(Photo: Ken Howard / Met Opera)

The curtain rose on Egyptian tombs. In the center, a rope came down and with it an archeologist. As he reached the bottom to get off the rope, he fell to the ground, the sound of his body crashing over the delicate violins that opened the prelude to Verdi’s Aida.” That was not supposed to happen.

The man in question got up fortunately unscathed, but for the first few moments of the night, the spell was immediately broken. It would serve as an ample metaphor for the rest of what was a hotly anticipated New Year’s Eve gala.

Excavating Nothing New

Michael Mayer’s production seems aimed at celebrating different interpretations of “Aida,” including the Sonia Frisell production it replaced. That production stood tall for over 30 years with both grandeur and simplicity. A production that featured massive and imposing sets, but also managed its vertical space, horizontal space, and depth quite well. The big victory scene at the end of Act two is quite similar in its visual layout with the army entering from left to right before settling in the center of the stage. This scene was by the far the best executed of the entire show, if only for how it used the vertical and horizontal space ( a rarity throughout the show) and the depth; it felt like a visual painting rather than a two-dimensional hand-drawing that the more intimate scenes evoked with a comprised and flatter use of space. The big scene also included a fantastic ballet for the soldiers that managed the line of kitsch quite well, even if overstepping it at moments.

I don’t usually like to compare productions with those that preceded them, but given that Mayer reportedly even used columns from Frisell’s production as parts of his set design, it is clear that he is beholden to that expectation from the audience. As one of the core blockbusters of the repertoire, you want a production that is easily rewatchable and not an assault on your senses in the way of something like last season’s “Carmen” or even Mayer’s own Disneyfied “Traviata.” So by retaining much of what worked from Frisell’s for his own, he manages success, especially by the unfortunate standards he has set for himself throughout his Met career. In sum, it is often pleasing to watch and not offensive in the least to those seeking a “traditional” Aida production with flashy costumes and a semblance of ancient Egypt.

That might then lead to the question of what – why replace a standard classic if you’re not going to introduce something new? Especially when the company is constantly making headlines for economic hardship. Well, what’s new here is the archeological dig in which the tombs get ransacked for their gold. Imperialistic behavior in an opera about imperialism in both its text and even metatext. Interesting? Possibly. Archeology is meant to reveal the undiscovered, relate the stories of the past with a new perspective. This metaphor has ample room to build with and grow into and at times I felt that perhaps, even if it was also another Disneyfication, that the archeological dig would lead us to the site of Aida and Radamès’ buried souls, their love still keeping them alive and that the diggers would free them, thus asserting the transcendence of love through time and space. Or if not that, some new thematic revelation about the opera, about imperialism, about exoticism, about… something. But alas, Mayer didn’t bring his idea to any sort of discernible conclusion. Once Act two ended, only a couple of archeologists, a man and woman who had been “flirting” throughout the dig, stuck around to check out more stuff. They would emerge on the sidelines in the final scene, staring at each other as Amneris committed ritual suicide in the vein of Cio-Cio San. What did they uncover? Nothing.

It was later, while remembering that Mayer is a musical theater guy, that I recalled “Aida” the musical and that its framing device is about a couple meeting at a museum and then getting whisked off to Ancient Egypt as Amneris tells them the story of the fated lovers. At the end, spoiler alert, these people are revealed as the modern incarnations of Radamès and Aida with Amneris providing the coup de théâtre. Perhaps Mayer was trying to make that connection by having the two archeological lovers standing there staring at each other, but the blocking was so distant and non-commital that I don’t know if I am giving Mayer too much credit by assuming that he was inspired by another “Aida” to try and validate his production at all. In sum, he went nowhere with the concept. It felt unfinished. And the archeological dig ultimately didn’t reveal any new ideas or layers to Verdi’s “Aida.”

Regarding more technical matters, the blocking, as is often the case in a Mayer production, was not great and at times haphazard. Radamés comes on just as the prelude enters its coda, but the arrival felt too early and awkward. Likewise, Aida shows up during the tail-end of “Celeste Aida,” and stands there only to be shoved off stage once Amneris shows up. She then comes back and is reintroduced in the opera but the effect is gone. The first counsel scene is flat in its layout with no use of verticality, thus placing the King on the margins of the stage instead of a place where we can validate him visually as the king. The use of depth is stronger in the ritual scene thereafter, but the flat use of space and clothesline blocking rears its ugly head during the Amneris scene to top off Act two. Act three is full of flat use of space and Amonasro also makes an awkward entrance during the Aida-Radamès scene right after she suggests that her and her love “fuggir.” If the intention was for Amonasro to stop Aida from her line of thinking, there were certainly other ways of doing it than to have him awkwardly enter and then disappear right away without saying or doing anything. The rest of the opera proceeds in much the same way.

