The Metropolitan Opera got a new Carmen last week. She serpentined onstage in a dress of bare-shouldered abandon, and the rose in her hand glowed like the apple of Eden. She tilted her ink-black mane at a confident angle and poured out in seductive French: "When I'll give you my love? I'm sure I couldn't say; perhaps not at all—tomorrow I may." Her big voice had a dark, anthracite sheen, sometimes with more polish than depth, sometimes with not quite enough polish, but always firm and sometimes thrilling. By the time she reached her...
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