Donald Trump and Mozart's opera Don Giovanni

Sunday 22 March 2026

There are moments in opera when the boundary between theatre and moral philosophy dissolves entirely—when the stage ceases to be a place of diversion and becomes instead a tribunal. Such is the enduring power of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s Don Giovanni, a work that has, for more than two centuries, invited audiences to confront the spectacle of charisma unrestrained by conscience. Recently performed at the Lviv National Opera House, the opera acquires a renewed immediacy when viewed through the lens of contemporary political figures, none more provocative than Donald Trump.

Don Giovanni, the libertine nobleman who seduces, deceives and destroys without remorse, is not merely a character—he is a principle. He represents the triumph of appetite over restraint, of will over law. His defining trait is not simply his transgressions but his refusal to acknowledge them as such. He does not repent because he does not recognise the authority of any moral order beyond his own desires.

This is where the comparison with Trump becomes instructive, if not entirely comfortable. Trump’s political persona has long been characterised by a similar defiance of constraint—legal, institutional and rhetorical. Like Don Giovanni he thrives on spectacle, on the cultivation of personal magnetism that draws followers even as it alienates critics. His public life has been a succession of confrontations with norms—truth, decorum, constitutional limits—each treated not as binding frameworks but as obstacles to be circumvented or dismissed.

The Lviv production, set against the grandeur of the Opera House’s gilded interiors, emphasises the seductive power of Don Giovanni’s charm. He is not a crude villain; he is compelling, even admirable in his audacity. This is essential to understanding his downfall. The audience must feel the pull of his charisma in order to grasp the scale of his moral failure. So too with Trump. His appeal, particularly to those disillusioned with established political systems, lies precisely in his willingness to flout conventions that others treat as sacrosanct.

Yet Mozart’s opera is not a celebration of such defiance. It is a warning. The figure of the Commendatore—dragged from death itself to confront Giovanni—embodies the inevitability of reckoning. No matter how long Giovanni evades consequence, the moral universe of the opera insists upon eventual justice. The final scene, in which Giovanni is dragged into hell, is not merely theatrical spectacle; it is the restoration of order.

In drawing a parallel with Trump one must tread carefully, for the comparison is allegorical rather than literal. Trump is not an operatic character, nor is contemporary politics a morality play with predetermined outcomes. Nevertheless there is a resonance in the idea of a figure who appears for a time to operate beyond consequence, only to encounter the limits of that illusion.

Trump’s political and legal entanglements—investigations, indictments, electoral defeats—suggest a form of delayed accountability. Whether this constitutes a true “dragging into hell” is a matter of interpretation. Unlike Don Giovanni, Trump currently continues to command a loyal following, and his narrative remains unfinished. Yet the accumulation of consequences—legal, reputational, institutional—does echo the operatic logic that no defiance can persist indefinitely without cost.

What is perhaps most striking in the Lviv performance is the audience’s reaction. There is, at first, a certain complicity—a willingness to be entertained by Giovanni’s excesses. But as the opera progresses, that complicity gives way to unease. The laughter becomes strained, the admiration tinged with apprehension. By the time the Commendatore arrives, the audience is prepared, even eager, for the restoration of moral order.

This trajectory mirrors, in some respects, the public response to Trump. Initial fascination, even amusement, gave way in many quarters to concern about the implications of his style of leadership. The very qualities that made him compelling—his disregard for convention, his rhetorical aggression—became sources of instability.

Mozart’s genius lies in his refusal to simplify. Don Giovanni is neither wholly monstrous nor redeemable. He is human in his excess, recognisable in his flaws. This complexity is what allows the opera to speak across centuries, and what makes the comparison with contemporary figures so potent. Trump, like Giovanni, is a product of his environment as much as a shaper of it—a reflection of societal currents that reward spectacle and defiance.

And yet the opera insists upon a conclusion. Giovanni’s refusal to repent seals his fate. Offered the chance to change he declines, choosing instead to remain true to his own nature even as it leads him to destruction. This is the ultimate moral of the work: that freedom without responsibility is not liberation but self-annihilation.

Whether modern politics will provide an equivalent resolution remains uncertain. There is no Commendatore to emerge from the grave, no divine hand to enforce justice. Instead there are institutions—courts, electorates, the slow machinery of law and public opinion. These mechanisms are less dramatic, less immediate, but they serve a similar function: to impose limits on those who would otherwise act without restraint.

The Lviv Opera House’s staging of Don Giovanni thus becomes more than a cultural event. It is a mirror, held up to the present, reflecting enduring questions about power, accountability and the seductions of charisma. In the figure of Don Giovanni we see not only a character from the eighteenth century, but a pattern that recurs in different forms, in different contexts.

And in the shadow of his final descent, we are reminded that no matter how compelling the performance, the reckoning—whether theatrical or political—remains an inescapable part of the human story.