The term “grand opera” denotes lyric drama that unfolds in a context of sumptuous décors, costumes, choral masses as well as dancers and hordes of supernumeraries. When people think of grand opera, they almost invariably think of Giuseppe Verdi’s Aida. And the opera does seem to clamour for the Hollywood treatment. Some directors in places like the Baths of Caracalla in Rome, the arena in Verona, and the Palais des Sports in Paris go overboard. They put on eye-popping spectacles that even Cecil B. DeMille would have admired, replete with horses, camels, and even elephants, all the while hoping and praying that these animals will not perform their imperious biological necessities at the most inopportune moments.
When one looks at the score carefully, however, one realizes that Aida is a very intimate drama, and the COC’s new production emphasizes this. Verdi focuses on the heartrending conflict between love and duty, a conflict made all the more tragic because the protagonists are victims of a ruthless totalitarian régime that is determined to crush their fragile chances for happiness. I would like to view the opera with you in this light.
The two lovers, Aida and Radames, strive to resolve this conflict. They long to transcend the nationalist, religious, and political hatreds generated by the war between their opposing sides, but are vanquished by insurmountable odds. Verdi informs us at the very beginning of his opera that the struggle is hopeless. In the prelude, the supplicating, plaintive theme associated with the enslaved Aida is pitted against the stern, implacable motive of the high priest. Even before the curtain rises, then, a climate of tragedy is created.
Now some scholars have given these characters a rather rough ride. Joseph Kerman declared that Aida lives in a state of confusion, and William Berger remarked that of all Radames’ vital organs, his brain is the only one not functioning properly. These comments, I think, are grossly unfair. Granted, neither Radames nor Aida is a multidimensional protagonist, unlike Amneris, and I’ll get to her later. But why should all operatic heroes be psychologically complex? They are more often than not embodiments of a dominant attitude towards existence. Both Aida and Radames exemplify a noble struggle that is doomed to failure, and we can believe in them because Verdi succeeds in breathing intense emotional life into their characters through the marvellous eloquence of his music.
Of the two heroes, Aida is the most conflicted—not confused, as Mr. Kerman asserted—but agonizingly conscious of the fact that there is no way out for her in this life, at least. Indeed, she is drawn and quartered mentally and emotionally between her desperate love for the general who must wage war against her people and her loyalty towards them. This comes out in her famous narrative, “Ritorna Vincitor” (“Return victorious”). How can she urge her lover, Radames, to slaughter her father, brothers, and countrymen who are battling to free Aida from slavery and restore her regal dignity?
Yet how can she exult in the possible death of Radames at the hands of her father’s army? His loving presence has been the only factor that has made her slavery bearable. Her aria resembles a dialogue, with its contrasts of tempo and key modulations describing Aida’s inner struggle between love and duty. Neither of them wins. They are both pulling her apart. Only death can end her anguish. At this point in her narrative, she sings an exceedingly beautiful and plangent melody, “Numi, pieta,” (“Gods, have mercy”) where she begs the gods to release her from suffering. Her prayer foreshadows the conclusion of the opera in which only death will enable the lovers to be united forever. Even the triumphal scene that, in too many productions, degenerates into gratuitous pageantry, underscores the dilemma in which Aida is trapped. In the COC’s production, the scene unfolds like a nightmare that she is living fully awake.
Aida’s other great aria, “O patria mia,” (“My beloved land”) that occurs in the third act also reflects her anguish and belief that a cruel fate has banished joy from her heart forever. Throughout this aria, her lines are introduced, echoed, and occasionally doubled by a long plaintive melody for solo oboe. Here again, is a dialogue, this time between Aida and the sweet memories of her homeland represented by the oboe: the verdant mountains, forests, cool valleys, and perfumed streams. This is a splendid opportunity for the soprano to show her full range, both musically and emotionally.
