Birth of a Diva

To an operatic public hungry for beauty, for glamour, for excitement � in short, hungry for diva, Olga Borodina is the best news in years. The mezzo-soprano debuted successfully at the Metropolitan Opera last season as Marina in Boris Godunov, hardly a star vehicle. For that we had to wait until she returned to open the Met's season as Dalila in Saint-Saëns' Samson et Dalila, a challenging part in its expectations of vocal and physical sensuality. Borodina (heard October 5) lived up to all these expectations and more.

The Met's Samson production (directed by Elijah Moshinksy, designed by Richard "Lion King" Hudson) opened last season to mixed reviews, with Denyce Graves slinking and shimmying across the Met stage in skintight strapless sheaths like something Rita Hayworth might wear in a 1940's Technicolor musical. But Graves is quite strikingly slim and lithe: she made the look work. Borodina in both girth and demeanor is more like what we think of an opera singer. The surprise was that she was every inch as sexy as Graves, and by far a superior singer.

Borodina's voice is one of the most beautiful in the world today, even and creamy from top to bottom, with a rich but not obtrusive vibrato. She has the breath control and the exquisite musicianship necessary to spin out luscious legato lines, and the control to sing a real supported piano that carries into the house. Now, it's not the biggest voice in the world, and there's very little metal in the sound. Some of Dalila's wilder enraged outbursts did not slash the ear as they should; even the high B cry of "Lâche!" near the end of Act Two was more ravishing than terrifying. Perhaps because she senses that this role is just a bit oversized for her, the mezzo undersang some in Act One: "Je viens celebrer" was thrown away. But she recovered for the marathon Act Two, lavishing voluptuous tone and heartfelt phrasing on "Mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix." Unlike most mezzo-sopranos, Borodina did not approach this love song as an opportunity to honk out chest tones: she sang sweetly, almost girlishly, with a really admirable blending of the registers.

Perhaps even more impressive than Borodina's singing (and that is saying a lot) was her passionate, stylish and complex acting performance. Of course Dalila still loves Samson � and so she will destroy him rather than risk rejection. Borodina's lovely face mirrored her conflicting emotions when she murmured "Il ne vient pas" relief and disappointment, wounded pride and fear. And she can play the coquette, as when she faced upstage and slowly stripped out of her caftan, glancing over her shoulder and offering an irresistible smile of invitation. Costumed in flowing silks in rich jewel tones, Borodina turned her Junoesque figure to her advantage: she is a big woman with big emotions, a force of nature, a sex symbol who is not dwarfed by a 4000-seat auditorium. Every toss of her head, every swish of her cape spelled "star."

Put it this way: Borodina held her own opposite one of the Met's most beloved singers ever, the legendary Plácido Domingo. In fact, the electricity generated by La Borodina seemed to stimulate the tenor to one of his most exciting performances this decade, firm of voice and, to my ears, cleaner in intonation than he was 20 years ago. All the high B-flats rang out firmly (if not exactly freely) and once again Domingo proved that he is about the best actor today on the operatic stage � when he wants to be. His half-fascinated, half-repulsed lurch across the stage into Dalila's house drew gasps from the audience.

This is the sort of night opera-lovers live for. Unfortunately, these nights of glory are scattered among performances that are slack, boring, or just plain bad without being horrible enough to be camp. And that's what Aïda was like on October 3. The celebrated Triumphal Scene (which is, after all, supposed to be a victory parade at the end of a long and bloody war) looked like a bunch of people in funny outfits waiting patiently for the M66, and when Amonasro attempted to assassinate the Pharoah's daughter, the guards pursuing him barely broke into a trot. The choral singing was logy and underpowered, and the orchestra, which during Samson responded hyperactively to every nuance of James Levine's baton, barely even phoned in their parts for Placido Domingo. This performance must be counted one of the tenor's less successful conducting attempts, flaccid in rhythm, thick and colorless in timbre, and often at odds with his singers' attempts at phrasing.

Nina Terentieva (Amneris) has at least a sense of attack and the depth of tone for her role, and her Gloria Swanson arm-flailing has to be credited as a stab at the grand manner. Maria Guleghina, a terrifically handsome woman, was vocally a scramble in the title part, loud but unfocused. Sometimes (as in the Tomb Scene) her attempts at a high pianissimo were striking, even artistic; unfortunately, she can�t always make the gimmick work. Very few sopranos really dazzle with that infernal high C in the Nile aria, but most manage it somehow: Guleghina did not. Vladimir Bogachov tossed off a few phrases of "Nel fiero anelito" like a reborn del Monaco, but yelled the other 95% of Radames.

Four hours we sat there, waiting for something to happen. And then no one applauded and everyone went home. That's not opera. Samson with Borodina and Domingo � that's opera.

James Jorden