One hundred years is a long time to wait for an opera to make its return to a major house. Well, in the case of Borodin's "Prince Igor," it's more like 97 years. But in any case, it's easy to question why a major Russian opera like Borodin's magnum opus would take so long between performances at one of the most historic works at the opera. The Friday, Feb. 21 performance of the work certainly made an argument for the work's permanence in the repertoire.

It is actually very difficult to assess this work. Borodin was a chemist by profession (music was more of a hobby) and never finished the opera despite beginning it in 1869, 18 years before his sudden demise at age 53. Noted Russian composer Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov then took over the completion of the work and enlisted the help of Alexander Glazunov. The two made a number of alterations -- Russian musicologist Pavel Lamm stated that "no single bar was left untouched" -- due to the fact that Borodin had not finished the libretto and left a major portion of the final act unfinished. For the new production at the Met, director Dmitri Tcherniakov and conductor Gianandrea Noseda consulted a number of musicologists and pieced together a new version that remained as faithful as possible to Borodin's "original vision."

Invariably, there is no such thing as a "definitive" version of the work, and you can certainly feel that. The work comes off as unfocused, with the constant shift between characters ultimately making the portrait of the title character a bit uneven. Igor disappears for the majority of the opera and his actual involvement on stage is highly questionable throughout. To be sure, "Igor" is filled with a plethora of glorious musical moments, none more breathtaking than the famous Polovtsian act (in this version Act 1); the final moments of the work, which are rarely ever performed, are among the most riveting musical moments in all of Russia opera.

Tcherniakov makes a valiant attempt to create unity in the work and add psychological depth where it is lacking. His first act initiates with a black-and-white cinematic title screen that reads something to the effect of "unleashing the war is the best way to escape oneself." Then we see a close-up of Igor. While the first orchestral phrases take flight, the video cuts to different close-ups of Igor, with the focus remaining on his eyes. What is he looking at? What is he thinking? You cannot help but question everything about this man and the initial feeling is that Tcherniakov will seek to explore these very questions throughout the opera.

Ildar Abdrazakov as Prince Igor Svyatoslavich in Borodin's "Prince Igor." Photo: Cory Weaver/Metropolitan Opera

The curtain rises on the prologue and the viewer is given a massive building filled with columns, emphasizing the structured world of Igor's Russia. This is only emphasized by the positions of the characters on stage. On stage right are three rows of soldiers, ever disciplined in their rigidity. Even when they move to make way for Igor they find a way to immediately get back into position. On the opposite side of the stage are the soldiers of higher ranking. In a balcony on stage right is a group of women. The world is well-established; the rigidity is emphasized by the lack of movement from most of these characters. There is a beautiful aesthetic balance that is ironically unsettled by the nervous pacing of Igor himself; he is the only character that actually moves throughout this scene.

Once the characters head to war, the film comes back up and the viewer is shown the battle itself. The power of cinema is explored to its maximum here as the viewer is enabled to glimpse at all of the soldiers' faces; they are actually people not just symbols on stage. Once again the viewer gets a chance to question Igor's psyche with a number of close-ups; each moving closer to his eyes. The metaphor of cinema as a dream has been explored by a number of filmmakers including Tcherniakov's own compatriot Andrei Tarkovsky whose cinematic gems have explored this very idea time and again (Tarkovsky also favored black-and-white cinematic expression and only resorted to color in a few instances).

Tcherniakov makes the most of this idea in his first act (the Polovtsian act) by not only leaving the screen down for the duration; this creates a fascinating perspective for the viewer as the action shifts from the images on screen to the staged scenery behind it. No other scene in the entire work features this setup, adding to the dream-like quality of the Polovtsian act. The staged scenery behind it is a field of rose-colored flowers. The actual field resembles the shape of a brain and the flowers are arranged in such diverse manners as to remind the viewer of the synapses in the brain; that Igor constantly reaches for his head and holds it as if in pain only lends support to this interpretation. The fact that there is no seeming way out of this setting adds to the prison-like state of our minds. Igor's sense of guilt, inadequacy, pain and suffering has dominated his whole being. He walks about this sequence, seemingly unable to interact with the other characters; it is as if they do not exist for him but are merely projections of his subconscious; it is certainly not lost on the viewer that the majority of these characters wear white, adding to their ghostly dimension.

