Has the news not yet reached Russia that the Black and White Minstrels syndrome is now not only outmoded, but also ideologically questionable? Apparently not - for the Kirov's production of Aida features a number of figures sporting frizzy wigs and unevenly spread dollops of a substance once known as "boot black". They're meant to represent Verdi's Ethiopians, who, of course, include the titular heroine. In addition to the dodgy paint - it started smudging in the final scene - she also wears dangly gold earrings like the servants in Gone With the Wind. This, presumably, is supposed to tell us that Aida herself is meant to be a slave. Meanwhile, groups of comparably clad extras, looking as if they wished they were on Mars, totter around as they heave their Egyptian overlords about on litters.
Given that the opera is a study of the destructive power of concepts of nationhood, race and empire, this is disastrous. Alexei Stepaniuk's kitsch staging, however, side-steps every issue the work raises by attempting to reconstruct a 1910 Tsarist production, complete with all its vast, monumental art nouveau paraphernalia. The Egyptians aren't any more convincing than their Ethiopian counterparts. Bevies of dancing girls in crinkly body stockings abound. The Egyptian soldiers wear silver jelly moulds on their heads. At one climactic point, Radames's fetching purple snood started to slide off. Viktor Lutsiuk's dramatic intensity in the role was such that he spent several moments rescuing it rather than getting involved with the scene.
His singing left a bit to be desired, too. Celeste Aida, delivered with a vibrato that flapped around the notes, was greeted with a stony silence when it should bring the house down. A similar response met Olga Sergeeva when she floppily essayed Ritorna Vincitor. To give them their due, the pair achieved a measure of steadi ness and commitment once past the interval. The only performance of international stature was the Amneris of Larissa Diadkova, opulently voiced and wildly thrilling.
Valery Gergiev's conducting had moments of electrifying beauty, but coordination between stage and pit was distressingly ramshackle.
At times I was close to laughter. Perhaps I should have cried - for the mess inflicted on one of the finest of all operatic tragedies, and for a once great company that seems to have lost its form.
At the Royal Opera House tomorrow.
Box office: 020-7304 4000.
Related articles:
11.07.2001: Desperately disappointing Kirov
02.07.2001: The world's greatest opera company
02.07.2001: Cabbages and rings
