In Part 1 (June 22, q.v.), I wrote about two representations of Don Giovanni—the video of the 2011 La Scala production and the 1942 Metropolitan Opera broadcast (audio only)—musing the while on the very different operatic worlds they evoke, on the eye-dominant vs. ear-dominant routes they take into the receptor’s sensorium, and on my own experience of coming to love and revere this work, as contrasted with that of a young person of the Here and Now. Today, I’ll be reporting my responses to another Now-and-Then pairing, one that seems to offer a more logical comparison of audio-only like with like but which, partly for that very reason, has provided an even more graphic illustration of shape-shiftings in the operatic universe. In both these examples, the work gains admittance by ear, where it summons mind’s-eye visions of the drama’s progress. Or, perhaps, not.

I append this last phrase because of an observation made by Teodor Currentzis, the maestro  of the Now half of today’s pairing. In a conversation with a well-versed, strangely anonymous interlocutor (himself?) that is included in the bound package, at one point he says first that he believes Don Giovanni has been less well conducted on records than the other Mozart operas, and then that it is “a difficult opera even to listen to on a recording.”  When Alter Ego asks why, Currentzis answers (and I think I must give him some room here): “Because the listener is so drawn into this captivating plot that it’s very difficult to follow the action of the music itself. It almost is overly theatrical . . . And while we are drawn into the drama, we miss all the musical detail. Don Giovanni is a monumental piece, but it is full of exquisite detail and orchestral colours.” Reading this, I think: “Currentzis is obviously a terrifically smart fellow, and truly devoted to his mission. In his dialogue with Alter Ego, he says many insightful, though eminently arguable, things. But I find myself wondering if he thinks that in this or any opera, the aesthetic should be brought forward at the expense of the dramatic? And whence does he believe the music comes—exquisite detail and orchestral colors included—if not from the telling of the story?” I also reflect that I have never found Don Giovanni at all difficult to listen to on a recording, where it is my favorite Mozart opera, just as it is in the theatre.

But, not to play point-scoring games with an absent opponent, I tell myself that what he must mean is that recording is the ideal medium with which to focus our attention on things we often miss, and that he has a particular view of what those might be. Surely he can’t mean that we shouldn’t become involved in the story, but rather that the story will emerge in different guise if our attention is re-directed in accordance with what he’s hearing. To do this, he fashions a performance that seeks to draw us in close up, so that the ear must lean in with unbroken concentration, rather as ours did to track the suspense of radio serials in the AM-only, monophonic days of yore. And as then, the times we can kick back and relax, receive the performance without straining,  are when the theme music or the commercial jingle comes up strong—which is to say, when the orchestra asserts itself. But for longish stretches here, it’s as if, even as the Lone Ranger and Tonto are exchanging key plot-and-situation points sotto voce (“S-s-s-h—he’s behind that rock, over there”), the William Tell overture keeps on playing. And we do love the William Tell overture, but what was that he said?