SYMBOLS CRASH.(Review)

The use of symbols and allegories is as old as art itself. In Ovid's hands, it explained nature and humanity; in Augustine's, the will of God. In our own time, iconography and literary analysis have revealed levels of meaning that enrich our appreciation of both art and literature. Recognizing why there is a pair of shoes in a van Eyck scene, for instance, or a medal on a self-portrait by Velazquez, enhances our understanding of these paintings. The symbolic object adds depth by enlarging the purpose of the work of art.

When a creation depends on an interpreter to bring it to life, however, there is always the danger that the presentation will alter the original beyond recognition. And that is just what is happening in the opera world, where the venerable tradition of symbol and allegory has become little more than an opportunity for incomprehensible allusions, private fantasies and distracting "concepts." A few examples from distinguished houses in 2000:

* Glyndebourne's recent Don Giovanni, directed by Graham Vick, on whose stage a huge brown mound, variously symbolizing earth, ordure or difficult terrain, served mainly to perplex. In the last act, footmen carried suitcases across the stage during Giovanni's dinner, leaving the audience to wonder whether Leporello was packed and leaving; the Commendatore meandered about in pajamas rather than armor; and a horse hanging from the ceiling, eaten raw by Giovanni, took the place of the libretto's pheasant. Other than offending the horselovers who attend Glyndebourne, none of these symbolic gestures conveyed any meaning, let alone illuminated Mozart.

* Salzburg's Cosi Fan Tutte, which allowed no scene to stand on its own. In Hans Neuenfels's production, the three men opened the first act under the numbers 1, 2 and 13. Why? Because Don Alfonso (13) brings bad luck and Guglielmo and Ferrando are lovers one and two? The three numbers returned, to no discernible effect, as table numbers in the last act's banquet. In the interim, we saw dogs poisoned, projected film of a man (Adam?) eating an apple full of worms, humans dressed as frogs, gigantic insects, angels in red boxing gloves, stalactites, and soldiers in Napoleonic uniform. Poor Fiordiligi had to sing "Per pieta" while a group of gangster-like men in gray roamed around the stage, harassing one of their number who was blind. Eventually Fiordiligi herself got the blind man's sunglasses. (Because love is blind?) The effect veered between the puerile and the absurd. But worse was to come. In the last act, the chorus appeared as impoverished refugees, straight out of Fiddler on the Roof, carrying battered suitcases. By this time, one was almost too numb to ...