Portland Opera's "Aida" - A Retiring Ship's Final Voyage, Holes and All

(reprinted from the Just Out blog)

Iconoclastic stage director Peter Brook once wrote that opera was the “deadliest” of all stage art forms: stuffy, sleepy and doggedly old-school. He could have been writing then about much of what has become of today’s American regional opera movement.

Portland Opera’s “Aida,” playing now through May 17, is a perfect example. The idea, essentially, is this: Hire a director and design team to create a new production – something affordable, transportable and built to last a few seasons of cross-country touring. Opera Company A debuts said production, then trucks it around to Opera Companies B through Z until the sets and costumes wear our their welcome. Then scrap it, and repeat.

Sadly for Portland, this “Aida” – a full decade after its Minnesota Opera premiere – has reached Stumptown, after ten years of touring, on its last stump. The production, tacky and very tired, comes dead on arrival. It’s a shame because Friday night’s musical performance had much to recommend, not least of which was a richly sung portrayal of the title character by soprano Lisa Daltirus and superlative work from the Portland Opera chorus.

In fact, the musical end of the bargain was held up remarkably well by guest conductor Vjekoslav Sutej, who coaxed a lucid and well-paced performance from the orchestra (props especially to the winds) and chorus (Robert Ainsley, ever-reliable chorus master). The cast did variable work with Verdi: Philip Webb’s smartly sung Radames, Keith Miller’s booming Ramfis and Leann Sandel-Pantaleo’s impassioned Amneris were highlights. As Aida, Daltirus tends to flailing in the acting department, but she is a sensitive Verdian: her “O Patria Mia” offered dusky, supple tone with just a slight gleam on top, and plenty of spin.

But even a few well-sung hit arias can’t save this ship; there's a good reason this is the production's last stop before the junkyard. The production’s inanities begin with Aida’s entrance, when we wonder: why is this exotically beautiful Ethiopian slave decked out in a denim skirt with a bedsheet for a sash? The costumes pale, though, in comparison to the Act 3 ill-advised excesses of body paint and hair weave. There is also a 40-feet span golden eagle, much-touted in the opera’s advance publicity, that is indeed a menacing presence, but moves with more purpose than any of the singing actors onstage.

I’m not entirely convinced that stage director Sandra Bernhard ever entered the rehearsal hall (the original production belongs to director Colin Graham, recently passed), though I may be wrong: someone, after all, had to traffic direct in those stage-packed scenes with the chorus, dancers and supernumeraries.

It’s not until the third act that there’s a convincingly acted and sung scene among the principal characters – Aida and her father, Amonasro, finally look each other in the eye in a moment of conflict – and by then it’s too late. Verdi’s sweeping music drama had already passed Portland Opera by; or at least the drama had, if not the music