OPERA REVIEWS : San Francisco Presents Pavarotti, Freni in ‘Boheme’

SAN FRANCISCO —  How do you like your “La Boheme”?

If you cherish Puccini’s verismo masterpiece as a credible musico-theatrical study of young love in the Latin Quarter before the turn of the century, stay away from the War Memorial Opera House.

If, on the other hand, you can be happy with a “Boheme” that serves primarily as a showcase for well-fed, self-indulgent, middle-aged superstars, the San Francisco Opera is just the place for you these days.

Tickets, unfortunately, are scarce. The reason for the scarcity can be reduced to two words: Luciano Pavarotti.

Everybody’s favorite tenorissimo may not be anybody’s idea of a starving teen-age poet, his recent weight loss notwithstanding. Pavarotti is not the sort of singer who cares a great deal about dramatic image. He doesn’t expend much energy on acting, either with his body or with his voice. He plays Rodolfo now as he did 27 years ago: essentially as a big, friendly Teddy Bear.

For most of the fans, that obviously is enough. It certainly is enough if Pavarotti is willing to embellish the fuzzy portrait with a few well-placed climaxes that happen to be high, long and loud.

Having opted out of his first “Pagliacci,” which originally had been planned for this occasion, Pavarotti was willing to accommodate the fans, after a fashion, on Saturday afternoon. He chose the quasi-traditional evasion of a transposition in “Che gelida manina,” cresting the aria on a mere B-natural. But at the end of the first act, safely hidden offstage and reinforced by the solid overtones of his accompanying soprano, he did blast a tight and mighty High C. It made everybody ecstatic.

Well, almost everybody.

From time to time, Pavarotti suggested that he can be a genuine artist, not just a lazy popular attraction. He floated some lovely soft phrases in the third-act quartet and mustered a fine legato for the nostalgic duet with Marcello. In general, however, his tone seemed uncharacteristically dry and nasal, and even though the performance was being filmed for television, his involvement in the proceedings seemed sporadic.

The TV cameras, not incidentally, required constant, ridiculous brightness even at night at the Cafe Momus and at dawn at the Barriere d’Enfer. So much for Thomas J. Munn’s sensitive lighting scheme. So much for David Mitchell’s translucent sets. So much for Paris looming symbolically on the horizon. So much for artistic integrity in the face of commercial compromise at the San Francisco Opera.

Pavarotti’s Mimi was Mirella Freni, another quinquagenarian and the beloved soprano with whom he had shared his local debut in 1967. Although the passing years (and, perhaps, some reckless repertory excursions) have taken a certain toll in terms of vocal purity and freshness, Freni remains a most affecting heroine. She knows how to be fragile without seeming wispy. She can exude charm without being coy, and she always respects the boundaries of tasteful sentiment.

She managed to spin out a particularly eloquent, dynamically flexible “Addio” in Act III. She also mustered rare vocal refinement to underscore the heroine’s serene vulnerability in the pretty death scene.

Freni’s offstage husband, Nicolai Ghiaurov, came along as usual for a star turn of his own, lending a decaying Boris Godunov basso and superannuated dignity to the antics of Colline. In such company, Gino Quilico’s robust and agile Marcello suggested the potential problem of a generation gap in the bohemians’ garret. Even more jolting, Stephen Dickson’s Schaunard seemed not just baby-faced but baby-voiced.

Italo Tajo, the oldest of the hardy veterans, stole scenes shamelessly as Benoit and Alcindoro. Sandra Pacetti, his chief victim, introduced a strident and vulgar Musetta from the Italian provinces.

The laissez-faire production was staged by Francesca Zambello. Apparently she has nothing new to add to the Puccini lore.

The laissez-faire conductor, making his American opera debut in place of the originally scheduled Giuseppe Patane, turned out to be one Tiziano Severini. The young man from Milan favored tempos that were either abnormally fast or abnormally slow, and he often lost contact with the stage at both extremes.

For the whomping climax that follows Musetta’s Waltz, he enforced a ritard that stretched the line beyond the breaking point. It also stretched the line beyond common decency.

Where is Carlos Kleiber when we need him?