Daily Blague

Sondra Radvanovsky has had a triumph at the Met. There will be bigger ones, but tonight's was decisive. And it was a warm triumph, because it was also Placido Domingo's umpteenth. It was his idea, after all, to mount a production of Franco Alfano's Cyrano de Bergerac (1936) at the Met. Mr Domingo was a great Cyrano, and he made the most of the role's lyric possibilities. But Cyrano's centerpiece is a plum soprano role, which sounded as if written for Ms Radvanovsky's voice.

There are longueurs in Cyrano, just as there are in, say Die Frau ohne Schatten. But Alfano more egregiously fails to give any very interesting music to anyone but Cyrano and Roxane. That was my impression, anyway; I really doubt that greater voices could have made more of Le Bret, de Guiche, Christian, or any of the others. Buckles are continually getting swashed in this tale of uncommon wit and valor, and there are military rataplans in the second and third acts that contribute little to the opera's interest. But whenever the play's romantic triangle heats up, Roxane usually does a lot of the singing, and hearing Sondra Radvanovksy remains the happiest experience that I have ever had in an opera house. Period.

I've decided to write this entry without consulting the rave that I wrote last November, after discovering Ms Radvanovsky in I Vespri siciliani. I daresay that I shall repeat myself in characterizing Ms Radvanovsky's voice. It is rich and supple but not overripe. There is no stridency; although I suppose one might detect a very faint spinto quality in her production, it is a smartly tailored spinto, with an unscratched surface. There is complete control and a sense of complete relaxation. Ms Radvanovsky is a svelte woman and very agile on the stage; perhaps this shouldn't count, but it certainly doesn't hurt. I would love her just for her voice. But I would love her more on recordings than in the house. As it is, Ms Radvanovsky has finally given this poor soul a reason to go to the opera. Since it is impossible for me not to find similarities among voices that I like, I must declare a resemblance that I detect between my new favorite and a great mid-century dame whom of course I never heard live: Anita Cerquetti. The difference is that Ms Radvanovsky's voice sounds utterly untroubled. At the bottom, she can sound like Maria Callas, but, again, without the problems. People who don't make fine distinctions will find her (at least) as satisfying as Renata Scotto. I predict a great career for Sondra Radvanovsky at the Metropolitan Opera, even though I know that it's the stupidest thing in the world to make such predictions. Only horses are more unpredictable than opera types. (And by "types" I mean not so much the singers as the impresarios who decide what to perform and when to perform it.) 

Next year, I will see the opera again, from a seat in the stalls. I must say that our seats in Row D of the Family Circle were perfectly unobjectionable. Music has never sounded better in seats anywhere else in the house. You can't make out the singers' faces, of course - even the famous nose was not always detectable - and I have certain infra dig issues about sitting in the poulaillier. But the arrangement was perfect for trying out an opera that hasn't gotten very good press this time around. (It was also the perfect introduction to the Met for Ms NOLA. Start at the top, is my advice to opera newcomers. It only gets better.) Now I can splurge on a big seat with complete confidence. By next season, I'll have acquired Roberto Alagna's DVD of the opera, and I'll have more to say about the whole production. Tonight, I just want to hold on to the memory of Sondra Radvanovsky's Roxane.

It was a toss-up, between my companion and me, as to who ran the greater risk of dehydration through tear production. During the third act scene in which Roxane tells Christian that she would love him (on the strength of the letters that, unbeknownst to her, Cyrano has been sending her in his name) even if he lost his good looks - even if he were grotesque. Whether it was the composer or the soprano, I felt so sorry for the wit-challenged Christian that I was shaking with sobs. And the entire final act, from the moment Cyrano worked his rickety way beneath the convent arches, was unbearably moving. And yet I never for a moment felt manipulated. Here's to panache!

There is a certain old friend of mine with whom I shall continue to maintain amicable relations, but with this proviso: we shall never again, not under any circumstances, so much as allude to the existence of opera. His opinion of Cyrano de Bergerac, shared with timely dispatch, was that - is that - the opera is "mierda." This is the final nail, proving that one of us is hearing, if not spelling, "opera" backwards.