And yet the music saved the night, and so did the singers. Baritone Joseph Wright remains an ornament to his company. As Alfio in Cavalleria and Silvio in Pagliacci, he advanced real and moving personality. Each portrayal was distinct, and both were served by a voice which grows in beauty and impact each time he appears. His Alfio rang with a just jealousy, and rose to the inevitable name of murderer. His duplicitous Silvio is also poisoned by jealousy, but here he lies victim.

Both operas were well-served by the chorus. A small group, they sang with focus, reliable pitch, and a good deal of color. Chorusmaster Bruce Olstad gave them a sense of style, and it sounded. Only a few brief times were they thrown off track rhythmically. Once they rediscovered the conductor, the problems were solved. The chorus was especially effective during ”Inneggiamo,” the Easter hymn in Cavalleria.

So, too, was soprano Michele Detwiler in the role of Santuzza. She grasped the real pain of excommunication in a small Sicilian village. Shunned by the church, disowned by the community, and betrayed by her former lover Turridu, Santuzza always runs the risk of becoming a soap opera vulgarity. Detwiler found dignity and presence, even shattered in the ruins of love, and so required us to acknowledge her suffering. We did.

Tenor Adam Flowers, singing Turridu, was not so fortunate. In his opening siciliano, and often thereafter, he chose to end phrases (however brief) with a gasp, a choke, or a sob. Such devices work well when used rarely and unexpectedly. Apparently someone has convinced him that they work even better when used all the time. He was further troubled by stage directions which required him to embrace Santuzza from behind in stock tenor pose No. 1: left arm around her belly, right hand on her shoulder, all the while ostensibly telling her to "go away!" — a tableau which defeated the meaning of his words. Even so, it is obvious that he too has a powerful stage presence, and a mid-register which conveys menace and love in equal measure. Better success is due him.

The surprise of this production was to become its fulcrum. As Mamma Lucia, contralto Kimberley Matthies drew all of the pathos, the fearful compassion, and the final defeat toward her. Through her was distilled every relationship, and every deceit, all of it doomed from the start. Her increasingly frantic efforts to head off destruction shifted the whole balance of our attention. Her response to the murder of her son was devastating. The tremendous ovation for Ms Matthies could not have been more honestly earned.

Pagliacci opened with a stunning Prologue, delivered by baritone Scott Bearden as Tonio. The character sets the stage for the story; better yet, the singer did the same for our expectations. His voice is a remarkable conveyance of strength, manipulation, and cunning. Standing alone in front of the curtain, he sang with absolute conviction the meaning of his case, open and concealed. 'Watch what happens. You will think this is a play about a play. Now, watch more closely. Watch me.' This Tonio is an engine of murder, an Iago of deceit. I have seen (and conducted) Pagliacci many times. I have never known it to be more explosively opened than in this production.

Nedda was a particular pleasure, well-sung by soprano Kimarie Torre. Her character was prismatic. She treated Tonio with contempt, Silvio with lust, and husband Canio with disdain. But it was of a whole, and timbral adjustments helped make these transformations work. Then, while white-faced as Columbina in the play-within, her skills in ballet and comedy rose to the fore. This was a desperate and vulnerable woman, admirably portrayed.

The central character of Canio, here sung by tenor Christopher Campbell, found himself rivalled by the two exceptionally-strong players described above. His “Vesti la giubba” was a model of simplicity, and the wracking sobs which followed were pitched wonderfully. He had equal success in moving from player to enraged husband. The edginess of his voice shoved Canio to the brink, and over it.

One more star of this double bill must be mentioned. Conductor George Cleve is one of the nation's renowned Mozarteans. The litheness and vitality of his approach to this music, in concert and opera both, has always set him apart. Cleve knows the difference between brisk and brusque, and invariably comes down on the right side. When word got out that he had been asked to conduct two late 19th century revenge melodramas, many in the Bay Area musical community were surprised. And curious.

Judging by the initial applause, half of them were in attendance on opening night. Only those who expected fiasco were disappointed.

This is no mortician. He does not bury singers under noisy orchestras. His tempi were generally bright, his baton controlling, but when he had confidence in a singer he would allow a good deal of phrase freedom. Judging from the balcony, the strings came to their bowings rather late in the game, and this may have restricted their sound somewhat. Even so, Mr Cleve pulled a lush palatte from them and woodwinds both. He was forgiving (at least in public) of surprising lapses in brass intonation, especially during the “Vesti” foreshadowing. Low strings were, per usual in the San Jose pit, very strong, with the violas at this performance playing with special strength.

George Cleve believes in the power of narrative, and pushed his famous energies toward telling both stories propulsively, directly, humanly. This was especially so in Pagliacci.

A final word about its final scene. You recall how Tonio's prologue created the arena, and then walked us through it. By the end of the story he has gained everything he could have expected. Nedda would not love him, so Tonio has her killed by another hand. Silvio would love her and he too is killed, now by Tonio's unseen whispers. Arcing across the whole of the story, we realize that he has managed a fearsome revenge, and escaped with unbloodied hands.

At the last he announces to the audience that "the comedy is ended". A slow curtain closes on him, chin jutting upward, an acid-etched smile fixed huge on his face. That hideous smile is the last thing we see.

It is perfectly judged, and a nightmare of subversion.