The Teatro alla Scala commemorates the 100th anniversary of Giacomo Puccini's death with an extravagant new production of his final opera, Turandot, which was left incomplete when he died of a heart attack at the age of 66. The remaining ten minutes of music were completed by Franco Alfano after some dispute among the composer’s heirs, conductor Arturo Toscanini and Puccini’s publisher, Ricordi. Famously, at the premiere in this very theatre in 1926, Toscanini stopped conducting after the death of Liù, the last music composed and fully orchestrated by Puccini, turned to the audience, and said, “Here the opera ends, because the Maestro died.” At La Scala, they sought to recreate this moment by giving LED tea-lights to each member of the audience. At the very moment, the music stopped, and all chorus and audience members switched on their lights, observing a minute of silence.
Director Davide Livermore creates a new world for his Turandot, incorporating recognisable elements of modern Asia while evoking a spiritual, phantasmagorical universe. The sheer number of his ideas and visual references is overwhelming, with splendid, bold, breathtaking images. D-Wok's videos dazzle, featuring a gigantic moon in the middle of the stage that rotates, turns blood red or transparent, and fills with flowers or white veils.
Livermore’s approach is psychoanalytic: Ping, Pong, and Pang are presented as Calaf's internal voices, representing his common sense trying to dissuade him from risking his life for the dream of loving Turandot. The Prince of Persia, beheaded at the beginning of the opera as the latest of Turandot’s unlucky suitors, is portrayed by a dancer and holds much greater importance than usual. Livermore explains in the programme book that the Prince is another of Calaf’s internal voices – the proud voice of his ego – which needs to be slain for Calaf's courage to take charge and his fate to be accomplished.
The ghost of Lo-u-Ling, the ancestor whose rape and murder Turandot is trying to avenge, is present on stage as an actress dressed in silvery regalia, mimicking Turandot’s movements, visually representing the possession of her soul. Only when she frees herself from her menacing presence can Turandot start fully living and liberate the realm from the horror she had imposed upon it.
The movements of the cast and chorus are meticulously planned. The overall effect of the production is spectacular, if perhaps a tad corny – snow starts falling when Liù sings to Turandot that she’s encased in ice – or a bit too busy, but every idea and expedient is respectful of the music and follows its lead.
Anna Netrebko delivered a forceful and powerful performance as Turandot. Her beautiful, luscious soprano successfully navigated the demanding heights of the role with both strength and authority; at “Quel grido,” it felt as though the theatre was shaking. She softened her high notes into ravishing pianissimi and plunged into her lower register with gusto. While these plunges were occasionally a bit forced and her breathing technique seemed less than optimal (as it has been for some time now) her performance was still imposing. She dominated the stage and bullied everybody into submission with the sheer power of her voice, as the Ice Princess should.
Calaf was portrayed by Yusif Eyvazov. His technique was flawless, showcasing tasteful phrasing, thoughtful dynamics and impressive support grounded in his outstanding breath control. His high notes were secure, sustained and applause-triggering. He also moved reasonably well on stage, wearing a flattering outfit. Unfortunately, this spectacular technique serves a voice whose timbre has not been kissed by the gods: it tends to be nasal and squeezed, especially in a very specific range (high, but not super-high).
Liù was sung by Rosa Feola, whose soprano perfectly complemented Netrebko’s: silvery and brilliant on high notes, with tender pianissimi and a natural sweetness that captured every heart. Despite this, her voice displayed an unusual strength of character, revealing a fierce side of Liù that is rarely represented on stage. Her death was emotional and passionate, very moving.
Conductor Michele Gamba seemed more concerned with taming Puccini’s score than letting it fully bloom. The orchestration is notoriously heavy, risking overpowering the stage and dominating the entire performance. Gamba was very careful to keep the sound at a manageable dynamic range, providing splendid support to his singers by following their lead and allowing them to breathe. Perhaps some of the more solemn moments, such as the imperial hymn “Diecimila anni,” lost some of their intensity; however, the more poetic parts, such as the invocation to the moon, were transparent and elegantly detailed. The chorus' performance was excellent; they exuded confidence and a deep understanding of the score, skillfully navigating the extremes of their range and the rhythmic pitfalls.
