(Act I of Aida, with the shadow a washed-up lawyer that was sitting clumsily to my left, which will now haunt each successive shot from the opera. *.*)
Opera Chic freely admits that December 7th’s La Prima of Aida was just so exciting and stimulating – the marble lobby of La Scala filled with the exotic perfume of six-century-old European dynasties, the damp leather of Regent Street Church's shoes and moist Valentino black mink stoles mixing in an intoxicating scent of old and new money – that it was almost impossible to distinguish and segregate the subtleties of the actual opera from the illusion of such an evening. For this reason, I am happy that last night, I was able to revisit and revise my initial impressions of the Zeffirelli/Chailly Aida that is currently showing at Teatro alla Scala.
Minus the insane queue to get into the theater, the red carpet, the drizzle, the press, the photographers, the police, the blockade of black Mercedes and surly bodyguards/drivers, the omnipresent maze of iron stanchions, the protestors in Piazza della Scala, and the gawkers, last night’s Aida was still pretty kewl.
This performance was attended by a crowd of fairly equal Milanese echelon, as in, “I’m so rich that I don’t need to know what money is, or even how it works,” along with the entire Missoni clan, including the gaggle of brunette grandkids. Black is really the ultimate rule for these sorts of events, so I went rather incognito in all-black again: black stockings with Louboutin black stilettos, a Jil Sander black cashmere shell dress (I have the same style in like three colors *sticks out tongue*), an Aspesi black 7/8s feather jacket, and I threw all my crap in a black Prada rectangular theatre clutch. This time, I did indeed bring one of my cameras, and I did indeed use it. At La Prima, there was just no way that a camera would even squeeze into my Nancy Gonzalez clutch, better yet knowing that I would not find the plebian nerve to use it in front of so much beefy security and influence.
Into the fray…
(Act II, with the lawyer head again.)
Chailly again, was scruffy and constantly grinning. On the second listen of Chailly, I found his sound rather muddy, cloudy, and murky, with an overall muted interpretation. It wasn’t necessarily sluggish or lethargic, but it was very opaque. Violeta Urmana’s Aida was rather weak last night. I still enjoyed the soprano, with her capacity to sing such sweet notes and then rip into the audience, but she was a bit underwhelming last night. Ildiko Komlosi as Amneris again, completely stole the show. She sang with such fluidity and emotion.
(The lady-bath scene, minus teh sex-ay.)
Oh Fraccaro, how you held the opera together with your bland but adequate stage-presence, singing Radames in your practiced Verdi tenor. I just don’t find Fraccaro all that exciting. He sang well. Um, yeah…If you could just go ahead and make sure you sing in Alagna’s place from now on, that will be great. And uh, yeah, mmmm, Okay?
Last night, Celeste Aida did not get booed, but this Opera Chic was beyond tempted to start mooing her dissaproval, and almost had to clamp her hands over her mouth to quell the urge! Scheduled to sing Ramfis was Orlin Anastassov, but was instead replaced by Giorgio Giuseppini; but who really cares. I mean, honestly, the night was about Celeste Aida and Bolle’s bolle.
(The scene of pre-Bolle appearance, right before the first titanic intermission.)
Again, Frengo managed to pack every single packet of free space on the stage with some sort of golden thing or a chorus/ballet member. It is a true orgy for the eyes. Incense was lit again on stage, and I went home with my hair reeking of sweet smoke, that came out easily with a lathering of kiehl's.
Which brings us to Bolle and his golden thong. I’m sorry, but when you see him on the stage, he is a monster. How did I not report on that before? I think I was more in shock from his bare, tight a$$. Bolle is just a giant. A giant, flesh-colored, beast of a man. Is it because the other ballerinas are so petit? I have no idea, but at any given time, he is just freakishly larger than anyone else dancing on stage. He is impossible to misidentify. Anyway, I have had the pleasure of seeing Bolle recently on the Milan streets (in Corso Garibaldi, he was dressed rather sporty, wearing grandpa-hip black New Balance sneakers, khakis, and a tragically unstylish black pea coat/overcoat), and he doesn't seem as incongruently large as when he is on stage.
(The oasis: Fraccaro and Urmana)
Again, Bolle had a long long long applause for his dance. Alagna wasn’t kidding when he complained that the audience showed more love to Bolle than him, because we did it again. Anyway, we all felt that Bolle was deserving of it, seeing that we stared at his gigantic a$$ for the entire Marcia Trionfale. However, Bolle didn’t grace the stage during the final curtain call as he had for La Prima. Unfortunately. And luckily, Urmana’s heart has turned again to stone, and she didn't cry for the final curtain call.
(The tomb where Fraccaro is doomed to join the company of adequate tenors)
This time around, the opera kind of dragged. Compared to the brilliance and excitement of opening night, the pauses and intermissions were just too omnipresent, and too anchoring. For La Prima, one actually looked forward to the long pauses (two separate five-minute pauses even before the first intermission, then one thirty-minute intermission, followed by a second forty-five minute intermission) so that we could see what celebrities and Milanese society had turned-up for the fashion show. This time, however, the opera didn’t even seem cohesive, more like a bunch of separate scenes woven together. Pretty lame. Muti's whole, "Graham Vick's Macbeth with a cube on stage" started to really make sense.
Okay, the two clips from last night are currently uploading on YouTube, and I will post an update when they are up with the URLs.
WARNING #1: For Celeste Aida, Opera Chic was (comfortably) crammed into a palco box with three complete strangers, and she therefore had to be super-discreet about filming, in order to supersede the rules to bring her lovely readers such rare footage. Unfortunately for this, Fraccaro's first few bars of the aria did not survive my stealth-itude.
WARNING #2: For Bolle’s Marcia Trionfale, Opera Chic did not unload her 1GB memory card since vacationing in Vienna this Fall, and therefore, her bootleg camera p00ped-out about three-quarters into the dance. But hey, it’s all bootleg anyway, so TAKE WHAT YOU CAN GET, SUCKAS!
btw, a huge, gigantic, latke-filled 
