Mr. van Hove’s Don Giovanni (the baritone Étienne Dupuis, not always convincing as a villain) wears a trim suit and tie, and a gun at his waist. He’s a local crime boss or something like it, flashing his firearm and bullying others to get what he wants. You get the impression Leporello isn’t so much his playful servant as a man both afraid and trapped, destined to be a disposable fall guy when the moment comes.

When we first see Don Giovanni, the pathological womanizer is mid-conquest, attempting to force himself on Donna Anna. In the libretto, her father, the Commendatore, challenges him to a duel and is killed. Here, the Commendatore doesn’t even have a weapon: Don Giovanni simply pulls out a gun and casually shoots him. Soon after, in mourning, Donna Anna lays a single rose at the foot of the stage; it remains there the rest of the performance, the only dash of color and a constant reminder of the crime at the heart of this three-hour tale.

But as the set pieces turn and the conquests continue, it’s clear Mr. van Hove is also interested in something else. The other men are worth as much scrutiny as Don Giovanni, the production argues, teasing out the pushy paternalism of Don Ottavio, the class-anxiety machismo of Masetto and the guilt by association of Leporello, endearing though he may be.

By drawing stark opposition between the men and women, Mr. van Hove sets up a more moving, empowering ending for the female characters — one fitting for the #MeToo moment — than you typically get in the opera’s jarringly upbeat coda. (Particularly in the case of Donna Anna, who insists on not marrying Don Ottavio for another year, if at all.)

Not before Don Giovanni is dragged to hell, of course. That climactic scene is rendered here marvelously. After Giovanni and Leporello messy the stage by eating like pigs — flinging pasta and chicken, pouring an entire bottle of wine into a single, overflowing glass — the set’s three buildings snap into a position that shows only their bare, flat sides, which become canvases for increasingly zoomed-in, eventually suffocating video projections of swirling, naked bodies in hell.