Reaction to Olivier Messiaen's "Saint Francois d'Assise" will be "or" -
wonderful or terrible, the ecstasy or the agony.

But the fact is that the San Francisco Opera's US stage premiere tonight
of the 1983 opera is a definite "and," a complex presentation of good
and bad.

It's an enormous work, which lasts five hours, cost an undisclosed amount,
certain to be over $1 million, requiring an orchestra and a chorus of
over 100 each (even though reduced from Messiaen's original plans).

However huge the opera is, the best moments in "Saint Francois" are
small, intimate gems, mostly sung by Laura Aikin, the sensational Angel
of the piece.

Along with brief passages of surpassing beauty, the opera has long
sections of numbing monotony.  And, in spite of a spellbinding production
with a superb cast, there will be acres of empty seats in the War Memorial
at every performance by the time the third act rolls around.  The reason
for that is that there is no "story," very few recognizable human
characters, the text and music are endlessly repetitive.

Against the ambiguity, the equivocation about tonight, there is one
point of certainty: new SF Opera general manager Pamela Rosenberg's first
production here looms as large as just about anything we've seen here
in years.  The effort that went into "Saint Francois" is amazing.  Nicolas
Brieger's production, with Hans Dieter Schaal's eye-popping sets, Donald
Runnicles' command (using a 25-pound score) over the orchestra literally
spilling out of the pit onto the stage apron, and Ian Robertson's
preparation of the phalanx of chorus (singing in masks) are awesome.

On the one hand, there are long sections of musical-dramatic tedium
(including two interminable, hour-long scenes - a dialogue about birds
and Francis' death scene), on the other, the production provides grand
instances of spectacular images, vitally connected with the music.

As the curtain rises, there is a gigantic, twisting ramp with a procession
of figures (in drab trench coats over cassocks, their faces covered with
Fedoras), a scene putting (anonymous) flesh and blood on an image from
Doris Lessing's "Shikasta," in which an endless line of souls is shuffling
along, being returned to Earth from Zone Six, unable to enter into a
higher zone.

In the scene with the leper (embraced by Francis and cured in the
resulting miracle), Aikin's all-blue angel, with one wing, sweeps through
the stage, singing truly heavenly music (however familiar it may sound
to Korngold fans).

In Act 2, a long scene (pointless even in the story-free work) in which
the Angel engages the monks in conversation while waiting for Francis
is greatly enlivened by Aikin's costume.  On top of being blue all over,
she now has a long blue trench coat, a blue fedora, blue sunglasses and
a backpack hiding her uni-wing.  She looks a bit like Michael Jackson,
but who knows what form angels may take on earthly missions (and if Peter
Sellars got involved here secretly)?

There are great visual images throughout the production and the
mildly-squeaky rotating stage commands attention with its changing vistas.

Messiaen enthusiasts will be well rewarded, others will wonder about how
four-five simple, short themes can make up the entire 25-pound score.
The steady barrage of xylophones, xylorimbas and marimbas (on top of
three ondes martenot) eventually numbs the ears of non-believers.

Speaking of which, if you're a devout Catholic, you may experience nirvana
or the appropriate form of beatitude.  If you don't care for melodramatic
poses of banal religiosity, you will squirm a great deal through the
evening.

The biggest surprise is how heavy the whole work feels, even though
the man who gave this city its name is generally regarded as fun kind
of guy, a lover of birds, animals, and even people.  Messiaen's Francis
suffers through most of the night, heavy with pain and devotion, high-minded
contemplation, lecturing about "perfect joy," but not showing any of it.
Where is the cheerful aspect of mystic Catholicism, the elegance of
French theology?  Why are music, text, action all reflective of the worst
part of the Dark Ages or the more recent - but not happier - Teutonic
Protestant tradition?

One thing is for sure: Willard White is a saint. In the title role, he
sings through about half of those five hours, he is on stage in every
scene, acting, standing, kneeling, balancing on a high beam, emoting
silently - it's an Olympic performance of strength and endurance.  On
the downside, perhaps determined by the music and the stage director,
White is using one expression and one tone at all times, not a happy
camper, not a bass of varied phrasing.  Chris Merritt's Leper and Jay
Hunter Morris' Brother Elias are outstanding in the cast.

Janos Gereben/SF
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