It's true that sets are mostly borrowed and costumes rented - with a corps of emerging artists (many from Philadelphia's Academy of Vocal Arts) gamely manipulating their capes and other operatic impedimenta like kids playing dress-up. So the custom-made production values of, say, Glimmerglass Opera haven't been achieved yet. But the caliber and consistency of the musical talent make this season stand well above not only this company's previous ones, but those of its predecessor, Opera Festival of New Jersey.

Let's not be so foolhardy as to proclaim that stars are being born here; success in the McCarter complex's 360-seat Berlind Theatre is more likely than in the cavernous opera-house norm where truck-driver singing is required. But the leading singers here require no good-for-summer-opera handicaps from even the most seasoned connoisseurs. In La Cenerentola's title role, mezzo-soprano Leah Wool, for one, emerged as a finished operatic personality.

You're tempted to think Rossini's ultra-intricate coloratura writing is the near-exclusive property of Cecilia Bartoli. But Wool has a comparable accuracy rate and a more pleasing technical approach. Like many big-house singers, Bartoli tends to aspirate on individual notes, giving them a machine-gun-like penetration. With her more demure, smoky timbre, Wool phrases more smoothly - better to achieve moments of specific dramatic relevence. Born on Long Island and educated at Yale, she's also an able actress: Her Cinderella was free of self-pity and full of mischief. She's also a captivating presence. Can you ask for anything more?

As her prince, Javier Abreu needs seasoning, but even now is a credible specimen of that rare breed of coloratura tenors. The comedic talents needed elsewhere in the opera were much in evidence, particularly with Eric T. Dubin's prince in disguise. The catalyst was conductor Robert Wood, whose ample technique instilled the right balance of discipline and flexibility.

The lovely, if basic, production suggested a charming provincial Italian opera house, though it's too bad stage director Michael Scarola didn't confine physical humor to moments of character relevance. In a theater this small, operatic broadness easily becomes overkill. If there's a house rule here, it should be "Subtlety works."

Lack of it was more glaring in the intimate exchanges of La Traviata, whose heavy-handed Violetta, Elizabeth Caballero, made the audience wait at length for her to stop swigging champagne before launching into Verdi's famous "Sempre Libre" aria. But she was worth the wait. You don't realize how much you're used to iffy pitch in this aria until it's largely absent, as it was here. Her midweight lyric soprano managed all three acts with equal adeptness - aided by Fernando Raucci's solid if not-so-stylish conducting.

Her Alfredo, Philadelphia's increasingly visible Michael Fabiano, sounded wonderful in this congenial acoustic, though the combination of close audience proximity and the uncluttered John Hoomes staging shows how much this tenor could use some work in the deportment department. As his father, Germont, William Andrew Stuckey sounded a bit scruffy in a baritone that tended to boom or croon. An artistic choice or technical necessity? Hard to tell.