Like a prank fallen flat, Jan Philipp Gloger’s 2016 production of “Così fan tutte” is loaded with unfunny clichés the audience always sees coming.

Boasting cardboard imitations of forests, a doctor’s costume making its Despina look like Jesus Christ, huge placards with classic fonts spelling out the Italian words “fedeltà,” “amore” and others, some parts are embarrassing to watch. With the director’s every arduous effort to include a quirky, cute, or whimsical element, we are exposed to what appears to be the kind of banal humor only frat boys at their drunkest could engage in.

The age-old sagacious rule that situation comedy is funny by its situation, rather than the incidental jokes occasionally interspersed to cue a drum-roll – is astray in this bland, unimaginative treatment of the work.

Stating the Obvious

Following the overused, overworked concept that “All The World’s a Stage,” Gloger has approximately half an hour of the opera taking place before the velvet red stage curtain. All one can think of looking up at it is why they are forced to stare at those pale, rugged curvy lines; the imprint of the golden ropes that hold the curtains in their place during performances – here sadly underused. The characters bear programs for the same production we’re attending; even the same cast sheets. It purports to be endearing. For sheer lack of innovation, all it truly looks like is a sham.

Across an empty stage, a Broadway-like sign of electric bulbs reads “Così fan tutte,” only to have three rows from the last letter dimmed to spell “Così fan tutti:” “All women do it” becomes “Everyone does it.” Doubtlessly they do, and doubtlessly Ferrando and Guglielmo, if tested by a couple of seductive women, would yield more quickly than their naïve fiancées and probably regret it less.

But why must a smart audience – or any audience – hear about this concept through a sign of letters? Why not show the two men flirting with some women, ogling them, if such a theme demands its proof? In any case the notion is so obvious, supporting evidence is no requirement.

Other demonstrations of comedic moments scarcely even speak to the humor of “Così fan tutte,” seeking simply to emphasize what’s funny about them in particular: witnessing them is like watching an endlessly self-deprecating, bitterly struggling stand-up comedian. Despina is no maid, but rather the owner of a bar; for half a second she lifts a black board with the words, “Coca, birra, tutto a €5 (“Coke, beer, everything for €5”).” It’s funnier when real-life vendors at the Arena di Verona yell it throughout intermissions. Despina is the Queen of Cool; she treats her own bar as a catwalk and prances about. To the rhythm of the music, soprano Serena Gamberoni must rattle Despina’s musical cocktail shaker. Charming as the sound of one is, it hardly contends to be another instrument of the orchestra – which it seems to be here for a handful of bars.

Ultimately far too many gags try so hard to alert the audience’s attention that spectators remain bored. Onstage there may be squealing and falsetto notes and giggles; in the auditorium, the laughs are few.

Working Through Difficulties

The extent to which the directorial vision impacts the players’ performances remains questionable – but their difficulties are apparent. Tenor Paolo Fanale faltered vocally through his role as Ferrando, struggling with a manifestly precarious higher register. Frequently bordering on or breaking through to falsetto – and not always in the interest of comedy – in his Cavatina “Tradito, schernito del perfido cor,” he barely executed the roundness of some notes. He struggled mightily with the quicker parts of the scales and “le voci d’amor”.

Gyula Orendt’s Guglielmo was better technically sustained; his use of declamatory emphasis in the lower notes of his baritone lent a mock-serious slant to some words. Unfortunately he maintained that kind of comedic approach in his seduction of the unwitting Dorabella, adding a breathy, highly affected and melodramatic quality to the words “T’intendo, furbetta” – “I understand, you little rogue,” after his alleged soldier offers his heart and she (officially) spurns it.

It’s an understandable choice; the 18th-century opera easily fits the profile of commedia dell’arte. Heaped atop of other self-proclamatory aspects of the show, nevertheless, the relentless tongue-in-cheek and self-satisfied nature of Orendt’s Guglielmo – who doesn’t seem to regard the seduction of Dorabella as much as a challenge as merely a joke – became somewhat monotonous.

Most Cynical

Despite being the first to lose her battle with temptation, it is ironically Serena Malfi’s Dorabella who came across as the warier and more cynical of the two. With a smooth legato across most of her propulsive mezzo voice and finely executed staccato and ornaments, Malfi granted her character a somewhat paradoxical interpretation, using the gravity of her instrument to suggest that Dorabella is perhaps not so much guilty for her infidelity as she is contrarily principled in a creed of deliberate hedonism.

Straddling a histrionic quality in her acting, Salome Jicia’s Fiordiligi – with many a strenuous note above the stave – was overemphatically repentant about her betrayal. While her bottom register was well sustained, scales were slippery and she exaggerated with her unstable high notes in “Come scoglio,” involuntarily exposing her weaknesses. Unexpected crescendi across the top register likewise didn’t help them along.

Squawks and Squeaks

Often harnessed by exigencies of Gloger’s loud and proud over-the-top direction, Serena Gamberoni’s Despina was often too wrapped-up in physical antics to sustain solid control over her breathing. While her voice was a silvery, dependable soprano with reliable middle notes, in an effort to crinkle it humorously – especially when Despina assumes the disguise of a doctor – she distorted her instrument to an amusical extent. While twisting the voice is not unheard of in these circumstances, and many a gifted tenor playing “The Barber of Seville’s” Almaviva dressed-up as a nun has done it successfully, Gamberoni’s parody exuded unwanted squawks and squeaks.

As if relegated to the notion that he lacks control over the pantomime onstage, Stefano Montanari took his baton half-heartedly, at times barely arranging his strings to perform in cohesion. Far too frequently the brass tumbled out of proportion, recalling – as always when they’re inconsistent – traffic jam hoots. The woodwinds also struggled to mesh, turning out ditties that didn’t stay in line. Montanari’s solo playing on the fortepiano continuo was much better in comparison, providing what may have been the production’s sole humorous moment: a brief variation on the theme from “Love Story” when Guglielmo and Ferrando first make their phony appearance as soldiers that went mostly unnoticed.

Altogether the veneer of the production speaks volumes about amateur theatre. Some scenes might have caused some raucous laughter in a bar or pub one night – but only among those already merry and inebriated. Lacking a single concept to unite all facets of the direction – unless one counts the idea of, “Oh look – this is funny!”- one wonders why Halloween parties maintain a greater thematic consistency.