What would have happened to Aida had her father, Amonasro, not appeared to confront her at that moment? Would it ever have occurred to her to betray Radames by asking him to reveal a crucial military secret? Amonasro acts as a catalyst by exploiting his daughter’s lacerating nostalgia for her country. He is the living embodiment of the spiritual, religious, and moral values Aida cherishes. He represents her visceral attachment to her land, her very selfhood. To subordinate these values to her love for Radames would be tantamount to repudiating herself. Although Aida recoils in horror at the thought of dishonouring her lover, she capitulates. The curses Amonasro spews out at her in short, fierce, fortissimo phrases are too much for her to endure. “You are no longer my daughter,” he thunders, “You are the slave of the Pharaohs.”
In the fourth act, Aida proves the immensity of her love for Radames by choosing to die with him. But at this particular moment, as a result of her father’s relentless pressure, her loyalty towards her homeland silences her feelings of guilt. And so she seduces Radames by conjuring up an entrancing vision of their life together if only he would flee with her. “Let us run away from this inhospitable desert,” she urges. “Let us take refuge in my homeland with its cool breezes and virgin forests.” The melody she sings is caressing, sinuous, languorous, and erotically very alluring. A choir of three flutes accompanies her. They weave their magic around her voice just as they enchant our ears.
Why does Radames hesitate before resolving to flee with his beloved? Why doesn’t he simply escape with her right then and there? The answer is that he, too, is torn between conflicting loyalties. The scene in the Temple of Vulcan where he is invested with the sacred sword leaves an indelible impression on him. Just as Aida cannot repudiate her people and the values they represent, neither can Radames. Only when Aida orders him into the arms of Amneris is he finally persuaded to run off with her
Poor Radames! He always seems to be reacting to situations rather than acting on them. This is probably why the character has been judged the least interesting of all four protagonists in the opera. I would like to try to rehabilitate him with a bit of help from Verdi. One must remember that although he is hailed as a brilliant general, Radames is a very young man and a dreamer. Which means that he can be very unrealistic. The aria he sings at the beginning of the opera, “Celeste Aida,” (“Heavenly Aida”) gives us insights into his nature. This aria has often been described as the terror of all tenors because it requires the utmost vocal refinement to be really successful. It should not be an exercise in stentorian bellowing; it is an ecstatic reverie.
The tenor must negotiate the “portamenti,” or transitions from the lower to higher registers, effortlessly, otherwise, he will sound like a tomcat in mating season. The high b flat at the end must be sung piano (softly) and taper off into silence. Not all tenors can pull this off. But it is necessary to pull this off in order to project Radames’ character to the audience from the very outset. This warrior, an optimist by nature, dreams of a world that simply does not exist. In the third act, he waxes enthusiastic as he tells Aida how he intends to ensure their happiness. Once he defeats her people’s army in a decisive battle, the King of Egypt will not be able to refuse him anything. He will ask for Aida’s hand despite the fact that the King has just betrothed Radames to his daughter, Amneris. Being far more lucid than he is, Aida knows that the plan will fail. Amneris’ ferocious jealousy will see to it that they are both destroyed.
But even Radames, who has blinded himself for so long about the tragic conflict in which he is imprisoned, is forced eventually to acknowledge the hopelessness of his situation. When he does, the intensity of his suffering confers upon him the dignity of a true hero. In the first scene of the fourth act, called the Judgment Scene, Radames possesses the unalterable serenity of a man already beyond life and prepared to die for the woman he adores. The music Verdi gives him here underlines this new magnificent strength of character. Amneris’ pleading and threats leave him totally indifferent.
This brings us finally to Amneris, the proud, haughty princess who is instrumental in the tragedy that befalls Aida and Radames. By and large, Verdi scholars agree that she is the most interesting protagonist in the opera. As far as I’m concerned, if someone could wave a magic wand and transform me for one night into a great diva, this is the role I would probably want to perform.
Amneris has no blockbuster arias to sing. Her vocal line is often declamatory and pugnacious rather than lyrical. In the first scene of the second act, when she worms a confession out of a distraught Aida, Amneris is a conniving, self-righteous, malevolent woman fixated on the notion of entitlement. Yet by the end of the judgment scene in the fourth act, Amneris elicits not only the audience’s pity but sympathy. When performed by a great singing actress, she can bring down the house and sometimes even steal the show.
