Puccini's Turandot is an opera to whose sinister charms I was long immune. I'm not sure what happened in recent years to make me love it. Certainly City Opera's glorious 2002 production of Il trittico and OONY's superb 2004 Fanciulla made me rethink my frosty relationship with brother Giacomo, but the thaw had started even earlier. I remember revisiting Tosca in the theatre seven or eight years ago and marvelling at its blessèd terseness: How refreshing, how professional, how *respectful* compared with the longueurs of, say, Don Carlos, Parsifal, or Cenerentola (all of which, mind you, I adore).
Then, too, in my old age, my tolerance for bullsh*t has dwindled to practically zero. Turandot's overt misogyny bothers me much less than the treacly, patronizing, but no less venomous depictions of women in many of the Strauss-von Hofmannsthal operas and Puccini's earlier works.
Act I of Turandot thrills me with it combination of awesome scale and exquisite detail. The smeared, shrieking harmonies of the opening pages and the gut-wrenching coup de théâtre of the gong-strokes; the watery, vertiginous ghost-chorus and the gossamer fragility of Liù's music; the sense of lurid, swirling darkness pierced by a pale moonrise; those brutal final chords, as sharp and peremptory as the executioner's sword… It all flies by in one great nightmarish gasp for me.
Plus, I admit it, I have a weakness for "unfinished" and "problematic" works, strongly preferring The Canterbury Tales* to The Divine Comedy, Hamlet to Macbeth, etc.
*[Assuming, of course, that The Canterbury Tales is actually unfinished! I have my doubts.]
Anyway, here is my Newsday review of New York City Opera's Turandot, which is a very strong show. I remind you that Berio's Turandot finale is available from Decca, and that Collegiate Chorale will give its New York premiere in January, with Aprile Millo (!) as Turandot.
If you have never seen City Opera's Turandot, I commend it to you in particular for the late Beni Montresor's beautiful sets and costumes. You know, last year, I think I was one of maybe three kooks broken up by the fact that Josef Svoboda's sets for the Met's Vêpres would probably never be seen again. Between our culture's general anti-theatrical prejudice and the "absolute" music piffle that holds sway among people who should know better, the material trappings of opera tend to get short shrift. Montresor's look is lush and painterly—old-fashioned, I guess, but in a good way. His use of color is breathtaking, and there are no shower facilities, plastic flowers, or AstroTurf anywhere to be seen (those being three clichés of contemporary set design that make me want to SCREAM).
Had the libretto adhered more closely to Gozzi's play, the character of Turandot would have manifested more humanity. In the play, she did not expect anyone to take up her challenge. It is her portrait that drives suitors to answer her riddle.
In any event, Calaf is no hero. Indeed, it certainly could be argued that he is more morally repugnant than Turandot. He is bedazzled by Turandot's beauty and fails to recognize true love (Liu) when it is plainly before him. Consider the context in which he sings "Nessun dorma." Turandot is having tortures conducted to learn the secret of his riddle; yet all Calaf can think of is what awaits the morning:
Nessun dorma! Tu pure, o Principessa, nella tua fredda stanza guardi le stelle che tremano d'amore e di speranza.
Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me, il nome mio nessun saprà! Solo
quando la luce splenderà, sulla tua bocca lo dirò, fremente! Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio che ti fa mia!
The last Act, in my opinion, is intended to be a scene of transfiguration and redemption of Turandot àla Wagner or Strauss. Yet, Calaf remains the same, yet is the beneficiary of her transformation by becoming the object of her new-found ability to love. A happy ending, I suppose; but morally ambiguous at best.
Gary Hoffman
Posted by: glhoffman | 02 November 2005 at 05:34