Metropolitan Opera
October 13, 2011
W.A. Mozart – Don Giovanni (libretto Lorenzo Da Ponte)
Louis Langrée, conductor
Michael Grandage, production
Christopher Oram, sets and costumes
Luca Pisaroni – Leporello
Martina Rebeka – Donna Anna
Marius Kwiecien – Don Giovanni
Stefan Kocán – Il Commendatore
Ramón Vargas – Don Ottavio
Barbara Frittoli – Donna Elvira
Mojca Erdmann – Zerlina
Joshua Bloom – Masetto
… tame, visually dreary production (NYTimes)

 

… the Metropolitan Opera’s tepid new production of “Don Giovanni”….a show that has premature cobwebs…detached, unimaginative staging (The Economist)

 

… His conventional staging injects little personal insight, comedic fantasy or dramatic edge (Bloomberg)

Not even the bad reviews ( and I thought I was the only one capable of being nasty!) could keep me away from Don Giovanni. It is the greatest opera, not only of Mozart, but of all operas. The combination of Da Ponte’s brilliant libretto with Mozart’s luminous music is simply perfect – I can find no fault with it, no matter how often I hear it, see it, sing it or read about it. It is not only a question of going from one sublime aria to the next, it is also all about what goes on in between the arias, the magnificent dialogues and recitatives, the comedy, the tragedy, the scheming, the seduction, the despair, the revenge, the arrogance, the tenderness, the forlornness and the morality. All the complexities of human nature woven into three hours of music and song.

When I reviewed the Barber, I mentioned having seen the Don at the old Met, with a stellar cast. Alas, I do not remember the production (this was well over 40 years ago), only the singing and the music, which were exceptional – it is enough to mention Siepi and Schwarzkopf and Bohm to understand what I mean. Nevertheless, I’m sure the production must have been extremely conventional, as those were not yet adventurous times in opera, and at my very young and intolerant age, I would have been outraged had it been an avant-garde affair.

Well, although the years have passed, I can say that I’m now a mature old grouch, and every bit as intolerant as the teenager was. I usually hate avant-garde productions and if I say “usually”, it is because I must confess to being thrilled with a few modern ones, Freyer’s Onegin and Braunschweig’s Fidelio at the Staatsoper Unter den Linden, for example, or again Decker’s Onegin at the Opera Bastille, or the same Braunschweig’s Zauberflöte at the Opera de Lyon. But those are the exceptions that prove the rule, namely, that I believe that you should not fool around with good music and good words for the sake of novelty. The numerous distressing attempts at innovation that I have witnessed have served to confirm this rash opinion. Cases in point are Martin Kusej’s atrocious Carmen (which I reviewed a few years ago) and Peter Mussbach’s construction-site Don Giovanni, both perpetrated at the Staatsoper in 2007.

And thus, I believe that the critics I have quoted above suffer from acute modernitis, which is the only reason I can see for panning what seemed to me a great production and performance.

This time Oboe and I were sitting in the orchestra section, in what are described as prime side seats, reasonably (if you consider 175$ as reasonable) priced, excellent view, I am slowly mapping the territory and discovering that you don’t have to be a millionnaire to go to the Met.

After his musicians came in and tuned, conductor Louis Langrée made his half-appearance (the half above the pit appears, the other is hidden, but he can’t wear shorts or jeans because he has to go up on stage at the end). But there was nothing half about his conducting of the overture. It was all there, all together, all Mozartian and all promising a famous musical performance – as it indeed was.

As the curtain opens, a moment of surprise, the only impression I share with the above quoted critics: an austere , rather drab colored décor of Spanish townhouse façades. I was a little taken aback, but then I was immediately transported to a Spanish village I have often stayed in, Calaceite, in Aragón. Yes, I agree, that is in Northern Spain, not in sunny Seville. But then, it does add to the peculiarly stiff Spanish deportment of the times, the Spain of dueñas and convents, of starched collars and black dominos. Considering the number of times that liberties have been taken with the Don’s geographical setting – Vicenza in Losey’s beautiful fim, La Défense in a certain Opéra Bastille production, for example – I think that this one is a very slight twist indeed. And it actually fits in grandly with the libretto and score.

So here is Leporello, seated on the stoop of one of the houses, complaining about his station. First surprise – this Leporello is a wildly handsome man, with a Don Giovanni physique that one must try to disregard during the rest of the opera, as bass-baritone Luca Pisaroni is the taller and the more handsome of the two. But I will not do him the injury of dwelling on his physique. The Venezuelan-born singer is excellent in every way, in singing and in acting, and although he is an unusual looking Leporello, he is still a splendid one, with all the necessary buffoonery and cunningness, and a magnificent voice.

Enter the struggling Don Giovanni and Donna Anna – Mariusz Kwiecien and Marina Rebeka. At this moment one can only observe the indignity Donna Anna is suffering (although I often wonder whether, deep down, she isn’t really dying to surrender), as the great arias are yet to come. But when they do, both show why they are on this prestigious stage. Don Giovanni’s baritone is everything it should be, and Kwiecien’s demeanour is up there with all his great predecessors – Siepi, Pinza, Raimondi, Fischer-Dieskau. I did hear some people grumbling that the roles should have been reversed, that Leporello was more Giovanni and vice-versa, but there it is, they are interchangeable and maybe the role reversal could be tried. But I think things are just fine as they are, both singers filling their assigned shoes to perfection.

As to our Donna Anna, she is equally excellent, as are Donna Elvira (Barbara Frittoli) and Zerlina (Mojca Erdmann), the latter to a lesser extent. Frittoli had some shrill high notes which were not very pleasant, but which were more than compensated by her overall prestation. Erdmann was maybe a slightly awkward Zerlina, lacking in facetiousness, but that is probably the way a sexually-harassed peasant girl would act. Still, she was maybe a tad too glamorous.

To me, for once, the star of this performance was Don Ottavio. Yes, I am as surprised as you will probably be. The dullest character in the opera, one that often has me wondering whether he is not wishing Donna Anna were actually a nice young man, but who nevertheless sings two precious arias, which are usually pretty whiny. Well, Mexican tenor Ramón Vargas managed to turn out a firm, masculine, determined Don Ottavio who sung not only his arias but his parts in the duets, trios and quartets, with all the necessary delicacy, grace and beauty, minus the soppiness. Decidedly the best performance among all around excellent performances, which got a well-deserved standing ovation.

But back to where I started – the production, which earned Michael Grandage such poor reviews. As I said, this was indeed not the usual frisky Seville atmosphere, nor some Orwellian concoction. This was a new turn on old Spain, focusing on austerity and self-righteous morality. In that lighting, the sets were great and their moves and uses very clever, as in the Madamina aria, when the windows fill up with women of all shapes and ages, or in the graveyard scene, when they are inhabited by dark cloaked figures, the tallest and most ominous being, of course, the Commendatore. The décor was definitely well in tune with the music and the words, and did not call undue attention to itself, allowing one to concentrate on the action and the music. The costumes were conventional, but in excellent taste, and every character looked its part – isn’t it awful to see Don Giovanni dressed as a yuppie or Donna Elvira riding a Vespa? All right, I really don’t mind being called conservative, reactionary or even fuddy-duddy. What I do mind is having outlandish avant-garde fury spoil my fun.