Power and passion

The overture begins with soft and almost wistful strings creating an atmosphere of tentative beauty, like a mist entering as the sun rises—a subtle, dark, and pensive beginning to an opera not characterized by a great deal of subtlety—before the full orchestra comes in a gigantic blast, then recedes again. The curtain opens on uniformed men in a war room, bustling with strategy as one officer, Radamès (tenor Russell Thomas), conflates his ambition for victory and rank with conquest of the heart.

Aida
Through 4/7: Wed 3/13 2 PM, Sun 3/17 2 PM, Wed 3/20 7 PM, Sat 3/23 7:30 PM, Tue 3/26 7 PM, Fri 3/29 7 PM, Mon 4/1 7 PM, Thu 4/4 2 PM, Sun 4/7 2 PM; audio description, touch tour, and SoundShirts available at 3/17 performance; Lyric Opera, 20 N. Wacker, 312-827-5600, lyricopera.org, $59-$319; in Italian with English subtitles

Giuseppe Verdi’s 1871 Aida, with libretto by Antonio Ghislanzoni, is the drama of two nations at war. It is also the story of a love triangle: the princess of each opposing land and their incompatible desire for the same military captain. Why are they in love? Why are they at war? Why does Isis choose Radamès to lead Egypt against Ethiopia? Ours is not to reason why. A hundred bodies flood the stage and a hundred voices join in a thunder of bloodlust crying, “Guerra! Guerra! Guerra!”

Because (as stated) this opera is not subtle, there is a good princess and a bad princess—humble Aida (soprano Michelle Bradley), captive from Ethiopia and now enslaved in Egypt, and haughty Amneris (mezzo-soprano Jamie Barton) of Egypt, who assures Aida that she thinks of her “like a sister” while hollering asides that let even the dead know she does not (“Trema, o rea schiava!” meaning “tremble, evil slave,” she sings right at Aida—no one here has a filter.) Like many with power and position without having to work much for it, Amneris is insecure and spends a great deal of energy trying to catch people in acts of betrayal, like Radamès going for Aida, and vice versa. Her instinct isn’t wrong, but one wonders if she might have better uses for her wiles. But perhaps such is being a woman in 1871 or “the past” (per the program synopsis).

Alas, Amneris is denied her due role as Egypt’s chieftainess of espionage, and Radamès is the one who goes to war, bringing back prisoners that happen to include Aida’s father Amonasro (baritone Reginald Smith Jr.), who pleads for their release into the wasteland that remains after ravages of war. The King (bass Wm. Clay Thompson) offers Radamès anything he’d like for his victory. High priest Ramfis (bass Önay Köse) doesn’t advocate for mercy, and the King offers Amneris’s hand in marriage as consolation, detonating a colossal explosion of gold glitter in a shock and awe spectacle that once more clouds the passions of love and war.

Outside the temple, Aida and Radamès meet and plot to run away together. Aida manages to secure information about Radamès’s troops, which Amonasro uses to rally his own. Amneris (and Ramfis) catch the exchange of information and accuse Radamès of treason—for which he will be buried alive. Aida also demonstrates secret agent potential when she manages to dig her way into the impenetrable tomb where he will perish. Unfortunately this talent is wasted on a man too cowardly to admit his alleged love for her in front of the governing royals of Egypt, and they die together under the feet of Amneris, surviving in the shambles of her ruined and regrettable life, wishing for peace.

As the princesses, Bradley and Baron have powerful voices that tower over the crowd, the chorus, Radamès, and the orchestra (conducted by Enrique Mazzola), like rockets shot over fields of so many dandelions—to hear them dominate in sound if not in story is truly awesome. Despite the immensity of the spectacle, the staging by Francesca Zambello is curiously static—the main characters hardly budge as they sing of love, death, valor, and betrayal. Instead, swarms of chorus members, supernumeraries, and set pieces wash in and out like tides, perhaps reflecting the inevitability of tragedy in patriarchal, militant nations.

The artistic design work of RETNA abstracts hieroglyphs, calligraphy, and ideographs to create a visual language that impresses without speaking. Dances by Jessica Lang performed by a small army of soldiers and a single feminine figure (a bit drowned in the flowing pleats of her costume) provide light and balletic counterpoint to the stolidity of the staging, a visual testament to the homoerotic frivolity of war.