Mayer’s production was passable, especially by his standards. Whether the execution justified its own existence is certainly a question for those managing the precious purses of the Met Opera’s budget.

But something else on the evening was not passable by any opera company’s standards.

Gross Mismanagement

Piotr Beczala’s night was nothing short of unfortunate. Any tenor that takes on “Aida” is subjected to the monstrous challenge that is “Celeste Aida,” a vocal minefield with difficult ascensions to three high B flats, including a historical controversy on how to approach the final one; Verdi writes pianissimo in the score, but some tenors opt for a thunderous finale while others, notably Franco Corelli, diminuendoed heroically from forte to piano. Meanwhile, other tenors simply stumble their way through as they warm up their voices for a long night of passaggio singing and outbursts to the tenorial stratosphere.

Unfortunately, none of that mattered here because from the off, it was clear that the Polish tenor was not in his best voice. He posted to social media days before to state that he was battling a cold and that he would do his best to get to opening night. A year ago, he was in the same situation for “Carmen,” but canceled opening night and subsequent performances. I would not be surprised if the tenor cancels coming shows, and if this is the case, the audience that gathered on New Year’s Eve, the big headline event, ended up with the short end. If they came to hear Beczala, they didn’t get him anywhere near his best. And if they came for Verdi, the tenor lamentably shortchanged them there as well.

“Celeste Aida” was passable in so much as the tenor got through the aria, not unscathed, but at least with some semblance of his muscular voice and suave phrasing. But it was clear he was negotiating his vocal resources and the final high B came out as little more than a soft whisper, the voice disembodied but hardly floated. The tenor navigated the ensuing trio well enough and did his utmost throughout the second scene of Act one. It was in the triumphal scene where things started to get concerning, the tenor’s middle solid, but the highs starting to fray more and more. I noticed that he stopped singing during the major choral moments at the end of that scene, mouthing the words instead.

That should have been the end of his night.

But alas it wasn’t. General Manager Peter Gelb came out during the intermission to announce that the tenor was sick and would continue. It was one of the worst decisions I have seen at the Met in a long time.

(First off, Gelb should have made that announcement BEFORE the performance to give Beczala some modicum of respect and the audience context for his struggles. There were likely several audience members who weren’t glued to the relevant social media accounts to know that the tenor was ill and could have easily questioned his overall quality as an artist on the balance of his first half performance. Not to mention that without context it’s easy to question the tenor in the role AND the company’s decision to cast said tenor in that role, which would result in an unfair assessment of the casting directors. All easily avoided with a preemptive announcement.)

What ensued in the second half was disrespectful to everyone in the theater, Beczala included. There’s an infamous recording of José Carrera’s voice imploding halfway through “Celeste Aida” that has become an unfortunate source of ridicule for the famed tenor and opera singers in general. That clip embodies the rest of Beczala’s night. From the start of “Pur ti Riveggo,” the tenor could not get above an F comfortably, his voice fizzling out or cracking on every single high note. By the end of the duet, he was bringing passages down the octave. This is the kind of thing you hear during a rehearsal when a singer is covering. This is not what people pay big bucks for at a gala. It only worsened in the ensuing trio. By the end of Act three, I figured – “he tried, it didn’t work. Let the cover come in and finish off the night.” And when Radamès is thrown to the ground for the start of Act four, his face hidden briefly, I had hope for a new tenor. But alas, Beczala remained, continuing to negotiate his voice throughout the Amneris duet, clearly not even trying for the high notes anymore, undercutting the music in the process, and undercutting his colleagues as well. It became a distraction. I was wondering what he would do next on the upcoming high passage, preparing to hear it mangled as he grasped at vocal straws for another high note or simply transposed it to something unrecognizable as Verdi. You were nervous for the guy instead of immersed in the experience. For lack of a better word, it became sabotage. It was courageous of Beczala to try and gut it out, to a certain extent. The first half was that extent. Act three was stretching those limits, but I would have retained respect for the choice if he had withdrawn at the start of Act four. But if your voice is not up to par and you are hindering the quality of the performance at the supposed most renowned opera house in the world, then being a team player would require you to step aside. In sports, you don’t keep an injured or even subpar player in a game if it’s bringing down the whole team. And if Beczala fought to stay in the game despite his vocal struggles augmenting by the second, then he did it to the detriment of everyone else. It’s egotistical. And that’s disappointing because Beczala is widely known as an artist of generosity and warmth.

