Rain on the Roof

Maybe it was the incessant drizzle and dampness that trickled down the whole weekend I attended Glimmerglass Opera this summer.. Or maybe it was the fact that there was no real breakout vocal performance to lift the season above an otherwise enviable level of well-rehearsed and intelligent quality. Or maybe it was, to put it bluntly, four self-conscious productions too clever for their own good. But, one way or another, I can't work myself up to a high pitch of enthusiasm about this company's current work.

Slickest and most successful of the operas presented was the rarity of the season, a revival of John Philip Sousa's practically forgotten operetta The Glass Blowers. It's no Show Boat, by any means -- for that matter it's no Desert Song -- but on its own terms, the show offers a bouquet of richly melodic waltz songs and ballads, some snappy novelty tunes, and the march, as rousing as you might want, to bring the second act to a slam-bang patriotic conclusion. Reconstructed from orchestra parts and other materials by Jerrold Fisher and William Martin, the show (heard July 28) runs over three hours, which is a good half hour too much. The second female lead (the Rich Bitch) gets two long numbers, only one of which pays off, thanks at least in part to director Christopher Alden's campy Ziegfeld lampoon in the staging, a real Dames at Sea moment. But once I settled in for the duration, there was a lot to enjoy.

Jeffrey Lentz was the all-American hero, perfectly cast given his Arrow Collar ad looks, clean-cut tenor and immaculate diction. His cool, mannered stage demeanor played perfectly in Alden's ironic concept. Mr. Lentz worked hard all night long, up to and including a rousingly percussive production number with the men of the ensemble and some clanking dinner pails. His opposite number was soprano Maria

Kanyova as a proto-feminist who in the course of the operetta morphs from labor organizer to army nurse. Her luscious soprano soared in the score's most vocally grateful numbers, including a coloratura waltz song and a hart-searing ballad in praise of the Red Cross.

Jennifer Dudley, as the aforementioned bitch, was perhaps encouraged too much by Mr. Alden to be hard and mean; she came off as a caricature, though her voice is attractive enough. A large supporting cast worked overtime doing elaborately mechanical choreography as Park Avenue swells, foundry workers, and volunteers in the Spanish-American war. The whole company assembled onstage in band uniforms for a finale of the insistent march "From Maine to Oregon," eventually inviting the audience to join in the final reprise.

More strong choral work was the highlight of Handel's Acis and Galatea. The final chorus was superbly hushed and sustained under the baton of Graeme Jenkins. This shortish oratorio-like piece broken into two acts and reimagined (if that is not too strong a word) as a tribute to Beach Blanket Bingo by director Mark Lamos. His phoned-in production (July 29) included nymphs (done up like Lana Turner in white bullet bra and turban ensembles) tossing beachballs at International Male shepherds. The skimpy set, a glizty hillock and some tinfoil trees, recalled a high school homecoming float.

John Tessier, in the "Dobie Gillis" role (Damon) offered the most consistently stylish singing, well controlled and sweet. I liked Christina Brandeis as Galatea, who lent much-needed dignity to the proceedings through a noble stage presence and warm legato.

Dean Elzinga deserves extra applause for bravery, since he spent most of the performance suspended several yards above the stage in a miniature shadow-box replica of the set. Other than a slightly wooly middle register, he coped handily with the wide range of Polyphemus and even brought some humor to the director's silly idea to degrade a mythical monster into a moonstruck grease monkey.

As Acis, John McVeigh's coloratura was as accurate as anyone could ask, but the voice sounded almost invariably tight and hard, not to mention very often slightly under pitch. The tenor's unaffected charm, seen to such advantage two seasons two seasons ago in Partenope, seems to have toughened into the eager-to-please vigor of a Broadway chorus boy. Mr. Lamos made the most of his leading man's physical assets in the finale, when Acis's transformation into a fountain was portrayed by stripping Mr. McVeigh nude but for a laurel wreath and an aquamarine organza sarong. The buff and totally depiliated young singer then struck "aesthetic" attitudes that looked like outtakes from Pink Narcissus.

At least Lamos had an idea or two, bad as they were. Leon Major's Salome production (July 30) amounted to no more than a collage of clichés, poorly executed by an embarassed-looking cast. Elizabeth Byrne as the Princess of Judea was got up to look raddled and middle-aged; in her rumpled peignoir and tousled auburn pixie cut, she resembled Charles Busch doing a travesty of La Voix Humaine. Even in the tiny and acoustically forgiving Alice Busch Theater, Ms. Byrne's voice sounded small, with a shrill, hard top.

Robynne Redmon, gowned in a bad Schiaparelli knockoff in a "hint, hint, she's decadent" shade of electric puke, sounded underpowered throughout the range. Her acting consisted of staggering and making out with whatever supers got in her way, none of it remotely convincing. Kenneth Riegel lurched off with the show as Herod, the voice no longer attractive, but still powerful and ringing. If he went over the top in his ranting, at least he seemed to mean it. After ninety minutes of alternating fussy movement and bored hanging-around, Major managed to flub the seemingly foolproof final moment of the opera: the guard, ordered to kill Salome, stood marking time until the blackout. Conductor Stewart Robertson led the reduced orchestra in a hyperintelligent but emotionally frigid reading of the score.

Robertson's forte must be Italian opera; his Boheme (July 27) sounded like a brand-new score in his sensitive hands, fresh, young and above all emotionally true. An unusually young cast contributed to the sense of vulnerability in this performance: for once, I believed that I was watching teenagers struggling with issues of life and death. A lot of the credit for this honest, gritty Boheme should go to director James Robinson, who avoided cutesiness and sentimentality. The garret really looked like a dump lived in by careless artist types; Cafe Momus was heartlessly chic. One tiny detail in particular stands out: when Rodolfo discovers Mimi in Act 3, she does not rush into his arms, but rather flails out at him and Marcello, angry and confused at the news that she is dying. The updating of the story almost a century to the first year of the World War does not work so well, especially the heavy-handed anti-war statements (Parpignol leads a Dance of Death; the lovers squabble while laborers pile up coffins in the background.) Raul Hernandez has improved enormously in only a year since his Duke in Rigoletto here; as Rodolfo his lean, brilliant tenor soared thrillingly in the climaxes and caressed the many sotto voce moments. Kelley Nasief (Mimi) has a big, sumptuous voice with an unusually even quality throughout the range; only in a couple of high soft moments did her intonation sag. I didn't care for the vulgar antics of Frank Hernandez as Marcello, but he sang with passion and commitment. Kara Shay Thomson (surely the only brunette Musetta the world has ever seen) sang strongly but without much sweetness of tone.

James Jorden