The moment that most interested me was the climax of the opera, where the statue of the Commandant comes alive and answers Don Giovanni's invitation to dine with him. In the New York version (start at 7:55), it begins with most of the stage in darkness, with Leporello and Don Giovanni at the front of the stage, and the Commandant emerges from below. They sing together, posturing back and forth, 'til finally the Commandant drags Don Giovanni down to hell (through a trap in the stage), Don Giovanni dragging Leporello along with him. There was a fair amount of fog and haze involved, but not a huge spectacle. Fairly straightforward and, from what I've seen on YouTube in other productions, fairly traditional.
In the Dutch version, however, the Commandant has been lying prostrate on a crooked bed for the entirety of the opera, and at the aforementioned moment, he rises like Frankenstein's monster from the bed. While everyone else is in modern dress, he is clothed in what seems to be late 19th century mourning attire, complete with high stiff collar and cravat, with terrifying long nails and jeweled rings on his fingers. Don Giovanni, after gorging himself on fruit, leaps up on the bed with the Commandant, and they stand there together, singing for and against repentance. Then, the beds start moving of their own accord, almost like they're on a river, and array themselves in front of the Commandant's bed. He clutches his head in his hands, and disappears, leaving Don Giovanni standing on the bed while the lights come up, harsh and bright. He then walks off the stage, a very anti-climactic theatrical ending to a very climactic musical ending.
When I was watching the Dutch version, and the Commandant rose from his bed, the percussion and brass sections booming, my jaw dropped. I'm familiar with a fair amount of opera, but I had never listened or seen Don Giovanni, so this particular section of music was just astounding to hear for the first time. For most of this production, I was used to seeing the modern dress and mien of these characters, staged against a strange jumble of vaguely Victorian rooms (the set reminded me of the party scenes in The Nutcracker for some reason). Then, this specter rises from the bed against the strident music swelling, and I was transported, for a few moments, even through my computer screen. But, I was ultimately disappointed, alas, by the strange departure of Don Giovanni. Did he not actually get pulled to Hell? Is there some kind of comment being made by the directors? If there was, I would argue that it wasn't effective.
I felt like there were a lot of moments of careful consideration and some very interesting choices that were made, like Leporello filming all of Don Giovanni's exploits on a Super 8 camera and when Doña Elvira appeared wearing Don Giovanni's blood red sweater, signaling her devotion to him. The climax, however, didn't seem to be as well thought out as the other choices I saw. The result, for me, was a disruption in the emotional trajectory of the piece. Levin remarked on the disparity in Verdi's Don Carlos, where a character's words indicate defeat, but the music indicates victory (Levin, 30 - 31). This seems to be the case here, but the libretto and score are aligned, while the mise-en-scène is wildly dissonant. I'm deeply appreciative of dissonance in the arts, but to me, it has to serve a visible purpose, one that the audience can tease out themselves, either during or after the performance. I'm left with bits and pieces of theories about the directors' motives. Maybe they're commenting on religion? The secularization of European society? The sexualization of European society? The Dutch production did seem extremely blasé about showing all kinds of sexual exploits (though not terribly graphic), whereas the New York production hinted at them, slightly tongue-in-cheek (like, wink-wink we're going back behind the wall to do naughty things!).
I agree with Levin that opera is "unruly", a mélange of incredibly disparate forms that requires an audience to relinquish a great deal of control. More often than not, it's sung in a foreign language, but even if it is in, say, English, audiences encounter a lot of difficulty understanding the words without the help of supertitles. It is a theatrical workout for an audience, who are being assailed with music, poetry, drama, dance, spectacle, and so on. I think it can make an audience feel like the yokels watching Othello, though no opera audience I've ever encountered would dare make that kind of scene.
For me, specifically, when an opera "works", I am carried away, emotionally, by the music first, and the power of the singing second. I'm a huge fan of strident operas like La Traviata, Lucia DiLammermoor (I first saw that one when I was eleven, perhaps younger), and The Magic Flute. When the Queen of the Night rips into Pamina in her unearthly aria (2:10) it's not just the vocal acrobatics that transport me, but how the music works with the singing to mesh into one overpowering river of sound, emotion, and spectacle. During the mad scene in a 2007 production of Lucia Di Lammermoor, Natalie Dessay drops her bloodied bridal veil from a balcony (0:45), and it falls delicately into the crowd of bystanders. It's a crystalline moment where the staging, music, acting, and spectacle blend perfectly. When Justin and I went to go see La Bohème at IU last winter, we were both blown away by the same moment in the production where the entire set rotated slowly, and snow started to delicately fall on the performers, who were looking up in delight (along with the entire audience). It was a rare moment where I was completely in awe, staring in wonder at this moment where everything came together to transport us to an entirely different place and time.
To me, an effective moment when I am transported is where the entire mise-en-scène comes together in a perhaps mysterious, perhaps obvious way, but what is created is something different than what each part could offer on its own.
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