GOETZ FRIEDRICH’S STAGING : SOMBER ‘FIGARO’ BY BERLIN OPERA

Of course, there always are undertones of irony and anger. Of course Beaumarchais’ play, which inspired Mozart to write “Le Nozze di Figaro,” deals with the social unrest that brought on the French Revolution. In most opera houses, it doesn’t matter.

In most opera houses, “Figaro” remains a model of sweetness and charm and delicate wit. It is played as a sophisticated ritual of manners, a buffa exercise embellished with faint traces of the archetypal human comedy. The peasants are quaint and essentially well-behaved. The nobles are elegant and gracious. The intrigue takes place in a pretty pastel world of powdered wigs, hoop skirts, smirking cherubs and quaint rococo embellishments.

In most opera houses, the fundamental impulse is Mozart’s miraculous score. It is, as a grateful civilization has known for 200 years, a score that offers much opportunity for subtle nuance, for sublime lyrical indulgence and expressive expansion--all in conjunction with an abidingly clever outpouring of musical cheer.

It isn’t quite like that at the Deutsche Oper of West Berlin. Back in 1978, Goetz Friedrich--a refugee from the Marxist east zone--staged a controversial “Figaro” that stressed the darker side of Da Ponte’s libretto and slighted the brighter side of Mozart’s music. It wasn’t a violently reactionary interpretation, to be sure. It was, however, serious and somber enough to enforce some basic reevaluation of hand-me-down concepts.

And it was executed by a ensemble of singing actors ready and willing to probe for new solutions to old problems. With Daniel Barenboim stirring passions in the pit, Jose van Dam introduced a Figaro who posed a volatile threat to the Count Almaviva of Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau. Barbara Hendricks was the Susanna, Julia Varady the Countess, Hanna Schwarz the Cherubino.

The only member of the original team to appear in the production brought by Berlin to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion Wednesday was the Marcellina, Patricia Johnson. Several members of the Los Angeles cast, in fact, are newcomers to this staging. Christof Perick is conducting the Berlin “Figaro” for the first time. And, although Friedrich retains program credit as director, Cornel Franz has taken over the night-to-night responsibilities for theatrical indoctrination and illumination.

Under the circumstances, one cannot be surprised to find some inflections blurred, some accents out of focus, some balances disturbed, some actions oddly motivated. Unlike wine and cheese, unconventional opera productions seldom improve with age.

Nevertheless, the rough, brisk and tough “Figaro” from Berlin still exerts considerable fascination. Herbert Wernicke--himself an enfant terrible stage director--has designed a bleak unit set for the entire opus. For most practical purposes, it transforms the stage into a huge open box, the walls lined with curtains and the false proscenium studded with garish flowers. Apart from some crucial props and odd bits of furniture, the bare raked stage is dominated by a faintly symbolic mound at the center in each act: a sprawling pile of dirty mattresses for Figaro’s room, an enormous bed for the Countess’ boudoir, a throned platform for the wedding scene, a mock-grassy hillock for a really shadowy palace garden.

Sometimes director and designer play loose with realism. Taunting Cherubino about his incipient life as a field soldier, Figaro summons from the flies a massive drop curtain depicting the bloodiest of battle scenes. When Cherubino, fleeing the wrath of the jealous Count, is supposed to leap out a window, he jumps instead into the orchestra pit (one hopes there was no tuba in his path).

Sometimes, on the other hand, realism is heightened beyond expectations. The noble Countess and the horny Cherubino roll blissfully on that monstrous bed before an intruder enforces stylized coitus interruptus. It is on this same aristocratic bed, moreover, that the servant Figaro, obviously ready to storm the Bastille, takes the liberty of lolling when he complains of his mock foot injury.

In general, the mood is grim, the picture ugly. The drab costumes of Herbert and Ogun Wernicke purposely reinforce the negative. It isn’t reassuring for those who savor elegance and refinement ueber Alles. It certainly won’t please those who regard “Figaro” as a source of instant spiritual uplift. On its own limited, brisk and brash terms, however, it works.

Brisk and brash certainly are the words to describe the Mozart of Perick, the newly appointed Staatskapellmeister in West Berlin. This conductor obviously values momentum and clarity. He knows how to sustain crisp communication with the stage. He savors rhythmic punch and overall efficiency. If, however, he finds any arching sadness in the Countess’ plaints, any warmth in Figaro’s wit, any magic in the moonstruck reverie of Susanna, any pathos in the Count’s final plea for forgiveness, he kept all that a secret Wednesday.

If he is at all interested in modern discoveries involving authentic performance practices--if, for instance, he knows and cares much about the function of the simple appoggiatura--he kept that a secret, too.

The cast, the first of two to be seen here, was headed by Justino Diaz, a bearded Figaro new to Berlin but, thanks to the New York City Opera, familiar to Los Angeles. On this occasion he was uncommonly forceful, suitably disturbing, vocally dark and deft. Helen Donath, fondly remembered for her Covent Garden Pamina at the Olympic Arts Festival, complemented him as a vivacious, sweet-toned, unmannered Susanna.

Wolfgang Brendel managed the nasty bluster and the virtuosic flourishes of the Count with baritonal bravado. Pilar Lorengar’s stock Countess resembled a prima donna who had wandered in from another production; her singing, though authoritative as ever, lacked freshness, not to mention a cadential trill in “Dove sono.” Margit Neubauer’s attractive Cherubino proved slender in physique, slender in tone.

Patricia Johnson dominated the supporting players as an appealingly befuddled Marcellina who, for once, got to sing her much-maligned aria in the last act, roulades and all. Donald Grobe, the silly-gander Basilio, deserved a comparable favor, but his Donkey Aria was consigned once again to the cutting room floor. Ivan Sardi offered a seedy, weak-sounding Bartolo; Klaus Lang a grumpy, strong-sounding Antonio; Gudrun Sieber a Barbarina obviously worthy of promotion to Susanna, and Loren Driscoll an understated Curzio.

The Los Angeles Master Chorale sang and fandangoed as if opera had been its collective calling forever, and the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra responded nimbly to Perick’s urgings in the pit.

The performance, not incidentally, was structured along traditional German lines, with the only intermission separating Acts II and III. The lack of pauses proved refreshing.