The trademarks of a Peter Sellars production are that it's fresh, different, full of gags and surprises. Sellars did The Mikado with a character vrooming around on a motorcycle, and he set Handel's Orlando at the Kennedy Space Center. But a question remains: Do the elegant and aristocratic operas of Mozart really need to be jazzed up, gagged up, camped up and wrestled into the postmodern age?
The question now arises at the Pepsico Summerfare festival in Purchase, N.Y., where Sellars' versions of the three operas that Mozart wrote with Lorenzo da Ponte are all being restaged. The Marriage of Figaro (1786) is set in Manhattan's Trump Tower, Don Giovanni (1787) in Spanish Harlem and Cosi fan tutte (1790) in a sleazy diner called Despina's. Nor does the Sellars game end ) there. At 31, the aging enfant terrible is talking of deconstructing Idomeneo in Brussels and The Magic Flute at Glyndebourne.
In theory, nobody should object to any adventurous director's attempting to modernize the tradition-encrusted masterpieces of opera. At best such attempts can bring new vitality to works that have become numbingly familiar; they can enable us not only to see an opera in new ways but to see ourselves in new ways as well. And at the very least they create talk and controversy. In the case of Sellars' Mozart, unfortunately, that is about all they create.
By some bit of ingenuity and/or luck, Sellars discovered two talented young identical twins, Eugene and Herbert Perry, and cast them as Don Giovanni and his servant Leporello. This provides all kinds of ironies on the brotherhood of master and man, but it also obliterates the no less important differences between them. Thus in the famous scene in which the two switch costumes so that the servant can court one of his master's ladies, Sellars' twins make a meaningless exchange of their leather jackets.
That scene illustrates a more fundamental problem. Don Giovanni is at least partly a drama of class distinctions. That is why, for example, the cavalier can simply walk in on the wedding of the peasant Masetto and walk off with his bride Zerlina. When Don Giovanni is converted into an East Harlem hoodlum, the character no longer fits the plot, so Sellars blithely begins changing various details of the story.
"These operas do not require powdered wigs and candelabra to make their political points," says Sellars. True enough, but if Sellars had really wanted to modernize Mozart's opera, his hero should have been a Wall Street arbitrager, or perhaps a rock star. For that matter, he should sing in English, but Sellars characteristically prefers that Da Ponte's witty text remain obscure, that "the audience ((be)) forced to take in information through other pores."
Just as Sellars' transfer of Don Giovanni to a phantasmagorical Spanish Harlem really tells us very little about Harlem, it also tells us nothing new about Don Giovanni. There have been so many changes in plot and character that Giovanni is no longer Mozart's defiant hero but a quite different and less interesting character of Sellars' creation. In the intensely dramatic finale, for example, he is not dragged unrepentant to hell by the statue of the man he murdered but rather led there, while groveling in his underwear, by a young girl in what looks like a Communion dress.