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Zeffirelli’s Aida and the Apotheosis of Arena Spectacle Verona
Arena
07/30/2026 - & August 9*, 15, 23, 30, September 4, 10, 202
Giuseppe Verdi: Aida
Aleksandra Kurzak*/María José Siri/Anna Netrebko (Aida), Clémentine Margaine (Amneris), SeokJong Baek/Roberto Alagna*/Yusif Eyvazov/Paolo Lardizzone/Jonas Kaufmann (Radamès), Youngjun Park*/Ludovic Tézier (Amonasro), Aleksander Vinogradov*/Gianluca Buratto/Simon Lim (Ramfis), Abramo Rosalen/Simon Lim*/Mariano Buccino (Il Re), Francesca Mainochi (Sacerdotessa), Carlo Bosi/Riccardo Rados* (Un messaggero), Ballo dell’Arena di Verona
Coro dell’Arena di Verona, Roberto Gabbiani (Chorus Master), Orchestra dell’Arena di Verona, Francesco Ommassini (Conductor)
Franco Zeffirelli (Stage Director & Set Designer), Anna Anni (Costumes), Vladimir Vasiliev (Choreography)
R. Alagna (© )
The Arena di Verona presented a curious study in operatic contrasts this summer, offering two Aidas that could hardly have embodied more divergent conceptions of the work: Stefano Poda’s and Franco Zeffirelli’s. After encountering Poda’s Nabucco the previous evening, I found Zeffirelli’s venerable production, first seen by me in 2018, almost reassuring in its unapologetic theatricality. It was hardly a subtle affair. Verdi’s ancient Egypt had been submerged beneath a deluge of gold, marble, masonry and human bodies. Yet the production’s very excess proved inseparable from its enduring effectiveness.
Since its inauguration in 2002, Zeffirelli’s Aida had acquired something approaching the status of an Arena institution. Its colossal pyramid, fourteen sphinxes and four idols transformed the amphitheatre into an Egypt of operatic fantasy, while Anna Anni’s sumptuous costumes and Vladimir Vasiliev’s monumental choreography completed the spectacle. Armies, priests, slaves, courtiers and dancers populated virtually every available inch of the stage. Minimalism was not merely absent; it belonged to another aesthetic universe.
The production could still seem elephantine. At times the sheer quantity of scenic matter threatened to overwhelm the work itself, while the relentless accumulation of spectacle occasionally approached self-parody. Yet Zeffirelli’s extravagance was not born of conceptual poverty. On the contrary, it reflected an acute understanding of the peculiar theatrical conditions of the Arena. An amphitheatre designed to accommodate an enormous audience demanded images of comparable magnitude. What might have appeared excessive in a conventional theatre became, in Verona, a form of visual legibility.
Vasiliev’s choreography belonged to the same aesthetic. Its ceremonial formations and massed movement were designed for an immense outdoor space, and its traditionalism consequently seemed less anachronistic than functional. The interpolated figure of Akmen, originally devised for Carla Fracci, remained dramaturgically extraneous, but by now such additions had become part of the production’s accumulated mythology. This was no longer simply Zeffirelli’s Aida; it was an Aida that had entered the Arena’s collective memory.
The musical performance, regrettably, proved less secure. Aleksandra Kurzak’s Aida represented the evening’s principal weakness. The Polish soprano had demonstrated her considerable gifts in lighter repertoire, most notably as Adina in L’elisir d’amore in Rome and as Liù and Cio‑Cio San at the Metropolitan Opera. Aida, however, demanded a different vocal constitution: not necessarily a full dramatic instrument, but at least the combination of lyric refinement and sufficient spinto amplitude that allowed the voice to expand naturally into Verdi’s climaxes. Kurzak’s instrument seemed under considerable pressure whenever the score required sustained dramatic weight.
The difficulties were already apparent in “Ritorna vincitor!”, where the emission could sound effortful and mannered. “Numi, pietà” brought greater relief, but “O cieli azzurri” lacked the vocal amplitude and sensuous radiance one hoped to hear in this most inward of Aida’s utterances. “O patria mia” was particularly revealing. The aria required an almost suspended lyricism, its apparent simplicity concealing an extraordinary emotional concentration. Kurzak offered the notes, but not consistently the luminous vocal line or expressive expansiveness that could transform them into a genuine outpouring of homesickness.
The problem extended beyond vocal suitability. Aida’s characterization remained insufficiently differentiated, lacking the fragility, inwardness and innate nobility that made her predicament so moving. The heroine was caught between filial obedience, patriotic duty and an impossible love, yet Kurzak’s portrayal seldom conveyed the psychological fracture at the centre of the role. Her stage presence consequently seemed more mature and declarative than vulnerable.
