The Underwear Festival

The stage is dominated by a kind of giant lazy Susan, which spins around to reveal all sorts of strange things. During Leporello's Catalogue Aria, we see a topless lady shaving her legs, football players clashing at the line of scrimmage (I kid you not), and a little girl skipping rope. Is this last creature one of the Don's future conquests? Or a current one? It's a disgusting question, but one such a production makes you ask.

You will have noticed that, so far, I haven't really touched on music. There is a reason for that: We are in the age of "director-driven" opera, so we're told, and the directors have so taken over, with their conceits and stunts, that the singers have been virtually shoved aside, along with the composers. Even so, Thomas Hampson -- the Don -- is a marvel in this production. He is not only the great Don Giovanni of our time, but one of the greatest of all time. Every word, every note, every gesture is right -- a stunning performance.

But back to underwear: As the Don unravels, the pretty girls in their underwear are replaced by old ladies . . . in their underwear. These are women of a certain size, most of them, and they are gotten up (or down) to look as cronish as possible. Happy hell, Don Giovanni!

The third Mozart? You will be relieved to know that The Abduction from the Seraglio does not begin with underwear. No, a couple walks out just as Nature made them. This is FULL FRONTAL NUDITY, as Monty Python used to say. Soon enough, however, they get into their . . . underwear, and then into wedding costumes (don't ask).

The director, this time, is not Martin Ku?ej, but Stefan Herheim -- another hotshot/bad boy. As he rips through Mozart's great opera, he simulates oral sex, and then intercourse. When Osmin and Blonde appear together, he lets them have clothes. But not really. Osmin ties around the girl an apron that depicts . . . "full frontal nudity." Now she appears to be naked, ha, ha, ha. Then Osmin plays with what I believe is a kitchen mixer -- an item with a rod -- waving it just below his waist. Ha, ha, ha, again.

But wait: In due course, Osmin himself gets an apron that is "full frontal" -- male variety. At this point, there are some boos and catcalls, and several people leave (voting with their feet). This, naturally, is countered by ostentatious applauding and bravo-ing -- by people eager to show that they, unlike the dinosaurs, are with the program.

A blunt question: Have directors gone nuts? Maybe they're just bored. Maybe they sit around, with their big budgets and big opportunities, thinking about what they might get away with next. (The answer is depressing, as much for them, probably, as for us: Anything.) If they really wanted to shock, they would conceive a production in harmony with the piece. As they parade around in their underwear and sunglasses -- or have others do so -- you want to shout, "The Emperor has no clothes!" But it's not just the Emperor . . .