We has just seen the Met's long-awaited production of Die Ägyptische Helena. The music was pretty, if not exactly anything I would find myself humming after the performance. I realize that this was not intended to be Il Barbiere di Siviglia, but without any knowledge of Strauss or 20th century opera, I can only appreciate it with my eyes. Like the Germans sniggering in the row behind us, I found the production design highly amusing—colossal phallic comets, albino elves fluttering about in gauze and sunglasses, Poseidon's aqua besuited soldiers brandishing oversized harpoons, a towering bald Paris painted from head to toe in red, backdrops of seas and deserts overlayed by a gigantic decoupage of a fleeing man.
The story is an interpretation of Helen and Menelaus's reconciliation after he rescues her from Troy—marriage counseling courtesy of Aithra the sorceress. The best moment: opening of Act II, after their second wedding night (“Zweite Brautnacht”), Helen rolls around onstage in post-coital bliss. Menelaus wakes up, looks at Helen and says: I'm sorry. Who are you? And What is your name? Typical.
The finer points of the opera elude me, but the themes of psychological torment—the yearning for innocence, forgetfulness, and remembrance—touched me in ways that traditional Italian operas have not.
Now, if only I had an Omniscient Mussel to comfort me while I await the return of my lover.
