Puccini Perfection

Opera is a demanding art, requiring large forces dedicated to music, drama, and scenic design. And while it is often futile to expect all of these to be equally aligned, the theater gods seemed to be smiling Sunday afternoon for the current San Francisco Opera production of Puccini's La Bohème. In a word, it was perfection.

Photos by Terrence McCarthy

Foremost among equals was Angela Gheorghiu's delicate interpretation of the consumptive heroine, Mimì. Here was all the waiflike intensity of Teresa Stratas coupled with the honeyed tone of Mirella Freni, two past mistresses of this role. Gheorghiu developed her character slowly. Her self-introduction to the upstairs poet who has attracted her ("Mi chiamano Mimì") was full of vocal warmth, yet contained a touch of the manipulative minx. But by Act 3 her emotional and physical desperation colored her every gesture and note. Her aria of farewell to her lover ("Donde lieta") was deeply affecting, while her repeats of "Addio, senza rancor" (good-bye, and no hard feelings) moved the audience to silence. Likewise, her death scene was full of beauty and grace, as her voice slowly ebbed away. Tears fell from many an eye. (An unguarded onstage moment showed how complete was the glamorous Gheorghiu's characterization: When an orange strayed from a seller's basket and began to roll toward the audience, she quickly picked it up, as only an impoverished Mimì would.)

She was matched in every way by her Rodolfo, tenor Piotr Beczala. His is also a commanding talent, his voice easily riding Puccini's great crests of sound yet delicately spinning out every nuance that follows. He was especially persuasive in attracting Mimì ("Che gelida manina"), describing his penniless poetic dreams ("e per castelli in aria") and romantic hope ("la speranza!").

Beczala's rendition was so fresh, so fervent, that it seemed as if this all-too-familiar music had never been heard before. He too developed his character over time, his early ardor later wrenched by the guilt that he may be contributing to Mimì's illness with "La mia stanza è una tana squallida" (my room is a squalid den), his voice darkened by despair.

Quinn Kelsey sang Rodolfo's closest confident, Marcello. A former member of the Merola Opera Program, Kelsey made his mainstage debut in this production. His abundant baritone was persuasive and rich with color. He was joined by soprano Norah Amsellem as his insouciant love, Musetta. Amsellem also was a study in vocal contrasts, her early selfish fervor in "Quando me'en vo" (when I walk along) later giving way to her quietly selling her earrings for Mimì ("Forse è l'ultima volta"), her voice now as tender and as loving as her gesture.

Bass Oren Gradus sang a dignified Colline. His farewell to his overcoat before selling it to help Mimì was masterful. He didn't just stare at its tatters ("Vecchia zimarra"), but paid a loving tribute to its pockets, which were "like peaceful caves for philosophers and poets" ("tranquilli filosofi e poeti"). Baritone Brian Leerhuber sang an engaging Schaunard, the effusive musician, and Dale Travis sang both the poor landlord, Benoit, and the rich Alcindoro with geriatric style.

A Tremendous Presence on the Podium

This performance could not have been what it was without the considerable talents of SFO's music director designate, Nicola Luisotti. Puccini's score is a masterwork of concision; its outer shape is full of romantic soaring, while its inner structure is taut and spare. Luisotti seemed to savor it all. He was unsparing in building his climaxes, frequently encouraged the timpani to rumble in dramatic tension, and seamlessly smoothed the strings, giving prominence to Puccini's unusual blending of flutes and harp. Luisotti is an animated force on the podium, vividly living every moment of his music-making. The Opera Chorus sang vigorously under his guidance, adding to the scene of holiday frivolity. (Note that some changes of cast and conductor will be made in subsequent performances. Check the S.F. Opera Web site for details.)

The scenic design and direction are also major contributors to this production's success. Michael Yeargan's Parisian rooftops and gray skies ("cieli bigi," as Rodolfo describes them) frame the stage throughout. The cold Bohemian attic is cluttered with veristic detail (books holding up the sagging mattress, icicles dripping from the skylight). The second scene unfolded like a Christmas pop-up card, with candlelit windows and the soft fall of snow. But whether the stage was filled with poets or a parade, director Harry Silverstein maintained his focus on the singers and their interaction. In one sly detail, Colline at first appears with such ragged hair and beard that his fellows admonish him to "trim his pelt" ("ravviati il pelo"), and in the next scene he is appropriately barbered. Walter Mahoney's costumes are a colorful mix of 19th-century Parisian attire. And it was gratifying to see Musetta not gowned in stereotypical red, but rather in slinky black and white. Duane Schuler created splendid glows of light amidst the snowy grays. Giacomo Puccini would have loved it.