All Hands on Deck for Absurd Relevance (Published 2008)

Biting satire is at the heart of Gilbert and Sullivan’s brilliant canon of operettas. But in performances by the New York Gilbert & Sullivan Players, founded by Albert Bergeret in 1974, broad comedy and stylish singing carry the day. On Friday night at New York City Center, the troupe opened the second part of its 2008 festival with “H.M.S. Pinafore,” one of the “big three” works on which its seasons are based. The show is running in repertory with “The Mikado” and “The Pirates of Penzance” as well as a comparative rarity, “The Gondoliers.”

“Pinafore,” from 1878, was Gilbert and Sullivan’s first international hit, running for nearly 600 performances in its original London production and spawning countless unauthorized knockoffs. The plot concerns two young lovers, the lowly sailor Ralph Rackstraw and the captain’s daughter, Josephine, who are held apart by social station until a convenient role reversal brings them together in a rapturous ending.

Gilbert’s themes of class inequality, overbearing nationalism and incompetent authorities remain relevant, however absurdly treated. But the lasting appeal of “Pinafore” and its ilk is more a matter of his unmatched linguistic genius and Sullivan’s generous supply of addictive melodies.

From a staging perspective, there is nothing remotely subtle about Mr. Bergeret’s approach. Spoken dialogue is emphatically underlined with endless mugging and exaggerated gestures. Sailors prance like seasoned choristers and seem much too familiar with Sir Joseph Porter’s retinue of noblewomen. An increasingly soused “Never Mind the Why and Wherefore” includes a wacky bit of stage business involving Mr. Bergeret (as the conductor) and a rifle. A cellphone gag is dropped into “Farewell, My Own.”

Still, all hands treat the music with style and respect. Mr. Bergeret drew playing of bouncy refinement from the orchestra. The principals were uniformly good. Colm Fitzmaurice was a boyishly sweet Ralph. Laurelyn Watson Chase’s Josephine was playful and suitably florid, though her diction was occasionally muffled.

Angela Smith brought a robust sound to Little Buttercup. Richard Alan Holmes was a lyrical, affable Captain Corcoran. Stephen Quint’s dry, doddering Sir Joseph was consistently amusing. And Louis Dall’Ava’s Dick Deadeye was a quirky marvel of lurching motion and menacing voice.