If I had to give a concise definition of what it means to be operatic, I might point to the tour de force of tenor genius that Lawrence Brownlee delivered in Act II of “Otello,” as he sang Rodrigo’s aria “Che ascolto.” In this version of the story, Rodrigo, the Doge’s son, is a much bigger character than he is in Shakespeare’s play. Two days earlier, I had seen Rossini’s bel-canto tragedy “Otello” at Opera Philadelphia, which, since the downward spiral of New York City Opera, has become the most vital alternative to the Met on the East Coast. It’s all good fun, yet it’s somewhat peripheral to what makes opera truly satisfying as an art.

Sondra Radvanovsky, in the title role, staggers about with a knife in her hand, issues blood-curdling high notes, and, at the end, curls up with her murdered children. A new production of Cherubini’s “Medea,” which opened the Met season, proves no exception. The repertory favors Romantic entertainments that litter bodies across the stage. The auditorium is vast sets tend toward the hulking singers must bellow in order to be heard. Theatrical values at the Metropolitan Opera perpetuate the pejorative meaning of the term. Everything from the Lexus LC500 convertible to Rudolph Giuliani’s third divorce has been described as operatic. In everyday discourse, the word “operatic” signifies loudness, opulence, mayhem, and excess.

Verdi opera aria