Worthy of praise here was Julie Simson’s brief appearance as the late mother. Singing — strangely — from the belly of a mammoth figure — her grave marker? — the University of Colorado professor contributed much to the emotional grip of the act.
The major flaw in this staging is that it is unfocused. And — at three hours plus — the production does not wear well. Indeed, when Act Three arrived, there was an unmistakable feeling of “let’s get it over with” on the part of both those on stage and in the audience.
In a costume that made her seem the size of the dome on the state capital building, Armstrong failed to achieve the melting sensuality of courtesan Giulietta. And the haunting Barcarole hardly made a ripple on Venice’ Grand Canale — or in Boettcher.

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