Spirit of the '70s fills a Greek myth in updated 'Semele'

February 04, 2008|Opera Review, Matthew Guerrieri, Globe Correspondent

Opera Boston's terrific, ingeniously entertaining new production of George Frideric Handel's "Semele" is a reminder that modern sitcoms are pale retreads of their mythical Greek and Roman forbears. A reluctant bride is a comic staple. The same bride having an affair with Jupiter, king of the gods? Now that's a special guest star.

Semele is the bride, busy stalling a betrothal arranged by her father Cadmus when Jupiter carries her off: consternation ensues. Director Sam Helfrich - updating the action to the golden age of formulaic television, the 1970s - creates the quintessential awkward wedding reception, with a chorus of guests (pastel polyesters and unfortunate bridesmaid dresses courtesy of costumer Nancy Leary) trapped in the antiseptic elegance of a rented hotel ballroom, re-created with loving verisimilitude by scenic designer Andromache Chalfant.

Composed after Handel abandoned opera for the lower financial overhead of oratorio, "Semele" opts less for theatrical dash and more for the extended, florid virtuosity of the concert hall - the emotional temperature often seems to be measured in sheer quantity of notes. Judicious cuts advanced the drama, and where the overflowing jewelry-box arias were too exquisite to jettison, Helfrich agreeably occupied the eye with deft stage business: sometimes simple, sometimes deliciously outlandish, as with Jupiter's rakish camcorder capturing Semele's Act I boast "Endless pleasure" - the ruler of Olympus having appropriate access to advanced technology.

The title role is a notorious marathon; soprano Lisa Saffer displayed more depth than agility, but her golden voice and fluent acting made Semele less a vain Barbie doll and more a real person, with a spontaneous sense of fun and delight. As her gawky sister Ino, hopelessly in love with Athamas, mezzo Paula Murrihy and her polished-marble timbre convincingly negotiated the tightrope between hope and despair. Tai Oney's Athamas caught the self-conscious bearing of dignity under assault; his countertenor was soft-edged but stylish. Baritone David Kravitz took on two roles: his paternal exasperation as Cadmus disrupted his voice, but as Somnus, the god of sleep, his mellifluent legato was both funny and beautiful.