The breathtakingly beautiful, and recently redesigned and expanded, open-air Opera House is situated in the desert seven miles north of town, on a bluff that looks out on the city and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains beyond (the view somewhat hazy at the time, due to the smoke from the Arizona forest fires). 

Attendance opening night was a bit of a performance in itself. Opera mavens from across the country, and other continents, gathered outside the opera house well before curtain time. Rigged out in everything from black tie and ball gowns to Southwestern squash-blossom splendor to raggedy biker chic, the celebrants put on the traditional extravagant tailgate party � hundreds of folding tables laid out sumptuously, complete with fine silver and china, multi-course meals, and (but of course) plenty of fine wine. Simply put, it made any other regional opening night look like a hoedown at the Shuck-o-rama in Possum Bend.

Inside the grounds, the party kicked into even higher gear. An egalitarian mix of opera lovers -- Sansabelt-clad tourists, dreadlocked trustafarian locals, rich and regular folks alike -- quaffed a seemingly endless supply of complimentary champagne, renewed acquaintances, and hobnobbed excitedly. The setting sun tinged the smoke-smudged sky with a magnificent array of vibrant colors. Mingling among the guests, even a freeloading journalist got a taste of the high life. How does the other half live? Damn well, thanks so much for asking.

The season�s inaugural production was that of Eugene Onegin. In the hands of noted English director, the soon-to-be knighted Jonathan Miller, it proved to be somewhat less than a hit on opening night. Some of the drama�s more serious moments were greeted with bemused titters by the audience, who kept up a slow but steady disappearing act as the evening wore on. The Opera staff attributed these reactions to an excess of champagne intake by the crowd, but problems with the production were evident. 

Some of it may have been the material itself. Onegin�s ultra-romantic content can come off a bit affected to the contemporary audience, and without a strong acting job by all concerned, it doesn�t pay off. Miller�s direction seemed to emphasize the characters� flatness rather than bring them to immediate, convincing life. The staging seemed perfunctory and almost defiantly pedestrian, the singers stepping out of context and planting themselves downstage center to belt out their arias. Perhaps this seemingly hostile interpretation by Miller is meant to subvert the text somehow, but from where I sat it wasn't working. The displeasure registered by the audience carved furrows into Miller�s brow as he scuttled more and more frequently backstage as the evening progressed.

This seemed especially unfortunate, given the excellent possibilities provided by Isabella Bywater�s admirable design � a semicircle of white pillars that doubled as stately birch trunks, backed by smoked mirroring. Her pale-toned, compartmentalized set that rode the stage�s turntable effected effortless scene transitions.

The individual performances did not help, suffering from a universal stiffness. Yes, we know, 19th century Russian aristocrats weren�t given to jovial, raucous calls of "Loose booty!", but neither were they trapped in a state of emotional paralysis. Patricia Racette was in fine voice as Tatyana, but she was about as capable of rendering the character�s girlish intensity as Mickey Rourke would be. During the letter scene, she indicated her longing by indulging in low-impact aerobics, clasping hands behind head and swaying back and forth.

The men were little better, demonstrating strong emotion primarily by tilting their bodies downstage, leaning on the forward leg. Rodney Gilfrey�s Onegin, though stiff as a cob, did a workmanlike job with Onegin�s vocal lines. Kurt Streit outshone everyone as the doomed Lensky, especially in his command of the poignant farewell aria before his appointment with death. Just as momentum began to build in the duel scene, technical trouble raised its ugly head. Both men paced off, turned -- and Onegin�s pistol failed to fire. Streit obligingly clutched his chest and bit the dirt, but the magic had flown.

Only in the last, questionably staged scene did the action get physical, and the it did with a vengeance. Onegin put the struggling Tatyana into a fine imitation of a WWF hammerlock as he pled for her. Slipping out of his grip, she dashed him to the ground and fled, leaving him to clutch his locks and petulantly hammer his heels on the stage.

It was not a total loss. Beth Clayton voiced Olga elegantly in her brief time onstage, and Valerian Ruminski had a marvelous solo turn in his portrayal of Prince Gremin. The chorus work was solid and professional, and the orchestra, under the baton of Alan Gilbert, dug into the music with gusto. 

The next night Rossini�s Italian Girl took the stage. Director Edward Hastings, with the masterful aid of Robert Innes Hopkins� witty stage design and David C. Woolard�s colorful costumes, updated the story to the early 20th century (here, Isabella searches for Lindoro in a biplane, a miniature of which sailed amusingly above and among the audience as the overture commenced). The stage was filled by an enormous volume, which opened to reveal the main set, a charming larger-as-life facsimile of a pop-up storybook. Hastings� cartoony staging fits the spirit of the opera perfectly, right down to Three Stooges moments of pure slapstick and Marx Brothers-style crises of universal addlement. The crowd lapped it up, loving every moment. The players were no less up to the task, aided by the orchestra and conductor Yves Abel�s bouncy baton work. 

Stephanie Blythe was a brash and ravishingly voiced Isabella, deftly negotiating bel canto twists and turns, transforming even the removal of a glove into a miniature striptease. Tenor William Burden blew the roof off with his strong, lyrical interpretation of Lindoro�s numbers. Mark S. Doss clowned and capered winningly as Mustafa, and Timothy Nolen gave a tutorial in handling the comic foil�s duties as a Chaplinesque Taddeo. There wasn�t a single weak performance onstage; even the male chorus hammed it up with skill and precision.