But there is opera beyond the polished stars of hit CD compilations and Three Tenors concerts. On a recent Sunday afternoon, what may be the opera celebrities of the future parade across a honey-wooded stage at the New England Conservatory, each singing his or her part in the New England regional finals of the Metropolitan Opera auditions. Ten of New England’s finest singers, whittled down from a pool of more than 80 applicants, are competing for a chance to sing on the Met’s hallowed stage, and to win a sizable monetary prize.

The New England regional finals are a refined affair: tickets must be reserved months in advance, the audience dresses up, and the stage bursts with flowers (orchids, lilies, roses). The internationally renowned judges (John Fisher, director of music administration for the Met; Andrew Bennett, executive director of the Northern Sinfonia; Anne Ewers, director of the Utah Opera; and Drew Minter, a famed countertenor) sit in a loose square between two rows of empty chairs in the orchestra section of the hall. The audience is genteel and well-bred.

Despite the sophisticated aura, though, the auditions also smack of fashion and talent shows, ballet recitals and spelling bees. The seven women participants wear floor-length gowns that express varying degrees of chic and sex appeal. Milky shoulders flow into plunging necklines and overflowing bosoms. Yards of taffeta, silk, sequins, and satiny trains drag across the glossy floor. The costumes are not without influence: using the programs of heavy, cream-colored paper as score cards, some audience members slyly rate the singers not only on the quality of their voices, but also on their attire. Sometimes there’s plenty to remark on: in 1989, a particularly buxom soprano’s dress rotated entirely around her torso after she won first prize and hugged all the judges, thereby pleasing her adoring audience even further.

Even the judges accept that the singers are showcasing not only their voices, but also their stage presence. “We judge singers on the quality of their voice, its timbre, color, and the singer’s ability to communicate,” says Andrew Bennett. “All of these components come across in the first three bars of music. Yet much of true musical talent lies in intangible gifts, in the God-given ability to combine technical ability with charisma, a sense of fantasy, statement, and invention. I am not here to hear perfectly polished, professional voices, but to evaluate and teach these young singers.”

THIS YEAR’S contestants range in age from 21 (infancy in the operatic world) to 31 (a healthy adolescence). In today’s competition, they open with the aria of their choice and then are asked to sing a second chosen by the judges from a group of five songs. Mozart’s arias dominate: if the singer does not begin with Wolfgang Amadeus, the judges almost unfailingly request him for the second aria. “Mozart is the great leveler,” explains Bennett. “We don’t request Mozart out of any sadistic desire to see the singers fail. Yet Mozart’s exposed bel canto style requires great flexibility, purity, and ease in order to sound effortless. A more tessitura aria, one that lies in the voice’s natural range, can hide a young singer’s flaws. Mozart is the most democratic of choices, the gold standard.”

The singers’ chosen arias are nothing if not varied. Kristina Martin, for example, a curly-haired 26-year-old mezzo in a dress with a dramatic rhinestone-studded slit up the side, struts around the stage, saucily regarding the audience during her flamenco-dancer poses as she sings the sultry Gypsy song from Bizet’s Carmen. The audience laughs, both shocked and in love with her gutsy performance. The kindly woman sitting next to me hisses in a stage whisper, “That’s what we call chutzpah!”

The audience favors extremes: very pretty girls with flashy, supple voices, or the big, Wagnerian types of yore with low, low voices. Joanna Mongiardo, who bears a certain elfin-brunette resemblance to Winona Ryder, has the audience hanging on her every octave skip in her performance of “Una voce poco fa” from Rossini’s The Barber of Seville. She pairs a girlish, pouty interpretation of Rosina with virtuoso coloratura (read: crowd-pleasing) capabilities. The audience begins its applause before Mongiardo finishes singing; the cheering for the slender mezzo, her flashing eyes and bright smile, is practically a riotous reception compared to the respectful, hushed applause that follows the other singers’ performances.

Morris Robinson also cuts an imposing figure. He sings with a furrowed brow and clenched fist, and in a voice so low it vibrates in the metal legs of the chairs in Jordan Hall. (It’s no surprise to learn that Robinson is a graduate of the hallowed, if controversial, South Carolina military academy the Citadel.) In an equally threatening pose, Katherine Rohrer sings from Saint-Saëns’s Samson and Delilah, raising an invisible dagger over an imagined man groveling at her (well-heeled) feet.

In contrast, Lee Poulis, a 21-year-old Harvard government major, stands virtually stock-still during his performances from Mozart’s Così fan tutte and Wagner’s Tannhäuser. After his singing, the judges seem to converse excitedly among themselves. Yet the audience isn’t sure how to respond to a presentation without any flamenco passes, clenched fists, raised daggers, or petulant expressions. The judges ask Poulis to sing an unprecedented third aria, eliciting a great gasp from the crowd.

