Course Blog #8, Don Giovanni: The Art of Woo [Sara]

Like many of my classmates, during much of the IU Opera and Ballet Theatre’s production of Don Giovanni, I found myself variously bored, angry, and/or affronted by the frustrating underutilization of the decadent resources that were obviously lavished on the production. If there was a moment of “transport,” however, it occurred for me during the Act 2, Scene 1 in the “wooing” of Donna Elvira. 

In the scene, the lady emerges from a curtained window upstage left, elevated above stage level and lit softly in warm shades of amber that stand in relief against the otherwise cool tones of the bluish “night light” of the exterior courtyard. Framed by the balcony’s arched window, she begins the opening refrain of “Ah taci, ingiusto core,” a trio between Elvira, Don Giovanni, and Leperello that roughly translates as (according to Wikipedia) “Ah, be quiet my unjust heart.” This was perhaps my favorite performance by Kelly Glyptis (Elvira), as her voice seemed to loose its edge and took on a lilting quality that seemed to indicate and thus far undiscovered vulnerability in her portrayal. Only in this moment of assumed privacy is Elvira free to communicate her longing not for lust but love, and her call is answered by Don Giovanni and his servant Leperello who lurk below. 

It was not until this moment that I was able to perceive Zach Coates (Giovanni) as the Lothario capable of bedding more than 1,003 women. In the pearly dark as I watched Glyptis tremble to hear his voice answer her own, I finally understood Abate’s assertion of absorption. The combination of the music and the mise-en-scène took on a performative quality—in Don Giovanni’s words of appeal to Donna Elvira, I myself was wooed, momentarily caught up in the mixture of pride, embarrassment, and titillation that accompanies any competent serenade.

As Leperello enters and adds his voice to Giovanni and Elvira’s, the emotional experience of the music certainly intensifies, but in attempting to make sense of this duet cum trio, I was overcome by a dawning horror as it occurred to me that this male double-voicedness in all its honeyed tones was illustrative of the duplicitous nature of Giovanni’s character. 

Adding to this sudden detachment was a growing “unsettledness” as described by Levin in the juxtaposition of the music with the staging. I was unsurprised and yet still injured at the dumb show describing Giovanni and Leperello’s ensuing plot to effectively swap hats and let Leperello lead Donna Elvira away so that Giovanni might prey on her maid. Adding insult to injury was the abrupt shift in tone and gesture, the mellifluousness of the song was paired with much physical comedy as Coates goaded Jason Eck (Leperello), laughing and pushing him forward toward the window’s halo of light. Even as the crescendo swelled with all three performers in full voice at the songs conclusion, Coates and Eck were already “changing clothes” with a lame nod to the conventions of masquerade in the transparency of their disguises.

This moment recalled for me the memory of Cavell’s Desdemona, in that I experienced an instantaneous recognition of Elvira’s vulnerability while empathetically experiencing the confused desire and apprehension of Don Giovanni’s wooing. In spite of my performance competency, or perhaps because of it, I could “read” her impending peril from the entrance of Leperello’s voice but, nevertheless, continued to feel with her and for myself as I contemplated the efficaciousness of even false wooing.

The next moment, I am less clear about vis-à-vis my own reaction. As Leperello and Elvira depart, Don Giovanni begins to sing “Deh vieni alla finestra” (“Come to the window”) at which time a blonde serving maid appears and begins brushing her hair in a very presentational performance of—what—coquetry? I’m not sure. I thought her mine was meant to be comic, but I found myself annoyed at her self-absorption, vainly staring into the hand mirror rather than engaging with this new scene of wooing. I much admired Coate’s performance of the song and I am still confused over my annoyance. Was this another experience of a somewhat unsuccessful “unsettling” staging that attempted to play in counterpoint with the musical moment, and I was peeved at the seeming irreverence? Or was I feeling a residual empathetic response for/as the jilted Elvira? I tend towards the former, but I cannot be sure. The song, as I understand it, is typically staged in a much more sentimental manner with Giovanni playing the mandolin and treating it as a sort of aria, but the ostentatiousness of the maid disrupted that romanticism and I felt cheated, but for whom, I’m still uncertain.