This was especially disappointing because Kurzak had previously revealed herself as an exceptionally compelling interpreter of lighter and more lyrical characters. Her Adina had been among the finest I had encountered in years, while her Cio‑Cio San and Liù had displayed genuine emotional sincerity. Her assumption of Aida therefore seemed less an inevitable progression than an unfortunate excursion beyond the natural province of the voice. One hoped it would remain an isolated experiment rather than a change of artistic direction.
Clémentine Margaine brought greater authority to Amneris. The French mezzo-soprano possessed the dramatic weight necessary to dominate her confrontations with Aida, although the voice seemed less voluptuous than in some of her French repertoire. Her work as Dulcinée in Don Quichotte and Eboli in Don Carlos, both in Chicago, and Léonore in La Favorite in Barcelona had demonstrated an especially refined command of French style and diction. As Amneris, she communicated jealousy and aggression effectively, but the princess’s more vulnerable and emotionally conflicted dimensions remained less fully explored. The characterization was forceful without becoming entirely rounded.
Roberto Alagna fared considerably better as Radamès. His interpretation derived much of its effectiveness from the sheer ardour with which he embraced the role. There was sufficient amplitude to project across the Arena, together with the seasoned theatrical instincts of a tenor who had inhabited the major Verdi and French roles for decades. Having heard him as Samson in Berlin only a month earlier, I was again struck by the combination of experience and commitment that continued to make him one of the most dependable artists of his generation.
Time had inevitably left traces upon the instrument. The upper register occasionally betrayed fatigue, and the tone could turn uncomfortably hard under pressure. Yet these blemishes did not fundamentally diminish the performance. His “Celeste Aida” was beautifully phrased and rewarded with an enormous ovation, while his stage presence gave Radamès a welcome measure of ardour and humanity.
Youngjun Park’s Amonasro proved less persuasive. As in his Nabucco the receding evening, the Korean baritone offered a competent but rather generalized reading, without fully projecting the authority and paternal force that should have made Amonasro’s encounter with his daughter one of the opera’s most wrenching psychological confrontations.
Alexander Vinogradov made a stronger impression as Ramfis. His bass was dark, ample and imposing, and he projected the priestly authority demanded by the part, although his pronounced Russian accent was occasionally distracting. Abramo Rosalen gave the King reliable and musical support, while Carlo Bosi once again demonstrated the particular virtues of the experienced comprimario: his Messenger, though brief, was shaped with professional precision. Francesca Maionchi brought beauty and delicacy to the Priestess’s music.
Francesco Ommassini presided over the performance with competence and discipline. His reading remained somewhat circumscribed in expressive individuality, but he maintained an effective balance between stage and pit and kept the considerable Arena forces under firm control. Some of Verdi’s contrasts—between the intimacy of Aida’s private world, the ceremonial splendour of the public scenes and the sensuality of the love music—could have been more pronounced. Nevertheless, the performance remained secure, and the conductor’s further outings with the production—five more performances remain—might have allowed a more personal interpretation to emerge.
The Arena Orchestra played with professionalism, while the chorus and massed stage forces supplied the overwhelming sonority and visual magnitude that constituted so large a part of the evening’s appeal. The triumphal scene, in particular, vindicated Zeffirelli’s conception. With its seemingly inexhaustible procession of soldiers, priests, banners, dancers and ceremonial figures, it transformed Verdi’s pageant into something almost architectural.
The paradox was that Zeffirelli’s Aida had become more convincing with age precisely because it no longer pretended to be contemporary. Its extravagance had acquired the patina of historical style. The excesses remained—indeed, they were impossible to miss—but they had become inseparable from the production’s identity and from the Arena’s own theatrical mythology.
There was something increasingly rare about such unabashed grandeur. At a time when opera directors often seemed determined to interrogate, deconstruct or radically reconceive works whose theatrical languages were already perfectly intelligible, Zeffirelli had simply taken Aida at its word. He had given Verdi an Egypt of colossal dimensions, a world of ritual, conquest, spectacle and impossible love, and had understood that the Arena did not require the opera to be diminished but magnified.
The musical performance had been uneven, but the production itself remained a persuasive argument for the virtues of theatrical excess. Zeffirelli’s Aida had survived not because it represented some immutable ideal of Verdi staging, but because it understood the peculiar contract between Aida and Verona: here, spectacle was not an embarrassment to be overcome. It was the occasion.
Ossama el Naggar
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