THE MET auditions’ winners are decided after all 10 singers have performed at least two arias. The judges adjourn for more than 30 minutes to make their decisions. Meanwhile, audience members mill about in the sloping corridors of Jordan Hall, referring to the singers by their dresses (there are only three male contestants this year) and making predictions. The singers spill out of the green room, clutching bottles of mineral water and talking excitedly on their cell phones. The women are still heavily made up, dark swaths of rouge on their cheeks and garish lipstick on their mouths. The men have loosened their bow ties and taken off their jackets, and are mopping their brows with handkerchiefs.

Flashing lights signify that the decisions are ready to be handed down. The contestants are escorted into Jordan Hall through a side door, and each is handed a bouquet of roses. A spokesperson announces that this year, the judges will award two first prizes ($5000 each), one third prize ($4000), and two encouragement prizes ($3000). Any deviation from the first-second-third system is something to buzz about, and the audience does just this. Amid the murmuring, a woman in the second row, discovering contestant Morris Robinson’s absence from the line-up, stands up and shouts, “Where’s Morris? Where did Morris go? Bring back Morris!”

“N-now, now, hold on there,” the spokesman says nervously. “If you’ll all be nice and quiet and patient, we’ll get to that later.” But the audience is impatient, and he quickly announces the awards. Kristina Martin, the Gypsy seductress, and Lee Poulis, the young Harvard man, are awarded encouragement prizes. The missing Morris Robinson, it turns out, had to leave the auditions early to perform as Doctor Bartolo in a 5 p.m. performance of Rossini’s The Barber of Seville. He wins third prize in absentia, and misses receiving his laurels in the presence of his adoring public. The first prizes are awarded to Joanna Mongiardo and Katherine Rohrer, and the beautiful singers wrap their long white arms around each other in (relatively) mute congratulations as they take the stage to receive handshakes and, more importantly, envelopes.

AFTER THE auditions, the contestants shed their ball gowns and tuxedos in favor of jeans and Gap turtleneck sweaters, and gather at the Colonnade Hotel to receive the judges’ comments. The singers move quietly through the room and take the chairs that line the walls, subdued after the bright lights of Jordan Hall and the electric buzz of performance adrenaline. In their regular street clothes, these singers — with voices strong enough to reach Jordan Hall’s thousand-plus seats, to permeate our clothes, our winter coats, our skin — seem to shrink in size.

The judges are full of praise for the winners. “Joanna Mongiardo’s sound has a wonderful purity to it, and she is a good actress,” says judge Maria Spacagna, the first American woman to sing the role of Madama Butterfly at La Scala. “Katherine Rohrer has a wonderfully resonant voice for a young mezzo; she knows her way around the music. Today, they represented the full musical package. We singers are a package whether we know it, believe it, or like it. Singers need to be aware of how to present themselves.”

Indeed. Among the judges’ comments are tips on presentation and appearance. As it turns out, there are advantageous ways to dress for such an event as today’s. Having seen her share of Met auditions, Spacagna can spot a wardrobe mishap in the making. “No shawls,” she declares. “Last year was the year of the shawl disaster: all the women had them and they kept slipping off one shoulder and distracting the singers.” A good dress, she confides, is tight enough so the singer’s diaphragm has something to press against. That way the singer is aware of sufficiently supporting her voice. “And the dresses should have strong zippers,” she adds.

Strong zippers? Oh, yes. During Spacagna’s run as Mimi in La Bohème, her colleague in the role of Musetta wore a low-cut servant-girl costume designed to look bedraggledly sexy. Right before Musetta’s main aria, the zipper burst open and the young singer began to fall out of her dress. Spacagna slid behind Musetta, held the dress together, and moved in tandem with her throughout the aria until the two could trot off stage together to supportive safety.

Spacagna gives her costume’s zippers an extra tug before going on stage, but other musicians pray, call their mothers, or wear lucky underwear to ensure a good performance. Lee Poulis’s admitted superstition is the Movado watch that adorns his wrist but has ceased to tick.

And perhaps in this vulnerability lies the secret to the joy of the Met auditions: they possess all the mystery, theatricality, and excitement of grand opera, yet are not so perfect so as to pass before our eyes like another star-studded performance made insipid by impersonal perfection. Sweaty palms clench into furious fists and around invisible daggers; girlish heroines trill. We are lucky to hear the hints of greatness, to see the singers strut and prance unabashedly, yet also to note their raw edges. It’s like the joy of winding a beautiful watch and hearing its whirring gears begin to tick up to speed.

Sara Houghteling is a freelance writer in Boston.