Michael Hendrick was droll as the huffy, trumpet-toned Dr. Caius. If looks could kill, the way he myopically inspected his rival Fenton from top to toe whenever they met would have put the young man into a basket.

If you’re eager for an extraordinary artistic experience, look no further than the Santa Fe Opera’s new production of Verdi’s Falstaff. Saturday’s opening night performance was almost unbelievably good.

Fortunately, hearing and seeing, one could believe in the timeless tale of Shakespeare’s roguish old knight as buoyed up by Verdi’s sly yet benevolent music. Together they form a bulwark that can stand against the ages.

If ever there was any question of new SFO general director Richard Gaddes making his mark, Falstaff put it to rest. He deserves a medal for assembling such a shining cast, spot-on conductor and solid design team for this effervescent ensemble work. Like the gold sovereigns that Falstaff loves, it rang with the sound of true metal.

Conductor Alan Gilbert brought out the score’s glories with a sure hand. He worked with the orchestra rather than at them; and since he was so clearly having a good time, the players did, too. What bounce, what richness, what vivacity in the sound.

Gilbert let the instrumental surf surge over the singers at a few big climaxes, but it was terribly exciting and thus forgivable. He gave the singers every cue, brought instruments in exactly with voices at delicate moments and confidently rode the storm in the horizon-spanning sections. The final intricate fugue was feather-light but strong.

Baritone Andrew Shore fully inhabited the title role. His top voice was gratifyingly stout, the middle ample and easy; lower notes rumbled like beer barrels rolling in the cellar. He looked very ounce a Falstaff — that balding old cavalier almost bursting out of his skin, but still proud that he can show a shapley leg. Shore moved with the special lightness of the big man who’s nimble on his feet — not an easy impersonation.

His Falstaff grasped at life with an enthusiasm as immense as his limitless paunch. When he gave his attention to something, he gave it all — whether thinking of a romantic assignation, vigorously washing hot wine around in his mouth or remembering a tasty anchovy. The part’s softer and more tender sections — and Falstaff, though a tough old stump, is a young sprout at heart — were supported by effective singing as well as dramatic conviction.

When Falstaff sonorously dismissed honor as a mere nothing, and in his pathetic moan after his undignified dunking in the river, he was a tired old herd bull at bay. But he also was a man who could laugh at himself, for as he ultimately proclaimed, all the world’s a joke — and all of us are fools.

The trio of merry wives could hardly have been better. Alwyn Mellor’s handsome Alice Ford was womanly wise, her bright soprano an aural reflection of her sharp mind and ready wit. Judith Christin’s fluently sung Meg Page was a multi-hued comic canvas. Kathleen Kuhlmann’s gossip-central Dame Quickly, a fine figure of a worldly dame, also offered attractive vocalism.

Scott Hendricks’ Mr. Ford presented a perfect picture of a virile man jealous of his wife from his own insecurity rather than any true fear for her virtue. His big aria E sogno? O realta? thundered to a gripping climax. Danielle de Niese’s fluttery, luminous soprano was nicely matched by Gregory Turay’s handsome tenor, and as Nanetta and Fenton they were a pretty pair of lovers.

Michael Hendrick was droll as the huffy, trumpet-toned Dr. Caius. If looks could kill, the way he myopically inspected his rival Fenton from top to toe whenever they met would have put the young man into a basket. Anthony Laciura and Wilbur Pauley were pillars of ludicrous believability as Bardolfo and Pistola.

Director Jonathan Miller knows how people think, feel and interact; under his hands, the characters moved as naturally as in real life. Their motivations were clear, and every scene looked trim and shipshape on Robert Israel’s clever, piecemeal, revolving set.

But Miller is never satisfied with his artistic porridge unless he figuratively dyes it purple, or molds it into a funny shape, or something. His standard approach is to alter the location or period from that specified in the score.

Last season’s Ermione went from its ancient roots to some quasi-formal mix of the War Between the States and the Italian Risurgimento. His 1998 Magic Flute had as home a Swiss hotel during a 1920s diplomatic conference.

For Falstaff, Miller hopped across the channel from England to the Holland of Rembrandt and the stadtholders. Aside from giving Clare Mitchell the chance to execute some pretty costumes, it added nothing to the piece. Fortunately, it didn’t detract, either.

And yet, if you don’t trust Verdi and Shakespeare — not what you think they should have said, but what they did say — why bother to direct such a piece at all?

The next performance of Falstaff is at 9 p.m. Wednesday. Call 986-5900 for ticket information.

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by Craig Smith

The Santa Fe New Mexican