Opera : A Splendid Gilda, but a Dull ‘Rigoletto’ in San Francisco

SAN FRANCISCO —  Jean-Pierre Ponnelle devised an ingenious, admittedly controversial production of Verdi’s “Rigoletto” for the San Francisco Opera in 1973.

This, you may recall, was the version in which the entire tragedy unfolded in flashback as Rigoletto’s nightmare. The grief-stricken jester cradled his daughter’s corpse during the prelude, just as he would at the awful denouement three hours later.

The Mantuan court resembled a crimson caricature of a Renaissance bordello. The courtiers became lewd buffoon grotesques. Sweet Gilda lived in a gilded cage. And so it went.

One could argue that Ponnelle sometimes overstated the obvious, or that he failed to apply his concept with consistency of perspective. At the same time, one had to applaud the theatrical aptness and originality of Ponnelle’s vision. One also could take comfort in new dramatic images that contradicted neither the spirit of the libretto nor the dynamic pulse of the score.

A lot has happened in the intervening 17 years. Casts, inevitably, have come and gone. Ponnelle, alas, has died. His staging scheme has been inherited by well-meaning, ultimately impotent assistants.

The current revival at the War Memorial Opera House retains the essential outlines of Ponnelle’s original plan. The details, however, have been blunted and, even worse, the focus has been blurred. What remains is just another “Rigoletto,” played by the numbers in unconventional scenery.

The performance on Friday had one saving grace: Ruth Ann Swenson. This American soprano, one of Terence McEwen’s most promising discoveries, has more than validated the trust bestowed upon her by the general director of the company seven years ago.

In her first Gilda here, she sang with a combination of sweetness, purity, fluidity and finesse that would be difficult to match in any opera house these days. She mastered the stratospheric cadenza of “Caro nome” with easy accuracy, and ended the aria with a radiant, perfectly articulated trill. She somehow registered the girlish rapture of the love duet without simpering, and the pathos of “Tutte le feste” without cloying.

Although she came to momentary grief in the interpolated climax of “Si, vendetta,” her marksmanship proved impeccable just about everywhere else. Her general adherence to the new critical edition of the score, incidentally, reflected good musical grammar as well as good taste.

As an actress, she contented herself for the most part with standing and smiling or, when the plot insisted, standing and frowning. She did both gracefully. In this case, histrionic restraint may be the better part of operatic valor.

Richard Leech, the boyish, extraordinarily light-and-bright toned Duke of Mantua, should have been an ideal complement to Swenson’s Gilda. Unfortunately, the tenor concentrated on producing pretty sounds--most of them needlessly loud. He exuded little vocal charm, seldom bothered to shade the line, and in his one chance for heroic bravado, opted for the anticlimax of a descending cadence at the end of “Possente amor.”

Ultimately, any “Rigoletto” rises or falls with the singing actor venturing the title role. With Alain Fondary, this “Rigoletto” fell.

Fondary sang most of the right notes. When the notes didn’t happen to lie high and didn’t have to be connected smoothly, he sang them handsomely. He offered little, however, as regards introspective lyricism and even less as regards heroic pathos. In a day when bona-fide Verdi baritones are beginning to resemble dodo birds, this, at best, must be regarded as stopgap casting.

The secondary roles were handled with greater care. Kevin Langan grumbled with crusty gusto as nasty Sparafucile. Claire Powell came a long way--from London--to make a compelling debut in the modest, stock-sexy duties of Maddalena.

The corps of comprimarios turned out to be uniformly strong. Philip Skinner was a thunderous Monterone, Donna Petersen a Giovanna who obviously has been around (happy shades of Thelma Votipka!), LeRoy Villanueva a dangerous Marullo, and Victor Ledbetter a testy Ceprano.

Young John Fiore conducted like an old routinier.