A scene from Act I of Borodin's "Prince Igor" with Ildar Abdrazakov as Prince Igor Svyatoslavich. Photo: Cory Weaver/Metropolitan Opera

The cinematic images suggest that Igor may be in some sort of coma or delirium; it is never quite clear but it does not matter in the larger scheme. The ambiguity actually adds to the intellectual involvement with the production. More importantly, this setup adds a great deal of momentum and thrust to a scene that is rather sloppy from a dramatically structured point of view. The scene features two arias for Igor's son Vladimir and his beloved Konchakovna; the two then engage in a duet before Igor expresses his pain. The Khan Konchak who is supposedly holding Igor captive then has a brief scene before the famed Polovtsian dances take over in a rather crazed expression of sexuality; the chaotic representation in Tcherniakov's production as choreographed Itzik Galili actually adds to the crazed madness within Igor's mind. That he seems overwhelmed by the "dances" around him adds to the notion that this is not a moment of pleasure for the character.

This arrangement on its own is pure genius. There is simply no other way to describe it. However, in the overall context of the work, the cinematic technique seems out of place.Tcherniakov never actually follows up on it from a psychological perspective, making the first section of the production feel like a completely different work. Part of it has to do with the direction of the opera.

Act 2 eliminates Igor completely and focuses on his wife Yaroslavna and her brother the prince Galitsky who wants to usurp the throne left vacant by Igor. The cinematic projections are only used as title cards to emphasize the temporal situation of each scene. The first one is in the afternoon and focuses on Yaroslavna's pain and the subsequent conflict with her incestuous brother. The second takes place "After Midnight" and showcases Galitsky and his cohorts running rampant as they prepare for the "coup." The final one takes place the next morning and brings these two conflicts to the head. The production returns to the set from the prologue. Tcherniakov's staging in this act is far more subtle but solid in their execution. The opening scene leaves the space almost completely empty, emphasizing the massive void that Igor has left. The second act is a disaster with Galitsky's men engaged in a late-night feast. The chaos emphasizes Galitsky's behavior; when compared with the Igor's world as established in the prologue, this set-up suggests what Galtisky's rule would look like. The third scene starts off with an organized line of Boyars meeting with Yaroslavna; this is a great reminder of the structure of the prologue and returns us to how Igor's kingdom was run. Moments later, the two worlds collide in a climactic chaos that emphasizes Russia's politic state. An epic coup de theatre takes place at the end of the act when the building literally starts caving in on the characters, foreshadowing what is to come next.

Oksana Dyka as Yaroslavna in Borodin's "Prince Igor." Photo: Cory Weaver/Metropolitan Opera

When the curtain rises on Act 3, the viewer is left completely perplexed by the new state of this particular set. Chaos is one way to describe it but dejection, destruction, poverty, pain and suffering to their maximum expression would also be apt words. Rubble is littered about. There are a number of small fires warming the dejected and poverty-stricken characters on stage. A tiny stream of water descends from the ceiling onto a pot in the middle of the stage; a subversion of the constant references to rivers in the texts. Just looking at it is overwhelming for the viewer. Igor finally makes his long awaited return and it is clear that he is a broken man. He hobbles about and at one moment sits down frozen in thought. He has a brief flashback in which he remembers his son abandoning him to remain with Konchakovna; Tcherniakov achieves this beautifully by bringing up the lighting onstage to create a surreal atmosphere. Once the dream has ended the lights dim down to their more realistic original state. In this version, Igor does not have any redemption. He seems lost and stuck in his pain and failure. He rejects his wife. He rejects the people. A new monologue has been inserted in which he calls upon other princes (which he deems better than him) to take control of Russia. However, the ending has some hope. Igor pounds on the bell to get the attention of his people and starts to pick up the rubble. One by one the entire entourage starts to do the same as the opera comes to an end on a glorious lyrical melody that feels so elusive and yet to unforgettable in its impact.

Ildar Abdrazakov as Prince Igor Svyatoslavich in Borodin's "Prince Igor." Photo: Cory Weaver/Metropolitan Opera

The production works wonderfully on a purely emotional level; particularly when following the progression of the five Russia scenes. But the imbalance comes from Tcherniakov's decision to delve into the intellectual ideas that dominate the first section of the opera. As aforementioned, this works brilliantly on its own but also creates an expectation of similar treatment in latter parts of the work. The opera itself does not allow for this treatment, making the first section come off as an ultimately unfinished experiment by Tcherniakov.

