Respighi described Maria Egiziaca both as a mistero or mystery-play and as a ''concert triptych''; in fact it was first performed (at Carnegie Hall in New York in 1931, with Nelson Eddy among the soloists) in semi-staged form, in front of a large folding altarpiece designed by Nicola Benois. The three wings of the painting are prescribed in the score: the harbour at Alexandria, where Mary lived as a courtesan; the church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, where an angel refused her entry; the desert where she repented for 40 years, with the cave of the hermit Zosimus, from whom she received her last communion. Something like a musical altarpiece (one of Fra Angelico's, perhaps: simplicity of line, purity of colour) seems to have been in Respighi's mind. In its reliance on monody (sweetly and amply accompanied monody, mind you, despite the use of a would-be austere harpsichord from time to time), Maria Egiziaca is one of his most overtly archaizing works. It is a neo-Monteverdi (or neo- Carissimi) azione sacra, with simple, chant-like vocal lines designed to project the text clearly, and to act as foil for more expressive arches of melody at crucial dramatic moments.
The high points (a quasi-aria for Mary in each of the three scenes; the vehement denunciations of the Pilgrim, who will become Zosimus in scene 3; the concluding duet with chorus) do indeed stand out in effective relief against the predominant lyrical declamation. There is sufficient variety of incident to prevent the piece from declining into mere placidity: Mary's barring from the Sepulchre is touchingly counterpointed by the ready opening of its door to a leper, a beggar and a blind woman, each with a tiny phrase or two to characterize their faith. What the score lacks, for all its gentle charm, is the visionary intensity that the plot demands; the final scene in which Mary is received into heaven is quietly beautiful, but not radiant. Indeed the text and the drama are understated throughout. Respighi seems caught between the natural opulence of his language and his nostalgia for the past, and instead of an imaginative re-creation of the latter he offers a watering-down of the former. He was to find a far more effective way of having his cake and eating it in his next opera, La fiamma.
More eloquent singing might have helped, but Kincses's voice cannot take the pressure she puts on it, nor the close focus of the recording: when she sings quietly she is expressive, but the voice is too often squally and strained, and one is left to wonder what a really opulent lyric-dramatic soprano might make of the role (its early interpreters included Gina Cigna and Maria Caniglia). Both the principal male singers, Nagy and Miller, are over-forceful, too, though the former has an agreeably Italianate style, the latter an effective vehemence. Gardelli conducts with his accustomed affectionate subtlety, and the two orchestral interludes go well. The recording, close focusing on the soloists apart, is quite adequate.'