"Damnation of Faust' at the Met

I'll be damned; we're seeing yet another version of the Faust legend. Last month the Metropolitan Opera presented what composer John Adams called his Faustian interpretation of the career of J. Robert Oppenheimer, Doctor Atomic. Then, on a recent Saturday afternoon, I attended the new Met production of The Damnation of Faust by Hector Berlioz, simultaneous with its showing in worldwide movie theaters.

It's the old familiar Faust story: The aged scholar Dr. Faust, finding no pleasure in life, sells his soul to the Devil in exchange for youth. He proceeds to seduce Marguérite and goes to hell, whereas Marguérite prays to God and gains entry to heaven.

But the rarely performed Berlioz version of 1846 isn't the opera most of us grew up with. That would be Gounod's 1859 Faust, performed 733 times by the Met and countless more times by other opera companies around the world. Berlioz, by contrast, picked a few scenes from the Faust legend and called it an opéra de concert, later changing his designation to légende dramatique. His conception required neither scenery nor staging.

The piece sounds much more modern than Gounod's, with daring harmonies from a massive orchestra and choruses. In addition to the wild and feverish music, Berlioz's arrangement of scenes presents a dream-like, fantastic vision of Faust.

The Met's new production is a multi-media extravaganza directed by Robert Lepage, the 50-year-old actor and playwright from Quebec who designed and directed KA for Cirque du Soleil in Las Vegas. So there was some apprehension beforehand that visual gimmickry and tackiness might trump the music.

I join the near-unanimous chorus of critics who like what Lepage did. I depart from the rest when I say that Lepage didn't go far enough.

Marching backward to war

The images in this production are striking and add to the story. The music always comes first, and occasionally the pictorial idea is hampered because of the music's demands. One such instance is the RákÓ³czy Hungarian March, which is accompanied by soldiers marching backwards. I take this idea as an inspired commentary that waging war is a backward step for civilization— or, possibly, that these soldiers are marching to a war from which they will not return. But the march lasts close to four minutes and the stepping backwards gets tiresome to watch. (Just imagine how tiring it must be for the soldiers.)

From the opening, when old Faust appears high on a ladder in his library, to the end when Marguérite ascends an incarnation of the same ladder on her way to heaven, excellent use is made of the tall stage. Four of the most striking scenes: Marguérite, live on stage, is seen enlarged behind herself, and her head becomes engulfed with fire. Faust falls out of a boat and appears to sink downward through the sea. Acrobats slither up and down the set and leap through the air. Méphistophéles and Faust ride to Hell as we see galloping horses that seem to have those two at the reins. Clouds, birds and leaves swirl across the skies.

As Walt Disney and Leopold Stokowski said when Fantasia was made in 1940, this is just one version of what certain people saw in their minds. Lepage's visions are not definitive, and they are impressive.

Many of Lepage's effects take place in one or more of 24 cubes formed by tall scaffolding. I'd like to see more breadth to the pictorial. What Berlioz considered theater of imagination is now seen as cinematic, but why must the screen be sub-divided into so many small fractions?

A touching singing actress

The chorus, directed by Donald Palumbo, is magnificent, especially in the Soldiers' Chorus and Easter Hymn. Susan Graham is outstanding throughout her too-brief role as Marguérite, most noticeably in her aria, "D'amour l'ardente flamme." She is a touching singing actress and captures the passionate expression and ardor that Berlioz asks for.

The Italian tenor Marcello Giordani, in the title role, achieved a covered, heady French tone and hit some nice soft, high notes. His is not a naturally beautiful instrument, and some strain was evident, but he was in better voice than on previous occasions. I'd like to hear more elegance and vocal sheen. But this was a noble portrayal. Bass-baritone John Relyea offered a colorful, athletic Méphistophéles with a supple voice. His part, too, could use more Gallic elegance.

Maestro James Levine shaped the entire enterprise beautifully, romantically and incisively, and the Met orchestra was at its best. I had a devil of a good time.