My problem with Denyce Graves

The tentative diva:
My problem with Denyce Graves

DAN ROTTENBERG

The Metropolitan Opera diva Denyce Graves is a beautiful woman with an undeniably beautiful mezzo-soprano voice and a devoted following (especially in Philadelphia, where she launched her professional career with the Opera Company of Philadelphia). "She is almost too good to be true," the Washington Post once raved, "a vital artist, a beautiful woman, a regal presence." So why have this artist's celebrated charms eluded me?

I know— in matters of art, or the heart, there’s no accounting for individual taste. For my money, Graves lacks the intangible je ne sais quoi— the magnetic “star quality” that seizes you by the throat and demands, “Look at me, and don’t you dare look at anyone else!” She exudes a tentative quality that effectively separates her from her audience— not out of arrogance or aloofness, but more likely insecurity. Instead of exulting in her big moments on stage, most often Graves seems to want to shrink into the chorus or the scenery or the orchestra.

Consider one small example, from the Opera Company’s 2002 production of Offenbach’s La Perichole. This is a farce about a poor but beautiful street singer who accepts an offer to live in splendor as the viceroy’s mistress, even though doing so means abandoning Piquillo, her sweetheart and singing partner. When Piquillo shows up at the viceroy’s palace to publicly denounce this arrangement, the viceroy orders him thrown into the dungeon. Perichole is of course conflicted by this turn of events: She loves Piquillo and wishes him no harm, but she’s also furious at him for jeopardizing her potentially cushy palace deal. But Graves’s interpretation betrayed no conflict whatsoever; instead she simply joined in the chorus of courtiers taunting Piquillo as he was dragged away.

I’ve seen Graves at least five times— once at the Met, three times with the OCP, and once with the Philadelphia Orchestra. Each time I have found her capable, reliable, professional and about as charismatic as Dick Cheney (albeit better looking and more talented). But since I seem to be a minority of one on this subject, I keep returning for more of Graves, in the hope she’ll change my mind.

So when Graves appeared with the Philadelphia Orchestra last month, I gamely headed for the Mann to hear her sing a few excerpts from Carmen and a few Negro spirituals. And what happened? When Graves made her first entrance, one of her earrings fell off, forcing her to kneel down, scoop it up and reattach it. A true star might have seized this accident as an opportunity to jokingly connect with her audience, but Graves tried to pretend nothing untoward had occurred, which merely exacerbated the awkwardness. She never made eye contact with the audience; her bows were merely perfunctory; and as she walked off the stage for the last time, her gown somehow got tangled up on one of the violinists. A great voice, yes; but not a persona to inspire either great confidence or great emotion.



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