The Underwear Festival.

Salzburg, Austria

The most important music festival in the world, and what do people want to talk about? The weather, of course. It's hot. Really hot. Record- breaking hot. If we were back home, in the U.S.A., everyone would be saying, "Hot enough for you?" As it is, they simply roll their eyes and fan themselves.

A concert of the Camerata Salzburg takes place in the Mozarteum -- in the Grosser Saal. The windows and doors are shut tight, and there is no air conditioning (to speak of). I nickname the place "the Grosser Sauna." I'm surprised that people aren't taken out on stretchers. The men in the orchestra have their jackets off, an unusual sight. The women are in spaghetti straps and such. Only the conductor -- Leonidas Kavakos, a young Greek -- has his jacket on. He should be applauded for that alone. Or psychologically examined.

For years, people have talked about the need for air conditioning, and not just in the Mozarteum: in all the halls. But somehow, nothing ever changes. Some suspect that this is the way the Salzburg authorities like it: sweaty and stifling. It's part of the experience. The room may be a furnace, but men will wear their dinner jackets anyway -- they need them for their medals. At a public forum, Michael Schade -- the great tenor who is singing the title role of La Clemenza di Tito -- says he wants to start a new party in Austria: the Air Conditioning party. He gets huge applause.

The Salzburg Festival is known as a bastion of tradition, but it should be known -- at least where opera is concerned -- as a bastion of the ultra-modern, not to say the outre. When people complain about the productions, as sometimes they do, they're apt to say, "And in Salzburg, of all places!"

Mozart is the local hero, of course, and three of his operas are on the schedule: Tito, as well as Don Giovanni and The Abduction from the Seraglio. All of these productions are "controversial" -- which is often the polite word for outrageous, which may, in turn, be the polite word for abominable or disgraceful.

Begin with La Clemenza di Tito, an opera that tends to be overlooked in the Mozart oeuvre. Its director is Martin Ku?ej, a hotshot on the Continent, and someone those Salzburg authorities obviously think a lot of: He is set to take over the festival's drama department in 2005.

As his Tito begins, young boys come out in their underwear. What does this mean? Many interpretations have been offered, but I will give you my own. It means, "I'm the director, I can do what I want, to hell with you -- and with Mozart, for that matter." This opening shot is reminiscent of the ads that got Calvin Klein in trouble all those years ago.

You want sex? Ku?ej provides a fair amount of that, because, at this festival, if you don't get sex, you've been shortchanged. There are two couples, composed of four women, because two of the roles are trouser roles. The women -- the women women -- are in their underwear. The grappling that takes place isn't subtle. You've got breast fondling, butt grabbing, lip locking -- the whole nine yards. This is not so much titillating as discomfiting, rude. A more suggestive approach would be sexier. At one point, Sesto -- portrayed by the brilliant Vesselina Kasarova -- grabs at his/her crotch, affecting to tug on something that, in fact, isn't there. Oh, well.

Does anyone dare protest? Well, now and then. But you don't want to protest too aggressively, because you don't want to be labeled a square, a prude, a fuddy-duddy -- someone not cool enough for today's opera. What's wrong with you, anyway? Repressed?

At the end of the opera, Martin Ku?ej brings the boys back -- only this time, they're wearing undershirts, as well as briefs. Not to worry: They are promptly stripped of their shirts and draped over tables, served as sacrifices (or something). A man and a woman are seated at each table, apparently about to dine on the boy. They synchronize their expressions, giving a frozen frown or smile. The effect is utterly creepy, distracting from the denouement that Mozart, and his librettist, Metastasio, have planned. But who cares about them? This is a director's show.

The Don Giovanni, too, is a Martin Ku?ej show -- unveiled for the first time last season. It opens with a large photo across the stage. This features about six girls, lying on their stomachs, their bare behinds to the camera. Two of the girls are playing with each other. You will find this sort of thing in any glossy, New York-based magazine. Once upon a time, it would have been provocative -- now it's rather yawny.

