Aida
Music by Giuseppe Verdi
Libretto by Antonio Ghislanzoni after a scenario by Auguste Mariette
Lyric Opera of Chicago
Conductor, Renato Polumbo
Stage Director, Matthew Lata
A review of the performance on Jan. 28, 2012, with a focus on acquiescence
Authenticity is irrelevant to this opera. In fact, proportion is irrelevant to this opera. And so are elephants. It doesn't matter whether Auguste Mariette, the French archeologist who excavated much of Egypt in the 19th century, invented or passed on or tweaked the story of Aida. Neither does it matter that Verdi's opera, based on Mariette's scenario, is grandiose to the point of laughability, that it trudges under the weight of rarely interrupted severity, or that it's set in the Old Kingdom of Egypt. What does matter is Verdi's criticism of mindless obedience to consuetudes, of rabid and contemptuous self-importance, and of surrender to ignorance and bigotry, all of these being inveterate human failings that have no respect for time or place. So, this opera isn't about ancient Egypt. And it's not about love. It's about dark primitive instincts, cruelty included, that formalize themselves into a social order. It's about popular delusion and the power of inculcation to make that which is irrational seem natural. It's about submission to forces misidentified and misinterpreted as fate. And it's about regretting transgressions when it's too late to prevent or mitigate their damage. All in all, Aida is a dark fairy tale -- an allegory for tragic resignation -- with an unhappy ending and no more than a whisper of redemption.
In brief, the story of Aida starts with an announcement from the high priest Ramfis that the goddess Isis has nominated Radamès, a young captain of the guard, to become commander-in-chief of Egypt's army, which will soon mobilize to fight invading Ethiopian forces. However, Radamès is in love with Aida, an Ethiopian slave girl, who happens to be the daughter of Ethiopia's king, though she's heretofore kept her origins secret, even from Radamès. He intends to take Aida as his wife if his forces are victorious, but Amneris, Pharoah's monstrously conceited daughter, has her royal eye on Radamès. Suspicious of Aida, Amneris refuses to withdraw without a fight -- a fight that unfolds as Amneris tricks Aida into confessing her love for Radamès; this confirmation enrages Pharoah's daughter and elicits a death threat from her. The conflict between her duty to Ethiopia and her love for an enemy of her homeland plunges Aida into deep despair.
Radamès leads Egypt's army to victory and returns with his troops to Thebes for a parade. Among the Ethiopian prisoners whom Radamès presents to Pharoah is the King of Ethiopia, Amonasro, who has disguised himself as an officer, though he does identify himself as Aida's father. While the priests demand death for the prisoners, the people beseech Pharoah to set them free. Radamès asks him to release the Ethiopians while the high priest insists on keeping Amonasro and Aida as hostages. Making matters worse, Pharoah gives Radamès Amneris' hand in marriage, a decision that worsens Aida's anguish.
Amonasro asks Aida to reveal Radamès' war plans, but she refuses. Radamès appears on the scene, and Amonasro retreats into the shadows to hide. Aida urges Radamès to do his duty and marry Amneris, but he responds by declaring his love for Aida. She suggests they flee to Ethiopia, and he agrees. At this point, however, she asks him about the route his troops will take, and Amonasro, still hiding, listens as Radamès discloses this military information. Amonasro bounds forth smugly and reveals his true identity as Ethiopia's king. Aghast at what he's done, Radamès surrenders to the approaching guards as Amonasro and Aida bolt.
Amneris finds herself torn between her love for Radamès and the loathing that Radamès' treason has stirred within her. Even so, Amneris promises him a pardon if he renounces Aida. Radamès rejects her offer and undergoes a trial, all the while remaining silent to the accusations against him. Despite Amneris' pleas for mercy, Ramfis condemns Radamès to death by vivisepulture. As Radamès quietly awaits death in his crypt, Aida suddenly appears beside him, having secreted herself inside before it was sealed. And in the temple above them, Amneris prays for Radamès' soul as the curtain falls.
Verdi uses the genuine and abiding love of Aida for Radamès as a foil to the misanthropy around them. As a victim of various injustices, she embodies higher human virtues and represents the consequences of social brutality. Radamès, by contrast, is motivated by an exaggerated sense of "honor", which includes his station in society, his values, and his image before others. It shapes his "love" for Aida into a desire for the challenge of crossing a strict social boundary, and tempts him with the pride, somewhat perverted, that might come from sacrificing that love later to preserve his honor. In this production by Lyric Opera, Sondra Radvanovsky played Aida on the edge between delicacy and resilience. Her Aida was heavy with fear and sadness, but buoyed by a peacefulness that must have come from resignation to a world that failed to nurture the highest qualities in human beings. Radvanovsky's voice, however, wasn't to my taste: her tone was breathy, her vibrato sometimes unsteady, and her timbre reminiscent of Maria Callas. In the role of Radamès, Marcello Giordani was suitably rugged and valiant, and conveyed the impression of an overly principled man too quick to react to any question or dilemma. But his singing was often uncomfortable to listen to because of his slow vibrato and the consequent unsteadiness in pitch.
The finest performance of the evening came from Jill Grove as Pharoah's daughter, Amneris. This character is difficult to portray well, both because stereotype is within easy reach and because Amneris' already-twisted passions invite distortion. Even trickier is convincing us of the sincerity of her recognition that what drove Radamès to his death was her own destructive jealousy, an epiphany that falls short of redemption because what finally opens her eyes is not Radamès' suffering, but hers:
E in poter di costoro io stessa lo gettai!
Ora a te impreco, atroce gelosia, che la sua morte e il lutto eterno del mio cor segnasti!
"And into their power I myself delivered him!
Now I curse you, heinous jealousy, who showed the way to his death and to the everlasting grief in my heart!"
Nevertheless, Amneris' attitude starts to murmur redemption upon realizing the ugly truth about the world she inhabits:
A lui vivo la tomba... Oh, gl'infami!
Né di sangue son paghi giammai...
E si chiaman ministri del ciel!
"Alive in the tomb... Oh, the wicked men!
Never are they satisfied with blood...
And they call themselves 'ministers of heaven'!"
Grove was equally effective at puerile narcissism and seasoned awareness. I believed the tantrums of her Amneris early on, just as I did the jeremiads at the end, largely because of Grove's very expressive singing, which was smooth and liquid, engaged with the text, and integrated with Amneris' evolving personality. Her voice was especially beautiful in the lower register, where its richness and darkness served all of her character's extreme emotions. In Grove's insightful vocal nuances, I heard Amneris' petulance, desperation, grief, and anger -- and, ultimately, remorse. This singer has an emotionally protean instrument that I look forward to hearing again soon.
Lyric managed well this opera's juxtaposition of scenes that are intimate or rapturous against those that are stately or titanic. Even more impressive was their accent on the division between private life and public life in this story, that is, the division between soul and social status. This accentuation stirred a feeling of gradual social isolation, progressing from the monumentality of Memphis in the opening scene, with its palaces and noisy crowds, through less-majestic settings in subsequent scenes, to the confining crypt in the final scene, where we come face-to-face with the couples' souls -- the apex of their alienation -- as they surrender to their only remaining recourse, which is the belief that their hope for happiness lies in the afterlife.