OPERA REVIEW : The Met Says, ‘Hello, Columbus’

Monday was Thanksgiving Day in Canada. In politically correct Berkeley, it was Indigenous Peoples Day. In Dogpatch, it may well have been Sadie Hawkins Day. But at the Metropolitan Opera, it was Columbus Day, with a minimalist vengeance.

It was the day our No. 1 (i.e., richest) opera company officially discovered mystical mumbo-jumbo, historical revisionism, sci-fi kitsch, satirical trivia, show-biz fantasy and endless noodling-cum-doodling in the sprawling yet episodic form of Philip Glass’ quasi-Columbus saga, “The Voyage.”

The commissioned trip cost some $2 million. The premiere attracted a standing-room-only crowd of if-you’re-somebody-you-gotta-be-there New Yorkers who paid up to $135 for a ticket. The performance was beamed on the radio to a doubtlessly receptive nation. At the end, it elicited cheers for a hard-working cast and inventive production team, some boos for the composer.

Although Glass has built a superlucrative career on his exploration of the Xeroxed arpeggio, he doesn’t like the dirty m -word. He thinks the implicit description is too simplistic for the increasingly complex compilations of simplistic rhythmic and melodic patterns that he cranks out to benumb the savage breast.

For him, minimalism has become a mean misnomer. For us--some of us, at least--it remains a trendy trial.

No one can claim Glass is not ambitious. In “The Voyage,” he attempts to examine 13,000 years of human folly, with the earliest inaction taking place in 10,000 BC and the latest in 2092. At the same time, he attempts to examine the cosmic possibilities of the augmented triad.

His dramatis personae includes a philosophical scientist in a wheelchair (obviously Stephen Hawking), numerous picturesque creatures from both inner and outer space, a conscience-stricken Columbus and an amorous Isabella, and a chorus line of dancing-diplomat caricatures. All this, and a few ornamental nudes, too, both genuine and simulated.

His plot, fleshed out by David Henry Hwang (the perpetrator of “M. Butterfly”), confronts such topical topics as the meaning of life, the eternal quest for new horizons and the universal impact of Coca-Cola. Deep stuff.

In an age when theatrical significance is measured by something known as “Les Miz” and musical pathos is defined by “The Phantom of the Opera,” “The Voyage” might well be regarded as a masterpiece. It certainly bears the proper aesthetic pretensions and, like its Broadway counterparts, it certainly looks snazzier than it sounds.

Robert Israel has designed surreal sets that float much of the action high above the stage floor. Characters, props and furniture virtually fly to the family circle when the spirit moves them. They also disappear through convenient trap doors, presumably escaping to the subway that rumbles beneath Lincoln Center.

Israel’s proscenium frames a canny parade of images that invoke such disparities as the Statue of Liberty, the stifling court of 15th-Century Granada and Van Gogh’s “Wheatfield With Crows,” not to mention a mini-globe that supports Columbus’ deathbed until it rises to the sky in time for the final, merciful cadence. This coup de theatre may recall the heavenly apotheosis on a truck tire that climaxes “Cats.” But only an insensitive pedant would quibble about banal recycling when confronted by such an uplifting demonstration of spiritual transfiguration.

Dunya Ramicova, the ever-resourceful and never-cliched costume designer, complements Israel’s magic tricks with an extraordinarily witty wardrobe. Her wild creations prove especially flattering to a corps of trusty sea monsters and a lustily androgynous goddess or two.

David Pountney, remembered in Los Angeles for his phallic-oriented “Elektra” at the Music Center, decorates the static narrative with a bold array of tongue-in-cheeky maneuvers that keep the eyes busy when the ears are not. One must be grateful for big distractions.

Pountney adds satirical touches, however, that find little justification in the somber banalities of Hwang’s libretto. He thus compromises what one surmises is the pervasively serious tone of the meditation. Together with a slick British choreographer, Quinny Sacks, he has concocted a jarringly glitzy production number for the first-act finale (a cutesy tango-orgy masquerading as rite of spring), and he stoops to old lesbian jokes to delineate characters identified in the program simply as Earth Twins.

It should be useful, in judging the aptness of the director’s inventions, to search for motivation in score. The composer, unfortunately, is not generous with emotive clues. His sad music sounds much like his happy music. His comedy, if it is that, sounds much like his tragedy.

Essentially, he has given us three seemingly long acts of busy-music. “The Voyage” may be minimally less minimal than the primitive artifacts that established Glass’ reputation in the 1970s, but the writing still fails to rise much above the level of comic-book illustration.

This is modern music for people who think they hate modern music. The doo-dah motives chug along peskily. The easy harmonic filler introduces an aura of cheap perfume. The overblown orchestrations confirm the impact of movie-music hokum.

The composer does manage to resist the lure of electronic magnification. Give him credit for that. But he still insists that saying the same thing 300 times somehow makes a naive message 300 times stronger. Even more problematic, Glass seems either unwilling or unable to write lines that flatter the human voice, that expand a melodic thought or manage to make the English text remotely comprehensible.

The Met spared no expense in turning out a lavish show. Nevertheless, it is worth noting that James Levine, the prestigious and usually ubiquitous artistic director, did not choose to wield the baton. He passed that dubious honor to Bruce Ferden, who revealed astonishing degrees of concentration, energy and stamina in his house debut, and tried desperately to suggest dynamic drama even where the composer offered little excuse for it.

The singers struck their stylized poses dutifully and hung by their scary wires bravely. They also sang as effectively as their ungrateful challenges and acoustical disadvantages would permit.

Timothy Noble was the properly agonized, compellingly resonant Columbus. Tatiana Troyanos served as his tough and statuesque Isabella. Douglas Perry, an old Glass pro, doubled effectively in the muted duties of the Scientist and First Mate. Patricia Schuman fared well with the lyric/erotic indulgences of the glamorous Space Captain, not so well with the heroic outbursts.

Kaaren Erickson and Julien Robbins did their assorted spacey things with earthy flair. Jane Shaulis (mezzo-soprano) and Jan Opalach (bass) got their cheap laughs as the matching matrons in tweed.

A small step for the Met. A smaller step for opera . . . .