Before long, real girls walk onto the stage, wearing sunglasses and trench coats. (Sunglasses, too, have become a cliche.) These chicks all sport sullen looks, in the manner of models. They quickly remove their trench coats, to reveal their underwear -- in which they will remain for most of the opera. The Donna Anna is in underwear, too; but since she is Anna Netrebko -- the gorgeous Russian soprano -- you might forgive the director.

The stage is dominated by a kind of giant lazy Susan, which spins around to reveal all sorts of strange things. During Leporello's Catalogue Aria, we see a topless lady shaving her legs, football players clashing at the line of scrimmage (I kid you not), and a little girl skipping rope. Is this last creature one of the Don's future conquests? Or a current one? It's a disgusting question, but one such a production makes you ask.

You will have noticed that, so far, I haven't really touched on music. There is a reason for that: We are in the age of "director-driven" opera, so we're told, and the directors have so taken over, with their conceits and stunts, that the singers have been virtually shoved aside, along with the composers. Even so, Thomas Hampson -- the Don -- is a marvel in this production. He is not only the great Don Giovanni of our time, but one of the greatest of all time. Every word, every note, every gesture is right -- a stunning performance.

But back to underwear: As the Don unravels, the pretty girls in their underwear are replaced by old ladies . . . in their underwear. These are women of a certain size, most of them, and they are gotten up (or down) to look as cronish as possible. Happy hell, Don Giovanni!

The third Mozart? You will be relieved to know that The Abduction from the Seraglio does not begin with underwear. No, a couple walks out just as Nature made them. This is FULL FRONTAL NUDITY, as Monty Python used to say. Soon enough, however, they get into their . . . underwear, and then into wedding costumes (don't ask).

The director, this time, is not Martin Ku?ej, but Stefan Herheim -- another hotshot/bad boy. As he rips through Mozart's great opera, he simulates oral sex, and then intercourse. When Osmin and Blonde appear together, he lets them have clothes. But not really. Osmin ties around the girl an apron that depicts . . . "full frontal nudity." Now she appears to be naked, ha, ha, ha. Then Osmin plays with what I believe is a kitchen mixer -- an item with a rod -- waving it just below his waist. Ha, ha, ha, again.

But wait: In due course, Osmin himself gets an apron that is "full frontal" -- male variety. At this point, there are some boos and catcalls, and several people leave (voting with their feet). This, naturally, is countered by ostentatious applauding and bravo-ing -- by people eager to show that they, unlike the dinosaurs, are with the program.

A blunt question: Have directors gone nuts? Maybe they're just bored. Maybe they sit around, with their big budgets and big opportunities, thinking about what they might get away with next. (The answer is depressing, as much for them, probably, as for us: Anything.) If they really wanted to shock, they would conceive a production in harmony with the piece. As they parade around in their underwear and sunglasses -- or have others do so -- you want to shout, "The Emperor has no clothes!" But it's not just the Emperor . . .

I think of something Bill Buckley once said about Norman Mailer: "If only he would lift his gaze from the world's genitals." Yes, if only. But when people like me -- when "conservatives" -- lodge a complaint, we're apt to be told that we are "hung up." In truth, it is the directors themselves who are hung up, and should get over it. As an acquaintance of mine says -- thinking about Osmin and that kitchen mixer (or whatever) -- "Shouldn't we have been through with that by age 14 or so?"

There are other productions on offer here: the late Herbert Wernicke's Don Carlo, for example. It contains no nudity, no underwear. Eboli does have an eyepatch, making Olga Borodina, the great Russian mezzo, look like Moshe Dayan. David McVicar compensates for this relative squareness, however, by purveying -- in his new Tales of Hoffmann -- naked, bloody flagellation, in addition to a string of rapes. How 'bout that?

Don't get me wrong. Salzburg, as usual, is full of magnificent things, magnificent music-making. In a world chock-full of summer music festivals, it is still king, by a wide margin. But this has been an undeniably weird season: the weather, these productions, the dress and undress. A distinguished lady in town informs me that one of the festival's sponsors is Palmers, Austria's leading underwear manufacturer. Isn't that perfect?