A New Lucia

For a swimmer, it's the Olympics or the English Channel. For an actor it is Hamlet. But for a coloratura soprano, the pinnacle and challenge was and is Gaetano Donizetti's Lucia de Lammermoor. It is an opera whose trills, turns and top tones defy the deftest voices. The stilted dramaturgy of the libretto can reduce the most colorful actress to a drab cardboard gray.

Why do the opera at all? Because when Lucia is sung brilliantly, it is an unparalleled showpiece for great singing. New York has heard nearly every soprano of importance attempt Lucia —from Adelina Patti to Maria Callas and Joan Sutherland. Most of them have played the role as a fluttering, chirping simpleton. Callas made Lucia into a figure of high tragedy, but sang with disillusioning unevenness; Sutherland sang it sumptuously, but her acting was merely studious when it should have been spellbinding.

Last week at the New York City Opera, it was Beverly Sills' turn. She had a bad cold. Charles Wilson's conducting only occasionally rose to something that resembled authority. Nothing seemed able to shock Tenor Michele Molese and Baritone Dominic Cossa into dramatic vitality. Nevertheless, under the direction of Tito Capobianca, the whole production drew a mounting, cohesive strength from Sills.

Tall, strawberry blonde, with a towering command of the stage, she portrayed Lucia as a strong-willed girl who fights her tormentors every note of the way. Helped by an absolutely uncut version of Donizetti's score, she progressed from matter-of-fact girlishness through angry submission to a raging, cataclysmic Mad Scene.

Every action was motivated, every sound made sense. Even the customarily foolish flute cadenzas were transformed into an eloquent cascade of accusation, bitter mockery and, finally, deranged wailing. The voice sparkled and soared, flicking through the florid intricacies of the music with the phenomenal speed and accuracy that have made Sills one of the most spectacular singers in the world. When the last high E-flat had died away and Lucia had toppled in death, the benefit audience, many of whom had paid $100 for their seats, shouted and clapped for seven minutes while Beverly Sills paced before the curtain, perspiring with a 103° temperature and happily dodging bouquets of roses.

For the latest—and perhaps the greatest—Lucia, it was certainly the well-earned triumph of a long and tortuous career. And opera lovers are now speculating with awe just what wonders Sills may perform in future Lucias —singing without a cold.