Tcherniakov is not the only genius at work in this production. Bass Ildar Abdrazakov proves himself worthy of being a movie star and theatrical genius at the same time. Igor does not sing as much as one would expect in a three hour opera (I wonder if he even gets an hour worth of music sing), but he is onstage for all of the prologue and Act 1 and most of Act 3. Even when he is not singing, he is a magnetic presence, providing the character with a tremendous of constant insight. Igor seemingly never stops moving for most of the first two acts and Abdrazakov makes him come off as an "Odysseus" on an odyssey in his own consciousness. He is seemingly trying to get home and even when he does return to his "Penelope," his journey has destroyed him. The singer's vocal development is quite fascinating. His opening statements to his soldiers are delivered with such potency and confidence that one cannot imagine this man as the fragile broken soul that he is by the work's end. Even during a tender exchange with Yaroslavna, he is assured and poised vocally. As the work developed, the voice lacked that same robust sound; it was replaced with a softer tone color, one that seemed able to grasp a wider range of emotional textures. The final monologue in which Igor essentially confesses his inadequacy to the Russia people featured some beautiful pianissimo singing from the bass; a massive contrast from the stentorian high notes he showcased early on in the performance.

Anita Rachvelishvili exuded sexuality in her turn as Konchakovna; her luxurious singing during her aria in the Polovtsian scene had such an alluring delicacy that made it impossible to look away. Her low notes at the end of the passage had a raw passionate excitement. Her brief appearance in Act 3 was marked by a potent, gut-wrenching vocal display. The frenzy in her singing almost seemed like an explosion of the otherwise controlled sexuality in her first act.

Mikhail Petrenko as Prince Galitsky in Borodin's "Prince Igor." Photo: Cory Weaver/Metropolitan Opera

Sergey Semishkur sang beautifully as Vladimir. His voice has a sweetness to it that emphasized the romantic qualities of the character; the high notes were riveting and poised, giving free reign to the powerful emotion and desire of Vladimir.

Mikhail Petrenko was solid as Galitsky. He had cockiness about him as he toyed with his sister; in one moment he sexually accosted her, adding some interesting dynamics to the scene. He constantly wiped his hands with a white handkerchief, which came off as a subtle reference of his sexuality and perhaps as a suggestion of his inability to get his hands dirty in political matters. His voice often lacked assuredness or distinction, but this actually enhanced the contrast with Igor's seeming power and definition as a ruler.

Stefan Kocan sang with suave lyricism in his brief scene as the Khan Konchak.

Despite all of these solid performances, the show belonged to Oskana Dyka. The soprano stole the show with a complex portrayal of Yaroslavna. Most sopranos that take on this role get away with playing the long-suffering wife, but Dyka manages to add more dimension to the character. She does suffer (and a lot more than most Yaroslavnas I might add), but she is also a strong assertive woman. She knows how to put men in her place. Dyka's elegant posture made her a striking figure on stage and added to Yaroslavna's own internal power. As the work progresses, there is a sense of the strength giving way to weakness, particularly in the final moments when the character is rejected by her beloved husband that she has been waiting a seeming eternity for. In this regard, Yaroslavna is also a direct representation of the Russia state. She is abandoned by Igor and must suffer the consequences of his absence. Even her best attempts at improving the situation are constantly rejected or destroyed. However, the ending suggests not only the redemption of the Russia state but possible her marriage to Igor.

Oksana Dyka as Yaroslavna in Borodin's "Prince Igor." Photo: Cory Weaver/Metropolitan Opera

Dyka's voice did a wondrous job of providing the character with humanity and depth. Her opening interactions with Igor were delivered with tremendous pain; she climaxed to a glorious high note that provided the emotional climax of the scene. Her opening aria in Act 2 also emphasized her pain and suffering but the elegant phrasing emphasized the characters strength and poise. Her interaction with Galitsky in the ensuing scene was marked by potent singing that mirrored that of Igor in the prologue. Yaroslavna's opening monologue at the start of Act 3 is arguably the emotional center of the entire work. Dyka started the section with a glorious crescendo and her singing throughout wept quietly. The aria's own repetitive nature added to the sense of the cyclical pain and suffered endured by the character; Dyka's increasingly intensity throughout each section externalized the character's emotional state. The fact that this particularly scene showcases Yaroslavna in the company of other destitute Russians emphasized her as a symbol for the overall Russian plight.

Pavel Smelkov led a brilliant performance of the work; his tempi never lagging in the famed Polovtsian dances. His orchestral coloring in the final act was particularly striking; the sense of emptiness emphasized by a subdued reading of the work's more quiet sections. It added a rather striking contrast to the explosive orchestra reading of the major choral sections that dominated the prologue.

Anyone that views "Prince Igor" may find some level of frustration but Tcherniakov and company manage to imbue the work with riveting imagery and some psychological insight. One wonders if this production will ever appear again (will they have to reshoot all of the video with another singer if Abdrazakov's schedule is not able to fit in another run of the work?), which makes it essential viewing for any lover of opera or even Russian culture in general.