From a purely vocal standpoint, Christine Brewer, making her long-overdue main-stage debut, lacks nothing to be an outstanding Leonore. She has a gorgeous, huge and easily-produced soprano with sufficient flexibility to sing the rapid passages of “Komm, Hoffnung” with aplomb; she sings consistently in tune and has sterling dynamic control. Dramatically, though, she bears the stamp of the concert stage to which she devotes most of her career. Her portrayal of Leonore had a limited emotional range, never reaching far enough to encompass the character's hope, desperation, passion, and willingness to do anything to free Florestan.

Director Hampe saddled Brewer and the rest of the singers with far too much clumsy or uninteresting stage business. Brewer is a large woman who moves reasonably well — but she hasn't been given very much to do. Some of Leonore's stage business has been deleted: for example, she's supposed to faint when she recognizes Florestan's voice in the dungeon. Perhaps there was concern about the time it would take for Brewer to get down to the stage and back up; but with a little imagination, the set could have included a bench or rock against a wall onto which Brewer could have fainted.

It's a truism that audiences willingly suspend disbelief when they attend theater or opera. It's also the case that it would be difficult at best to hide the fact that Brewer is a woman, given her proportions. But, ludicrously, Leonore unmasked herself as Florestan's wife, and a woman, by removing her cap to reveal the same short hair that we've seen in every previous scene. Whatever financial problems the Opera is having, surely there's enough money available to put a long-haired wig under that cap.

And there was no chemistry between Brewer and Thomas Moser, singing Florestan. If the audience can't feel the love and hunger between them, what's the justification for the enormous risks Leonore has taken to free Florestan? Moser, who was not announced as indisposed, sang disastrously, wobbling by the end of “Gott!” in the opening of “Gott! Welch Dunkel hier!” (God! What darkness here!). He sounded gray, worn, diminished in volume since his last appearance here (Bacchus in Ariadne auf Naxos), and on the verge of vocal collapse throughout his performance.

Among the other singers, Arthur Woodley was a standout as the jailer Rocco. He brought considerable humanity to this character, who is so easily a caricature, and sang with a resonant and luxurious bass, delivering his big aria, “Hat man nicht auch Gold beineben” (If you do not have money) with verve and charm.

The rest were a mixed bag. Juha Uusitalo, last year's Dutchman in Der fliegende Holländer, made an inaudible, if physically threatening, Don Pizarro, but I half expected him to twirl his moustache, Snidely Whiplash style. Debuting tenor Mathias Zachariassen was a sweet Jacquino, and bass Eric Owens, a benevolent Don Fernando (Philip Skinner takes the role for the last two performances). Greta Feeney, a lovely Sandman and Dew Fairy in Hansel und Gretel a couple of seasons ago, looked fine but phrased squarely and sounded tentative as the lovestruck Marzelline. Adler Fellows Sean Panikkar and Eugen Brancoveanu were notably excellent as the First and Second Prisoners.

None of the performers got much help at all from Hampe's direction. The first act was remarkably static, despite the possibilities for interaction among Jacquino, Marzelline, Fidelio, and Rocco. “Mir ist so wunderbar” (How strange I feel) was a vocal highlight, with the four voices perfectly audible and distinct, but Hampe staged it utterly unimaginatively, with the quartet strung in a line across the stage. The near-deadly confrontation between Pizarro and Leonore joined the unmasking of Leonore in silliness — it was impossible to see why Pizarro hadn't stabbed Leonore five times before she pulled out her pistol. Marzelline barely reacted to learning that her beloved Fidelio wouldn't be marrying her after all. I expect she would have been crying on Rocco's shoulder, or maybe Jacquino's, over that.

The problems on the stage were largely matched by problems in the pit. The man with the baton looked like Donald Runnicles, but didn't sound much like him. The overture crackled with life and energy, a promising opening that mostly led nowhere. The second act, especially, drooped, with little tension in the confrontation scene, despite the high drama of the action. The act gathered momentum far too late, in the mighty uprush at the end, so reminiscent of the close of the Ninth Symphony. There were intermittent beauties in the orchestra but also noticeable coordination problems among the players and with the singers.

All in all, this opening performance never jelled and mostly disappointed. Perhaps the lackluster performance resulted from opening-night nerves, perhaps not. In 2002, Runnicles and the whole company put an enormous amount of effort into Saint Francois d'Assise. Otello, the next opera Runnicles led, was ragged and perfunctory, even beyond its plague of canceling, inadequate, or indisposed tenors. This year, Doctor Atomic has to have been everyone's first priority, and it seems possible that Fidelio has suffered as a consequence. We can but hope that the production comes together better in the later performances.