OPERA REVIEW : A Massive ‘War and Peace’

SAN FRANCISCO —  The opera season opened here on Friday with a routine “Traviata” surrounded by gala glitz. That, it turned out, was just foreplay.

The real, victorious action began on Saturday, when Lotfi Mansouri & Co. celebrated the Prokofiev centenary with the first local staging of a massive, sprawling, rarely ventured opus called “Voina y Mir.” It is better known in the West as “War and Peace.”

Did I say massive? The score demands a vast orchestra and a heroic chorus. The cast list numbers 71 individual roles. The staging scheme ideally requires 13 distinctly delineated locales, and the drama must embrace courtly ritual as well as violent battle, intimate intrigue as well as the the spectacle of Moscow burning.

According to Koraljka Lockhart, the redoubtable San Francisco Opera archivist, “War and Peace” employed 38 soloists (some of the secondary singers assume multiple assignments), 94 choristers, a dozen dancers, 135 supernumeraries and 2 horses.

The wardrobe consisted of 650 costumes (including uniforms recycled from Hollywood). The prop department came up with 50 rifles, 150 swords, 30 banners and 17 torches. The stage crew numbered 80. The resident makeup specialists provided 150 mustaches and 150 pairs of sideburns. The stage machinery included 10 telebeams, 14 projectors and 4 smoke machines, plus a contraption that creates 600 pounds of fake snow per performance.

Did I say sprawling? Prokofiev, who began work on his setting of the Tolstoy novel in 1941 and was still making adjustments when he died in 1953, wasn’t sure if he had written one opera or two. If performed uncut, the music spans well over four hours. It could make sense to play “Peace” one night and “War” the next.

The San Francisco production--the third, most ambitious and most complete ever ventured by an American institution--began at 7 and, with a single intermission, ended after 11:30. Only the forthcoming staging of Berlioz’s “Les Troyens” at the Music Center threatens to test the Sitzfleisch more.

Although no one could have predicted current political conditions when the San Francisco production was planned, this is clearly a perestroika effort. Historic fate has now made its revolution doubly poignant.

Valery Gergiev, the ultra-authoritative conductor, was brought from the Kirov Theater in Leningrad. Eleven enlightened singers from Russia came with him, as did several backstage assistants. An additional Russian basso was recruited elsewhere. Numerous key roles were assigned to Americans, however, and the ensemble interaction between the domestic and imported participants seemed unusually sympathetic.

“War and Peace” has always been somewhat controversial. The convolutions of the libretto--conceived by the composer and his second (common-law) wife, Mira Mendelson--must daunt those who have not brushed up their Tolstoy. The musical inspiration fluctuates considerably between lyric introspection that elevates the Natasha-Andrei episodes (shades of Tchaikovsky’s “Onegin”) and dramatic bombast that cheapens the military maneuvers and choral apostrophes (shades of Mussorgsky’s “Boris Godunov”).

Given the wealth of expository detail and the breadth of the narrative, one wishes Prokofiev had been able to unify the work with a greater, or at least more consistent, expressive thrust. It would have been wonderful, too, if he had been able to find some way to avoid the patriotic platitudes that were, no doubt, enforced by the governmental ideologies of his time.

Still, it is impossible not to be impressed by the composer’s uncannily apt evocations of mood and period, evocations often tempered by gentle application of sardonic wit. The integral use of motivic identification remains extraordinarily subtle in “War and Peace,” the symbolic application of dance motives extraordinarily eloquent.

Most memorable, perhaps, is Prokofiev’s delineation of character. The noble idealism of Andrei, the impetuous innocence of Natasha, the sinister charm of Anatol, the troubled goodness of Pierre, the crusty wisdom of Kutuzov, all gain much and lose little in this musical translation.

The San Francisco production serves the score better than the drama. Gergiev reinforces the delicacy of the reflective scenes with finesse that stops safely short of sentimentality. He does his considerable best to convey the power of the combat scenes with passion that stops short of banality. The orchestra plays brilliantly for him throughout the marathon, and, despite some apparent strain, the chorus makes a suitably mighty noise.

The huge cast performed with stylish savoir-faire on Saturday, in depth.

Dmitri Kharitonov, a young baritone from the Bolshoi undertaking Andrei for the first time in his career (and replacing the originally announced Dmitri Hvorostovsky), sang with mellow tone and urgent expression that contradicted his somewhat placid demeanor. Ann Panagulias, Berg’s Lulu in 1989, looked exquisitely pathetic and sounded irresistibly radiant as Natasha, a role usually assigned to a voice in the heavier, Vishnevskaya mold. Yuri Marusin whined and weaseled superbly as Anatol.

Barry McCauley found the perfect combination of intelligent frustration and befuddled pathos for Pierre. Paul Plishka dominated the “War” act, as any Field Marshal Kutuzov must, his persona magnetic, his gestures economic and his somewhat unsteady basso deep, dark and generous.

Especially noteworthy in cameo roles were Valery Alexeiev as the blustery Napoleon, Irina Bogachova as the flighty Akhroshimova, Nikita Storojev as the tough Count Rostov, Elena Zaremba as the dangerously seductive Helene, Philip Skinner as the bluff Dolokhov, Vladimir Ogonovenko as the nasty elder Bolkonsky, and Alexander Naoumenko as the plaintive Karatayev.

Choosing a stage director for this colossal monument, Mansouri turned for some reason to Jerome Savary of Paris, who motivated the action neatly but sometimes moved the traffic rather clumsily within Michel Lebois’ simple, sliding-panel sets. This, essentially, was a slick and picturesque solution to a profound narrative problem. The complex passions and psychological contradictions of “War and Peace” deserve better illumination.

The historically appropriate costumes were designed by Emmanuel Peduzzi and Jacques Schmidt. The ridiculously balletic dances at the New Year’s ball in St. Petersburg were choreographed by Victoria Morgan.