Against tall odds, ''Operatunity" is utterly charming. The tone is set with the opening shot of a man bellowing an aria in the shower. Amateurs from all over England compete for the coveted slot. Unlike their low-rent American counterparts, these people are less interested in fame and filthy lucre than they are in opera itself. They simply love to sing arias, and it shows.
There's no Paula Abdul-like coaching here, none of the bald commercialism of The Donald. They're nice people from small worlds who behave well under the increasingly trying circumstances of competition. Whatever their private thoughts, there's a sweetness to this crowd. ''It's not very English to want to win," explains one.
Who are these folks? Let's see, you've got your pig farmer, supermarket cashier, home builder, investment banking recruiter, former chef, marketing official, and legally blind mother of three, to name some. There's no one here with a public school drawl, no aristos at home at La Scala. Their disarming lack of affectation demolishes our cynicism.
The opera company motors around the English countryside auditioning hopefuls. ENO staff educate the candidates during tryouts to the proper use of their bodies as well as their vocal cords. ''They don't use their whole bodies," says ENO voice coach Mary King. ''They're doing it from the neck up." Toward that end, she counsels one candidate to emulate when singing ''a spectacular projectile vomit."
A panel of ENO judges pares more than 2,000 hopefuls to 100, then 20. We watch a sales assistant sing ''Let It Be," a gospel singer unload ''Amazing Grace." My personal favorite is the information technology salesman who pitches the Kinks classic ''Sunny Afternoon." The pig farmer informs us, ''When I sing, the pigs shut up."