Why do we find her so fascinating? There are several reasons. In the first place, she is the last in an illustrious line of characters in Verdi’s operas that I would call the Verdian Hellcat. All these women are vengeful furies. This in itself combined with the music the Italian master gives them makes them very exciting indeed. They either want to redress a wrong of which they feel they have been victims or to lash out at those who have grievously wounded their hearts. Some self-destruct in the process. This is what happens to Amneris. When the opera ends, she is crushed by the realization that even her royal power has limits. She will have to live forever with the knowledge that the man she worshipped is happier in death without her than he ever could be in life with her. Secondly, of the four principal protagonists, Amneris is by far the most complex.
This is obvious in her relationship with Aida. I have found a great deal of ambivalence here. Granted, she seethes with jealous fury in the first act when she suspects the young general of being in love with her slave. And her volcanic jealousy fairly erupts in the second act when the hapless Aida inadvertently betrays herself. Yet there exists at the same time a real respect and affection on her part for her rival. Genuine pity seems to cross her heart when she sees Aida’s suffering in both the first and second acts. Unfortunately, it is quickly neutralized by her all-pervading jealousy. Amneris’ complexity also manifests itself in the contrast between her haughtiness as a woman of royal rank and her love for Radames.
When she addresses him in the first act, she revels in her amorous reverie in the second and expresses her feelings about him just before entering the temple in the third, Verdi gives her a meltingly lyrical vocal line. These moments are fleeting, certainly, but they do exist, and a great singer will not fail to emphasize them. The outstanding Amnerises I have seen in my lifetime have skilfully invested the role with a “soupçon de tendresse” as we say in French, a touch of tenderness that it really deserves. Amneris may be a vengeful fury, but she is also a vulnerable young girl hero-worshipping a warrior who will never be hers.
Finally, even more than her complexity, what intrigues us in her character is her ability to evolve. Radames and Aida do not change appreciably during the course of the opera. They are constantly torn between their passion for one another and their loyalty towards their respective homelands. Amneris, on the other hand, executes a quantum leap in the fourth act. At first, she demands of the man she loves that he renounce Aida forever as her condition for saving his life. When he refuses, she furiously orders the guards to lead him back to his cell. But then an upheaval takes place within her heart and mind with a tsunami-like force. Overcome by guilt and remorse, she becomes aware of the fact that she has abused her power, and now it will boomerang back and devastate her. Another revelation comes soon afterward.
As the priests accuse Radames of treason and condemn him to be buried alive, Amneris knows that she cannot eradicate the passion she feels for him even though he has rejected her outright. Her cries of horror and her supplications to the gods as she hears Radames’ sentence being pronounced by the priests testify to this. But Amneris has yet another illumination. She discovers, aghast, that the social and political system of which she is an integral part is cruel, even inhuman. It functions like a steamroller that will crush any opposition to it in the name of an equally heartless form of religion. Hence her furious outburst against the priests when they condemn Radames to death: “Empia razza, anatema su voi. La vendetta del ciel scendera.” (“Impious band, I curse you. May the vengeance of Heaven descend upon you all.”) Here she is haemorrhaging emotionally!
Thus, of the three protagonists, Amneris is also the most tragic. At the end of the opera Aida and Radames are entombed. But at least they die together. Despite their suffering not once do they doubt their love for one another. Amneris’ immurement is far worse. She is entombed in her sorrow and her solitude. She will be tormented forever by her nostalgia for a deep love that could never be reciprocated. The peace that she implores of the gods for Radames’ soul will never be hers.
This grand opera ends, then, as quietly as it had begun. The tragedy that was adumbrated in the prelude has taken place. The voices of Aida and Radames soar in an ineffably beautiful, ethereal melody expressing their conviction that they will be united beyond death in a realm of eternal happiness while Amneris, prostrate with grief, softly utters the word “pace” (“peace”) over their tomb.
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