If you’re going to do orientalist fairytale, go big. That’s what Andrei Șerban’s Royal Opera staging of Turandot does: giant heads on spikes, blood red floor-to-ceiling banners, elaborately choreographed dancers in Peking-opera-style masks, flowing primary-coloured silk costumes, the Emperor descending from the ceiling on a golden throne. It’s been pulling in the crowds for 40 years, with 15 revivals at Covent Garden as well as many touring performances.
It still works. Some details show their age: the giant moon would probably be done by video projection these days, the Emperor in the clouds with his lush beard is disturbingly reminiscent of a Monty Python figure of God. Kate Flatt’s choreography, virtuosic as it is, strikes one as rather more Cossack dance than Chinese pageant. But broadly speaking, Șerban’s staging provides spectacle that’s easy on the eye and a good match for the fantastical story.
That said, Turandot is a problematic piece, largely because the characters are so unsympathetic. Our lead couple Calaf and Turandot are self-centred unfeeling monsters, the people of Peking are a bloodthirsty mob, the councillors Ping, Pang and Pong – except for a brief reflective interlude – are deeply buried in years of accumulated cynicism. So it’s down to Puccini’s music to give you any level of emotional involvement – which, as it happens, the music is quite capable of doing, because it’s one of the most vivid, uplifting scores in any opera.
Sadly, for the first two acts last night, the music fell far short of that requirement. Under the baton of Daniel Oren, most of the orchestral playing was too loud and abrasive: too much brass and strings, both solo singers and chorus needing to strain to be heard, woodwind colours lost in the swell. The overall feel was the soundtrack of a Hollywood epic, not the nuanced romanticism of a Puccini opera – except, that is, in the pianissimo passages, in which Oren and the orchestra revealed all the colours that had been absent elsewhere.
Much as I am a fan of Anna Netrebko, the title role did not seem to suit her. Netrebko had the decibels to overcome the orchestral tsunami, but at the expense of wayward intonation and high notes that were frequently harsh. The direction of the ice-maiden princess in this production is relatively park-and-bark (as it is in many others), and it gave little scope for Netrebko’s acting ability to shine through her singing. As Calaf, Yusif Eyvazov was audible, but didn’t summon the warmth or the decibels to stamp his authority above the orchestra. His “Nessun dorma” felt mannered rather than heroic, taking a lot of liberties with the rhythm without this creating any discernible dramatic effect.
This isn’t the first Turandot in which I’ve seen the show stolen by Liù, and I don’t suppose it will be the last, but it was certainly one of the most comprehensive. Masabane Cecilia Rangwanasha gave us the perfect combination of sweet timbre, beautifully judged phrasing and heart-wrenching emotion. From Liù’s “Tu che di gel sei cinta”, the whole performance seemed to take on new life, with even Franco Alfano’s closing duet – often considered unsatisfactory – providing a proper sense of dramatic tension and catharsis, to leave the audience well satisfied at the end.
As usual at Covent Garden, there was considerable strength in depth behind the principals. Rafał Siwek was a powerfully voiced Timur, Ossian Huskinson chalked up another successful lesser role as the Mandarin, late replacement baritone Simone del Savio stood out as the most vivid of the trio of Ping, Pang and Pong. Particular plaudits should go to the ten dancers, whose coordination and crispness of movement lit up the whole staging.
A curate’s egg of an evening, therefore. This production still has plenty of legs in it, but needs better performances from the two principals and the orchestra to really run.
