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The canned sound at the Warner Theatre is an especially villainous mood-killer in the ballet’s first act, which opens in a well-appointed Georgetown mansion of 1882. By all the indications of Peter Horne’s luxuriously detailed set design, only ranking instrumentalists would be expected to entertain those gathered there. Instead, Tchaikovsky's exuberant flutes and majestic crescendos meet a roaring doom inside the speakers and fall heavily on the ears. (The weight of this is directly proportionate to one’s proximity to said speakers. My advice, if you go, is to avoid the close-in side rows.)



