The Lindbergh Flight and The Seven Deadly Sins, by Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht, are parables about what German writers of the 1920s called Amerika - a semi-fictionalised US that formed a reflection of contemporary social and political concerns. The Lindbergh Flight rapturously hails a brave new world that has produced a technology capable of transporting man through the air over the Atlantic. In The Seven Deadly Sins, however, the same new world unleashes capitalism as an overpowering, dehumanising force.

Together, the two works form an ambivalent portrait of the US's pervasive influence, though François Girard's productions for the Opéra National de Lyon suffer from a paucity of imagination that robs them of their impact. To be fair to Girard, The Lindbergh Flight was originally written for radio, and no amount of spectacular visuals can ever quite replace the leap of individual imagination required of the listener.

Girard has Lindbergh (the excellent Charles Workman) hovering over the stage in a rickety looking propjet that slowly wafts across a map of the Atlantic, while the narrator (Don McKellar) and chorus look on in bewildered wonder. Girard deploys video projections to depict the perils of Lindbergh's flight, though they lack clout. Weill's Lindbergh battles fog, snow and storms to get from New York to Paris: all Workman has to do is put up with the occasional spot of rain.

For all its problems, however, this is preferable to Girard's take on The Seven Deadly Sins, which manages to obscure the work's perfectly clear narrative. Brecht and Weill envisioned two doppelganger-ish sisters, both called Anna, one played by a singer and the other by a dancer, who embark on a self-destructive, money-grabbing journey across the US. Girard, unwisely, replaces Anna II with seven dancers (one for each sin), who bump, grind and breakdance their way through a series of ill-choreographed routines, while Anna I (Gun-Brit Barkmin, singing like the proverbial drain) wanders among them looking abstracted. It's hard to believe that Girard, whose staging of Stravinsky's Oedipus Rex was the high point of the 2002 festival, could also be responsible for this misguided effort.

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