gasdia exuded poignant pain and sang very sweetly, aside from some pitch problems, as the innocent Desdemona. Portraying her platitudinous father, Kevin J. Langan brought solid basso relief to a treble-dominated world. Mika Shigematsu made much of the modest duties allotted Emilia.

Patrick Summers conducted with obvious sensitivity and style. He supported the beleaguered singers most sympathetically, though he sometimes elicited scrappy playing from the hard-working orchestra.

In all, this was a telling exhumation. And now, please, back to Verdi.

* Rossini’s “Otello,” presented by the San Francisco Opera at the War Memorial Opera House, 199 Grove St. (at Van Ness), San Francisco. Wednesday, 7:30 p.m.; Friday, 8 p.m. $8 (standing room) to $120. (415) 864-3330.