San Francisco Opera traded its soul for a good musical performance
tonight.  The heart and soul of opera, of course, are in the work itself.
What you do with it is secondary.  (Those StarGate structures, for
example, fairly overwhelming another SFO summer offering, "The Cunning
Little Vixen," don't really matter - just listen to that heavenly music!)

The offering for tonight, Ferruccio Busoni's 1916 "Doktor Faust" (completed
by Philipp Jarnach in 1925) is grievously deficient in heart and soul
and music and drama.

On the other, lesser, hand, Donald Runnicles' orchestra played it superbly,
Ian Robertson's Opera Chorus gave one of its finest performances ever,
and the San Francisco debut of Hope Briggs (Duchess of Parma) was nothing
short of sensational.  The young soprano's vibrant, vital voice has a
presence that few singers can match.  Runnicles conducted a sustained
performance in which each section played at its best throughout, graced
by concertmaster Kay Stern's solos and exceptional contribution by the
brass.

In the two major roles, two veteran visitors to the War Memorial, Rodney
Gilfry (Faust) and Chris Merritt (Mephistopheles) gave fine, if uneven,
performances.  There was much warmth in Gilfry's voice, along with some
shouting, especially in the first act; Merritt started somewhat uncertainly,
but soon came into his own, giving a solid performance.

The large cast, including several young artists from the Opera Center,
did the best it could, given the challenge of the work.

Yes, the work.  Busoni's complex music should delight any student of
contrapuntal virtuosity, but what this civilian hears is iterated,
processed, "heartless" brilliance, music - yes - without soul, and not
all that far from a soundtrack.  That personal perception may be debated,
but there is no question about the bankruptcy of drama in "Doktor Faust."

Starting with Busoni himself, and made much worse by the director-dramaturge
pair of Jossi Wieler and Sergio Morabito, this production serves up a
disjointed story, without focus or sense, not engaging the intellect or
the heart.  Goethe must be revolving in his grave.

The Busoni-Wieler-Morabito Faust is a schmuck, an obnoxious, whining,
distant figure for whom it's impossible to feel any sympathy.  He is
even rude to UPS and pizza deliverymen, but more about that later.

Poor Gilfry is made to spend three hours (including a single intermission)
in bed, caressing a plaid blanket, or standing in the background.  For
about 20 minutes, Faust takes center stage, mostly in a destructive,
"Clockwork Orange" mode, hating everyone, insulting and hurting anyone
in sight, trying to get into the good graces of the Dutchess by cutting
her gown to ribbons, and finally drops his pants and moons all those
damn royals.

Merritt gets a better deal. He is directed to be a shuffling, sniffing
old man, wandering aimlessly with an Old Navy shopping bag, until he
shaves, changes into something presentable, and plays the organ devilishly.

If the story and this mostly insane Faust character don't make sense,
there is always the Stuttgart way of making up for the basic flaw in the
gut of the production.  Faust's servant (Friedemann Rohlig, a notable
singer, who doesn't get to sing much here) fiddles with a laptop and a
cell phone through the lengthy opening orchestral introduction (which
has some of the work's best music), typing away through "Easter Vespers
and nascent Spring." Now there is good justification for not one, but
two dramaturges!

When Faust invokes Lucifer's servants, they arrive in the guises of a
pizza deliveryman, a uniformed UPS guy, and somebody from a gym, stretching
vigorously, and so on.  There are many other fine points of presenting
the legend of this archetypal hero, but somehow the evening ends up as
a big yawn.  Well performed.

Janos Gereben/SF
www.sfcv.org
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