Some of the Finest Singing in Memory
This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.

Two nights ago, the Metropolitan Opera heard some of the finest singing it has heard in recent memory – from the American soprano Sondra Radvanovsky. But more on her in a moment.
The opera was “I Vespri Siciliani” (“Sicilian Vespers”), a standout in the Verdi oeuvre. It is “late-middle Verdi,” coming right after “La Traviata” and just before “Simon Boccanegra.” “Vespri” tells one of the most moving and involving stories in opera, certainly in Verdi. It concerns the occupation of Sicily by the French, a tormented love affair, and questions of loyalty. Standard operatic stuff, to be sure, but where “Vespri” differs is in being decidedly nonridiculous – this is no “Rigoletto” (with apologies to “Rigoletto” fans, who include me).
Ms. Radvanovsky took the role of Elena, which is an extremely rewarding role, when done well. This soprano did it surpassingly well. She has a beautiful and unusual instrument, which throbs a bit – sometimes a lot – and which covers a vast territory. She can go from bottled mezzo to high, free soprano in a second. In fact, that she did, at least once during the night. She is lovely in cantilena and agile in coloratura. Her trills are genuine, not fake.
What’s more, she is a smart singer, in various respects. She knows how to pace herself, not “spending” too much too early. She is not an emoter, does not chew scenery, even when the score or libretto might tempt her. Therefore, she is all the more effective in whatever she is doing onstage.
I could list details, but Ms. Radvanovsky is a bundle of what we must refer to as “intangibles.” She engages you and touches you in ways hard to describe. She is an uncanny communicator, sometimes reminding me of the great Polish contralto Ewa Podles. And there is more than a hint of Maria Callas in her, frankly – in the sound of the voice, in the intelligence of her approach, and in the possession of those “intangibles.”
Night after night, opera can be hohum, until someone comes along to remind you why millions have been entranced by this art – and Ms. Radvanovsky provided just such an experience.
Her tenor – in the part of Arrigo – was Francisco Casanova, from the Dominican Republic. He boasts one of the most romantic names in opera, wouldn’t you agree? He boasts a remarkable tenor too, both lyrical and powerful, making him a kind of “heroic lyric,” if you will. This type of voice will serve its owner well across a range of operas. Mr. Casanova had a good outing, despite some problems, such as sharping on high notes – which is not something you hear every night. (Flatting is the preferred error.)
In the part of Monforte – the French governor who happens to be the father of Arrigo, the Sicilian hero – was the veteran Italian baritone Leo Nucci. He performed like an old pro, projecting authority, and catching the psychological anguish of this character. When he sang his Act III monologue – which contains strikingly beautiful Verdian writing – you felt you had heard something stemming from an authentic tradition.
The evening’s bass was another veteran, Samuel Ramey, the pride of Colby, Kan. He is simply one of the great Verdians of our time, and he portrayed Procida with typical conviction. Yes, the years have not been without their effect: The vibrato is as wide as the hair is high. But this is still Sam Ramey, all dignity and expertise. His voice was more impressive in the lowest register than elsewhere, which is not always true of a senior bass. And as the evening wore on, he picked up strength. He is a model of keeping oneself in shape, among other things.
In the pit, we had something relatively rare: a French conductor. He was Frederic Chaslin, who works primarily in Vienna and Mannheim. He conducted a “Vespri” that was technically ragged but musically compelling.
The overture is one of Verdi’s most famous, and it began unfortunately: with a wobble. This whole overture lacked tightness, compactness, and where it should bloom, it did not. Even so, it was adequate, and at some level satisfying. Toward the end, the brass showed some fancy footwork (or should I say lipwork?).
Throughout the opera, the orchestra tended to the sloppy, flubbing its entrances, for example. Furthermore, coordination between pit and stage was sometimes faulty: The orchestra did one thing, the chorus did other things. But this was a “Vespri” of intensity, always making you think that something big would happen. The musical and dramatic thrill was worth some technical bobbles. But at the Met, especially, you want it all, and feel that you deserve it.
The Metropolitan Opera Chorus was in fine form, as it usually is. And the production? This is John Dexter’s, from 1974, with its fascistic (Mussolini-like) sets. I have doubts about this production, but none – no important ones – about Monday night’s performance. It was the kind to which you could take a newcomer and say, “This is what opera is all about.”