But even if the tenor forced his way onto the stage for Act three and four and was allowed to perform in suboptimal conditions, thus compromising the artistic quality and merit of the entire company, then this is an indictment of the leaders of the Met for having no quality control. Because at the end of the day, who does this decision benefit? Not Beczala, whose artistry and voice were compromised. Not the rest of the cast, whose far superior performances were sabotaged. Not the company, which was embarrassed in the hall and worldwide on its radio broadcast. And certainly not the audience, who deserve some modicum of artistic quality. If you have a cover in good health on hand, this is the move you make. At that point, it’s not about salvaging a performance but of elevating its quality. Imagine the tenor of this article if that cover was allowed onstage. This segment of the article would focus on how Beczala tried his best, gave it his all for the audience, but when it was clear he couldn’t go further, another tenor came through for the team. Or that Beczala remained onstage, mouthing the text while another tenor sang in his place, a team effort to finish the night. I wouldn’t even bring up management’s foibles. But alas, there is no hero in this story. Not Beczala and certainly not management. And as for that cover who was likely there waiting, imagine the message this sends – management preferred and trusted a tenor that could barely phonate over him, the person whose job is literally to step up in the event of that very circumstance. As an audience are we then to surmise that there are no serviceable tenors ready to cover / sing “Aida” at the Met? I dread even considering the other possibility that management didn’t even have a cover on hand with a tenor sick for over a week, per his own admission. That is the definition of gross mismanagement. A botched operation if there ever was one.

But honestly, I don’t put it all on management. This management has been in place since 2006. We know what it is – its strengths and considerable weaknesses. But someone has given it carte blanche to run the show. If you’re given power and control, you wield it to the best of your abilities. So at this point, I put it on the people that permit said license to lead – the Met Opera Board of Directors, who stand by idly and do nothing but hand out contract extensions to management. They own this debacle because they support the decisions of management. They are saying that putting and keeping a clearly sick tenor that is far from his best out on stage for a gala passes as acceptable artistic quality at the Met. They are admitting that this is what the Met audience deserves. That it is okay for them to pay for suboptimal performances.

We may never know what happened but the Met Opera Board of Directors owes the audience members who paid to be there, to celebrate the end of 2024, an explanation as to why they were forced to endure a performance by a major star that wouldn’t pass muster at non-professional companies. Otherwise, you’re just lowering the artistic bar for everyone. And in that case, the Met Opera deserves not only better management but a better board of directors.

The True Heroes of the Night

I have tremendous admiration for the artists who had to endure this situation, namely Angel Blue, Judit Kutasi, and Quinn Kelsey. It was so clear that they were there for Beczala throughout their scenes together, supporting him through his struggle but never negotiating their own artistic quality. Never have the words “you are as strong as your weakest link” been truer and these artists, who gave great performances in their own right, were unfortunately always secondary to that situation.

It’s especially disheartening considering that Angel Blue gave a beautiful interpretation of Aida, both vocally and with her physical embodiment of the character. There was grace in her step as she appeared during “Celeste Aida,” mitigating the awkwardness of the blocking somewhat. Then there was conflicted submissiveness in her interactions with Amneris. Her voice rode the wave of the opening trio, blossoming during that gorgeous melody on “No, sull’afflitta patria,” the many G# that initiate phrases throughout the passage rich and vibrant. The first B natural boomed over the ensemble with authority. The soprano’s ample vocal resources came into greater prominence in the ensuing scene where Aida, singing in syncopation to the rest of the ensemble (a brilliant touch by Verdi to isolate her musically), cut through with clarity and brilliance. But her first touchstone moment came in “Ritorna Vincitor,” which in the hall, came through gloriously. The soprano injected power and bite into the opening stanzas of the aria, her voice becoming increasingly aggressive on “Struggete le squadre, Dei nostri oppressori,” the soprano holding up her fists, the anger palpable in both voice and body. But just as she seems ready to explode with fury, Aida catches herself and here Blue’s voice softened as she recalled her love for Radamès. There was agitation in her voice as she swiftly proceeded through “I sacri nomi di padre, d’amante,” her legato lines smooth and silky. Even more impressive was the weeping nature of her “Numi pieta,” heartbreaking in its execution and sublime in its elegance and vocal evenness. The ascent to the climactic A flat on “Ah, pietà” was cathartic and the perfect capstone to a breathtaking rendition of this iconic aria.

