CAPSULE REVIEW : A New ‘Faust’ Falters at the Met

Gounod’s “Faust” used to be the aesthetic pride and fiscal joy of the Metropolitan.

It was the very first opera performed by the company, back in 1883. It became so popular over the years that one critical wag dubbed the Met a Faustspielhaus .

In recent decades, the simplistic, irresistibly sentimental, intrinsically Gallic masterpiece fell from favor at Lincoln Center. This season, however, the company mustered a costly, potentially glamorous new production.

It turned out to be a disaster. The local press reviled it. The public resisted a stampede to the box office. Tuesday night, at the 424th “Faust” in Met history, one could see--and hear--why.

Harold Prince may be very clever when attending to Broadway-oriented phantoms of the opera. But he apparently becomes clumsy and naive, even obtuse, when confronting the real thing.

Last summer he directed a staggeringly dull “Don Giovanni” next door at the State Theater. Now he has given the Met a dull, heavy-handed and often inept “Faust.”

Forget about elegance, focus and romantic fantasy. Forget about a central concept. Prince deals in illustrative gimmicks worthy of Classic Comics. Most surprising, his gimmicks don’t even enjoy the benefit of good, old-fashioned, show-biz pizazz

The seductive vision of Marguerite, hailed by the aged Faust as a marvel, is nothing more than the shadow of a hootchy-kootchy dancer reflected on a big bedsheet. Ah, raunch.

Mephistopheles doesn’t bother to conjure up the magical wine that is supposed to astound the townsfolk. They, and we, must just imagine it. In the church scene, however, the Devil does manage to transform himself into a gargoyle. Ah, Gothic horror.

Eventually, Prince recasts the Devil as choreographer for a corps of zombies en route either to hell or to prison. We’re not sure which.

And so it goes. Irrelevantly. Hideously. Ponderously.

All still might not have been lost if the musical standards had been high. No such luck.

Neil Shicoff, who commands the appropriate vocal equipment, bullied and belted his way through the title role. Barbara Daniels, the rather dowdy Marguerite, offered little more than some gleaming high notes. Michael Devlin--tall, gaunt, restrained and almost debonair--looked fine as Mephistopheles. Unfortunately, the vocal challenge eluded his present resources. By the time the curtain mercifully fell, at 11:45, the audience had decreased considerably.

It was a sad night at, and for, the old Faustspielhaus.

A full review runs in Thursday’s Calendar section.