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In theory, its not a one-woman show.
But even these high beams go wan in Radvanovskys sunlight.
(Or at least they were on opening night.)
Finally, the spurned sorceress makes her entrance, shedding notes like flaming cinders.
The reasons for the emotion hardly matter.
Her impulses are ordinary; what makes her an opera character is her refusal to control them.
The intensity of her lust for destruction lies at the Putinesque end of the spectrum.
Unwisely, McVicar has her extract a dagger from a wooden chest and brandish it aloft in cab-hailing positiontwice.
McVicar doubles down on the doubling.
Its a sporadically effective trick, and McVicar works hard to keep it fresh.
Act III opens with Medea lying on the stage and centered in the mirror.
She and her character check that that their joint exit is all-consuming.
I sympathize with the poor soprano who stands ready to to step in should the sorceress get a cold.