She was similarly potent in her showdown with Amneris in the following act, the voice initially more aggressive and opulent, especially on the high notes that accompany the two revelations about Radamès’ fate, but then softer and more gentle as she pled her case to her rival throughout “Tu sei felice, tu sei possente.” Her final reprisal of “Numi pietà” also featured a stronger vocal presence, the pleading almost demanding in its intensity.

The titanic nature of Blue’s voice was on full display in Act two, scene two where the soprano was omnipresent, even with the entire ensemble and orchestra at its loudest. There was one strange moment vocally and it happens to be a solo transition midway through the concertato wherein the soprano sings a series of triples descending from a high B flat (sung with a glorious pianissimo by Blue). The initial part of the passage was beautiful in its execution but then at some point, the soprano added a strange accent in the middle. On stage, she was reaching out to beg the King, and her voice seemed to intone this pleading, but musically it came off as jerky and out of place. I bring it up because it was the only moment throughout the entirety of the interpretation where I felt that Blue missed the mark. Otherwise, it was a sublime combination of vocal and dramatic cohesion that made you feel that she was truly Aida.

Act three was undeniably her finest moment with “O patria mia” elegance embodied. In the hall, the soft approach of her high notes resonated gloriously and the rest of the aria featured luxurious legati and an evenness throughout her register.

But she upped her game even more for the Act three confrontation with Kelsey’s Amonasro, always the clear favorite for the best moment of any “Aida” performance if the two singers are up to the task. And they most certainly will. Blue’s elegance remained throughout “Rivedrò le foreste imbalsamate,” combining beautifully with Kelsey, who was at his most gentle vocally, caressing each line. It was both touching, but given Amonasro’s character, also slimy in its manipulative suggestion. He increased that aggressive element slowly as he goaded Aida, always hovering over her, following her, his eyes glued to her, his voice rising until he proclaims “Tu stessa.”

But once the music shifts as Aida pushes back, Blue’s voice thunderous, Kelsey’s voice took on another level and his “Su, dunque!” rose to a different stratosphere. Few baritones today manage this passage with the same level of elegance, aggressiveness, clarity, and volume, as Kelsey does. Blue retorted with similarly fiery but pained “Ah padre! Pietà,” her voice climaxing in a gutwrenching high B natural. Kelsey capped the passage with one of the most violent dagger strikes of a “Non sei mia figlia! Dei Faraoni tu sei la schiava!” And from there, Blue’s low voice was allowed to soar; there was a particular bite and resentment on “Padre, a costoro schiava non sono” and you could feel Aida’s weeping through Blue’s vocalism. When Kelsey re-emerged, he came through with the suavest legato we’d heard from his thus far; there was no manipulation or double agenda – it was bel canto beauty, the line allowed freedom to blossom. Blue’s “O patria mia, cuanto mi costi” was spell-binding in its primal expression of pain.

I unfortunately can’t go into the same level of depth for the duet with Beczala, because I couldn’t focus as much on Blue’s performance. She sounded as solid as she had throughout and her high notes covered for whatever Beczala was doing. Same goes for both her and Kelsey during the ensuing trio, though again, they played second fiddle. Thankfully, the final scene of the opera features some of Aida’s most glorious musical moments and Blue floated her voice throughout, allowing space for Beczala to try and soften his sound. It often didn’t work, but when it did, it was because Blue’s voice was allowed centerstage. Her piano singing throughout “O terra addio” was lush and breathtaking and I am glad that I was left with that from the performance’s final moments.

Kelsey, as noted, was arresting throughout the duet with Blue and truly allowed Amonasro the opportunity to shine not only vocally but also dramatically. There was a point in their exchange where it became so present that Aida, who is a prisoner to the Egyptians, was now being potentially forced back into an abusive relationship with a father whose hunger for vengeance supersedes his consideration for his child who he has just reunited with. At the same time, his tenderest moments, especially at the end of the duet, were some of the most heartfelt, expressing the love that Verdi’s greatest father figures often demonstrate for their daughters. That added a layer of complexity to that scene. Also noteworthy was Kelsey’s appearance in Act two, scene two, where his initial entrance of the concertato featured his ample and round baritone in all its elegance and refinement.

