No slaves in scanties

"Take it back to Brussels where it belongs," shouted a lone nimby voice as the booing died down after the Royal Opera's first night of Verdi's Aida. As an attempt at causing a scene, it failed pathetically. But heckling is not the norm at Covent Garden. Had opera at last become as contentious as the euro? Should the Trades Description Act be invoked? A referendum even?

The cause of the anger was Robert Wilson's production, new at Belgium's La Monnaie last year. No grand spectacle, no Ethiopian slaves in scanties. Moreover, no kissing or hugging or, even, a meeting of eyes. Apart from a truncated Horus and three pyramidal tent poles awaiting canvas, Egypt was banished. The Grand March was danced as a kind of hesitation waltz and the ballet of distressed, androgynous Sugar Plums was ghastly. "Usually you get elephants," aplogised my neighbour, with an alarming degree of fantasy, to his opera-novice guest.

The American Wilson had once again got up the collective nose of a conservative London audience. You could feel discontent - sniggering, tutting, snoring - spreading through the stalls like Bang-Bang flu. Wilson's argument is that theatrical naturalism is a lie, which is why he always prefers hieratic, Orientalistic gesture. Aida was no different. If you weren't prepared to leap with him, you were in for a grim evening.

But steady. All that matters is did it reveal anything, was it good? The answer, quibbles aside, is yes. Antonio Pappano conducted unshowily, with a respect for the work's intimacy. Wilson's formal, pared-down style restored austerity to a piece usually suffocated by gilded bombast or trivialisation. In its simple, shuttered box abstraction, lit in blues, violets and yellows, it looked stunning. Verdi's stiff, undeveloped characters became more alive by their very restraint.

Amneris, a forceful, granular Ildiko Komlosi, was powerful in her anguish. Norma Fantini, uncannily resembling Callas, brought poetic intensity to the title role. Johan Botha (Radames) can sing cleanly but has too stolid, monkish a presence to thrill. My chief complaint was with the weakness of the supporting roles and the lack of drill, musically, too, in the chorus, who had not quite got the hang of Wilson's hand flicks and gestures. It's easy to sneer, but perhaps there's too much wrong with Aida for anyone ever to get it right.

Aida