What in blazes are these people doing all around me, sniffling, wiping
their eyes, some even blubbering softly?  Why are they carrying on like
this?  Why is my usually unsentimental companion sobbing?  Why am I?

People: this is "Madama Butterfly," for heaven's sake, the old Puccini
potboiler, with music heard as often as "Jingle Bells" in December. 
And here, in the War Memorial on Saturday afternoon, we are attending
the "premiere" (this season, that is) of the pretty but decade-old Ron
Daniels/Michael Yeargan production, with a fine cast, but most of them
heard numerous times in these roles right here, in San Francisco, an
allegedly sophisticated, blase city.

So what's with general meltdown, and the ovation that followed the
performance, a massive crowd staying through all the curtain calls,
screaming for Patricia Racette, shouting "brava!" for Zheng Cao, hissing
the debuting Brandon Jovanovich, one of the best Pinkertons in local
history, vocally sensational, and such a mean - if handsome - cad that
disapproval for his character is of the highest accolade.  All this
carrying on: so tearful, abandoned, happy, riotous...

What happened?

I wish I could explain, no, bottle and sell the stuff.  It's one of the
many mysteries of opera how an old warhorse can take the Kentucky derby
by 10 lengths.

David Gockley sort of threw in five "Butterfly" performances at the
end of the season, surely to help the box office (there was a good-size
standing-room crowd even at the quaint noon opening curtain), and he
cast it well, but even he must know that it was the Opera Gods that made
it all work this amazingly well.

For many years now, Donald Runnicles has kept surprising new listeners
with his Puccini; some 10 years ago, I found his "Humming Chorus"
exquisite, on par with Wagner and Britten performances for which he is
better known.  His musical direction today was solid gold all the way
through (the Bonze scene alone getting a bit too heated orchestrally),
both passionate and restrained, playful and elegant, deeply-felt but not
sentimental, "just right."

In Act 1, Jovanovich made an amazing debut, satisfying the tricky
dichotomy of Pinkerton's vocal requirements: a strong lyrical/narrative
sound with an (anti)heroic edge.  The tenor - already well received
locally as Don Jose in a recent Walnut Creek Festival Opera "La Tragedie
de Carmen" - projected effortlessly in the 3,000-seat auditorium, with
fine diction, and he cut a letter-perfect Pinkerton figure physically
and dramatically.  Stephen Powell's debut as Sharpless added a self-effacing,
selfless performance, fitting well into an ensemble bound by genuine,
believable connections.

Patricia Racette has owned the role of Cio-Cio-San for many years here
and around the world.  With superb vocal and dramatic presence, she takes
only a few minutes to overcome the challenge of portraying a 15-year-old.
She and Jovanovich sang beautifully together, even if short on personal
chemistry that would have improved the duet ending Act 1.

While one could "evaluate" the first act, the second half of the opera
turned so heady that no brain could be applied to it properly.  Debuting
stage director Kathleen Belcher - showing the same restraint and excellence
dramatically as Runnicles imposed from the pit - opened the curtain on
Racette in an awkwardly reclining position, conveying the feeling of
discomfort, pain even.  The soprano's voice opened fully, and she started
pouring forth a golden sound of great beauty, but nothing "pretty" -
music at its ideal, uneffected grace.  Belcher and Racette "conspired"
to deliver "Un bel di" in a simple, unposing, almost conversational
manner, its impact far greater than that of a "big number."

Zheng's Suzuki vitally interacting with Cio-Cio-San, Racette then kept
building and building the role, in a seemingly impossible feat, having
started from the highest plateau.  Pinkerton's brief return showed
Jovanovich in another character, but in the same great voice.  Then what
happened through that known, unvaried, heavy, inexorable headlong rush
into the expected tragedy somehow opened all those faucets to tears and
deep emotions, creating a communal catharsis, on face of it not in the
same universe with That Opera.  It was a "Butterfly" shockingly different,
astonishingly grand.  [http://sfopera.com/opera.asp?o=262]

Janos Gereben
www.sfcv.org
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