As Amneris, Judit Kutasi didn’t get off to the best of starts, her voice sounding garbled and muffled during her initial entrance. But once she got warmed up, especially at the start of Act two, the mezzo-soprano provided a solid rendition of the princess. There was potency in her voice throughout her exchange with Blue in their duet, with some unexpected aggressive accents in certain moments giving off the sense of Amneris feeling intimidated and even frustrated and thus needing to force her power. It added an interesting push-pull dynamic to the duet. This was nicely contrasted with her gentle singing at the start of Act three, the sweetest sounds she mustered on the whole evening. But Amneris’ big scene is in Act four. Again, regrettably, her duet with Beczala was marred by the tenor’s presence, but the mezzo made up for it with imposing sound and clean high notes. The high notes were particularly impressive because of how clear they were in comparison to some of the mezzo’s passages, which often sounded a bit muffled in certain instances, thus creating an unevenness in her sound. It didn’t take away from a secure vocal display however and she was undeniably at her finest during “Ohimè! morir mi sento!” a solo passage that takes place in the lower range of the mezzo and ends on her repeating “e in poter di costoro io stessa lo gettai.” Kutasi’s voice wept with the repetitions of this line, the reality of her situation growing more painful by the minute. It allowed for her subsequent eruptions toward the priests to come through with the greatest viscerality. Here, Kutasi threw caution to the winds and embraced the full power of her vocal resources, resounding in the hall throughout. The final A natural rang with desperation into the space, capping a tremendous scene for Kutasi.

Of the other vocal performances, I don’t know what to make of Dmitry Belosselskiy’s Ramfis. He sounded sick and had no discernible ability to project his low notes, a fact that grew more and more complicated as the night wore on. But no one made such an announcement and given that Beczala was announced as ill, one would expect, especially given how troubled the bass sounded in the first part, that he would also get the same respect. But with no such announcement given, then is one to surmise that he simply doesn’t have the vocal resources, as a bass, to sing low notes? The rest of the voice sounded wobbly and skittered along, but at least it projected into the hall. If in fact, if he was sick, and he sounded that way to my ears, this appears to be another example of mismanagement and disrespect for an artist.

Morris Robinson displayed a solid bass as the King and Amanda Batista displayed elegant legato to go along with a delicate soprano as the Priestess.

Confidence in the Score

Those who have read my reviews know that Yannick Nézet-Séguin is not always my cup of tea in the standard repertory and especially Italian operas. And while I don’t think it was a flawless performance (I have to wonder how much of the Beczala situation was also on him, the MUSIC director, especially since it was the music that was most compromised by the whole thing), this was certainly his most accomplished Verdi interpretation to date. I attribute it to his seeming confidence in the score, in which he let it breathe and sing on its own without attempting to impose indulgent interpretational flourishes. Instead, the tempi were elegant and often propulsive. Some were quicker than expected (the start of the final duet comes to mind) but never interrupted the flow of the piece or its overall architecture. The balance was impressive, especially since a lot of modern conductors have the tendency to overemphasize the brass in the orchestration to the point of nullifying the string texture and thus creating a “banda” sound throughout. The brass was there in abundance, but never to the detriment of the rest of the ensemble. The prelude was beautiful in its gentleness and expansiveness, but I never felt that Nézet-Séguin stretched the tempi to breaking point. I appreciated that the brass in the victory scene were placed in the side balconies right off-stage, allowing a sense of balance and immersion musically. There was general cohesion in the ensemble, especially at some of the most challenging moments in the score. The opening of Act three was nimble but polished. The fortissimo syncopation that leads into the trial scene, a moment that usually sounds like a jumbled mess in the hands of a lot of conductors, was precise and riveting as a result. The coda of Act four, scene one, was quick, but each of the repetitions was increasingly aggressive and appropriately brutal. Subtle details of orchestration also got to shine, including very soft tuba entrances at the start of Amneris’ “Ohimè! morir mi sento!” that often don’t come clean in other performances.

The chorus sounded spectacular throughout the night, especially throughout Act one, scene two and throughout the victory scene. There was a strong sense of balance throughout their scenes.

I honestly think that had Beczala been healthy and in good vocal form, the musical aspects of this performance would have been truly memorable, despite my reservations about the production. But there’s no overlooking the decisions made with regard to Beczala. If the tenor is to cancel subsequent performances because he remains sick, then the company really must apologize to those who, celebrating the end of an old year and preparing for a new one, were made to suffer an ordeal that would have no place at any opera company in the world. Hopefully 2025 is the year the Met Opera’s Board of Directors shows some accountability.