When Donald Runnicles struck up the band tonight in the War Memorial, all
was well with the world. Although this was the opening performance of the
fourth run here of David Hockney's 22-year-old production of "The Magic
Flute," for a few minutes all was fresh and good in the orchestra. From the
hushed, mysterious chords to the lively passages, the Runnicles trademark
of consistency and forward motion was writ large... but then there was
singing.  And now Runnicles' opera-as-one-piece magic of "Peter Grimes,"
"Idomeneo," "Tristan und Isolde," "Pelleas et Melisande" was nowhere to be
found.  "Number" followed "number," episode came after episode, hardly
connected at all.

I have no idea why, but a basically fine evening with some excellent
singers swelled and ebbed, sputtered and dragged, slowed down and speeded
up, the performance not finding its center, not catching fire. Some of
Hockney's marvelously cartoonish sets appeared wrinkled, John Cox's
direction held up well within individual scenes, but over-all cohesion
was missing. Strangely, Runnicles maintained a flawless sound with the
orchestra and Ian Robertson's excellent opera chorus, but aria after aria,
regardless of the singer, sounded slack and unfocussed. Julie McKenzie, the
principal flute, was fine, but without her usual free-flowing flare. Maybe
it was just one of those nights when the click doesn't happen.

Fortunately, it went on all cylinders for at least one artist: Anton
Scharinger's Papageno had it all. A wonderful singer and glorious actor,
the Austrian baritone is incredibly funny, but not hammy (even with a
reference to Napa Valley when enjoying the wine, and offering a piece of
chicken to the prompter), and he managed the difficult transitions from
speaking to singing and back again by making it all sound "natural." I
have seen some great singers and actors in the role, but none better.

Another outstanding singing actor tonight was Mary Mills, the Pamina.  Not
impeccable vocally, she projected magnificently, held attention, brought
the intensity to the role that was missing from the evening overall. Still
in the plus column, the production is featuring an unusually fine group
of the Queen's ladies. The three Merola-Adler grads - Twyla Robinson,
Elizabeth Bishop and Catherine Cook - sang wonderfully well individually
and as a trio. Another "house youth talent," Suzanne Ramo was the good
Papagena.

After that come the caveats and yes-but's. Manfred Hemm's Sarastro was dry
and underpowered; he should not sing the role. Roberto Sacca, the Tamino,
has a beautiful voice (he will make a great Nemorino in SFO's January
"Elixir"), but he didn't sing the role either beautifully or heroically
enough. (On the other hand, his diction was fabulous, and the fact that he
is German doesn't take away from that accomplishment.) Yelda Kodalli, from
Turkey, made a poor Queen of the Night - she barely handled the coloratura,
sounded weak and tentative in a role that should be hell on wheels; what's
the point of a meak villain?

And yet, with all that (except for Hemm and Kodalli), this production has
the potential to go much better than tonight - perhaps not as smooth and
uneventful, but with more spunk and daring and a presentation of a
continuous music drama, not a start-and-stop, hurry-up-and-wait
proposition.

Janos Gereben/SF, CA
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