When Giacomo Puccini travels to Brussels in November 1924 to be treated for throat cancer, there are 36 sketches for the finale of Turandot in his suitcase. Unfortunately, Dr. Ledoux's radium therapy failed to cure the composer and he died without being able to finish his score. It is important to remember that he wanted a finale that would be "as beautiful as Tristan." One of the sketches reads "Poi Tristano" ("And now Tristan"). What that meant to him we can only guess but wouldn't it have been great if he had succeeded ? "Wagner is everywhere in Turandot: both in the first act and in the sketches for the finale - but not in an obvious way, but hidden under the surface," Luciano Berio would later say when he himself would attempt to finish the work.
But in 1925 it was Franco Alfano who could be persuaded to compose the finale based on the sketches. Arturo Toscanini was not satisfied with the result and had 109 of the 377 bars removed (about 10 minutes of music). Since that time, there have been two versions of the Alfano finale. The original version makes more sense; it shows Turandot's metamorphosis, from cruel ice princess to passionately in love, not so abruptly: the trap of love closes around her little by little. But Alfano's music is nothing like the Tristan finale the master of Torre del Lago had in mind. It most closely resembles the Weimar dilettantism of Franz Schreker. Would he himself have been able to realize it? Liù's death is such a musical highlight that the final duet must have been a real challenge for him as well. And he had been working on it since April 1924. Can we blame Alfano, who wanted to follow Puccini's sketches as faithfully as possible, for not being able to realize what Puccini himself may not have been capable of?
In the Alfano finale, we hear Calaf and Turandot conversing but they never sing together, which hardly gives the impression of a shared passion. From the composer of the final duet we expected something more substantial : new and sublime music to lift the awakening of the woman by the kiss of the charming prince to a level of transcendence comparable to the Tristan finale. Where is the "elated and overwhelmed" princess as it says in the libretto? As long as the composer/librettist does not arise who can get this job done it will remain an unfulfilled fantasy. Nor has Berio been able to help us any further.
While Vasily Barkhatov directed the opera in very murky waters in Stéphane Lissner's Naples, his consort, Asmik Grigorian, shines in Claus Guths production in Bogdan Roščić's Vienna. What you never get to see in conventional productions with mass scenes, lions, dragons and other chinoiseries is the vulnerability and psychological development of a traumatized woman who has locked herself into her self-chosen isolation. Turandot has built a prison around herself through a bureaucratic machinery. It's all a matter of self-protection. But deep in her subconscious, she hopes the unknown prince will solve her riddles, Guth believes. In doing so, he focuses on the essentials, and that is what makes Guth's directorial concept a master class.
The neutral space that Etienne Pluss designed for the first act is like a Karl-Ernst Hermann box. The unknown prince (Calaf) enters it through an old-fashioned hatch in the stage floor. The chorus members, meanwhile, have taken their seats at the front of the stage, seated on black coffins. They will remain motionless throughout the first act with their hands on their knees. That's convenient for the director. On the other hand, the Kafkaesque bureaucracy of Beijing is very industrious: the executions are extensively documented and Calaf falls from one surprise into another. On the back wall the vague outlines of the cruel princess can be seen. Sometimes she wipes her bloodied fingers across a glass wall (video : Roland Horvath). Costume designer Ursula Kudrna has dressed both the chorus and the bureaucrats in uniform pastel green costumes. Sommer Ulrickson has choreographed their movements with grotesque humor as if this were North Korea. Associating the totalitarian regime of the Forbidden City with the color green was a fine idea.
During the invocation of the moon, we see Turandot dancing with the decapitated corpse of one of the crown pretenders. Schoolchildren with schoolbags sing the famous "Moo Lee Vha" theme that is heard here for the first time and will return in many guises as the main leitmotif of the opera. The costumes of Mongolian inspiration that Kudrna devised for the Tatar couple, Calaf and Liù, are very stylish. "Signore ascolta" and "Non piangere Liù" are the undeniable highlights of the first act, not least because they are given a very poetic interpretation by the choreography that Guth and Ulrickson devised for Liù and her four doubles. The women have two cute buns in their hair unlike the Chinese who wear orange wigs. Liù looks gorgeous with them, and her subtle play with her eyes is electrifying. With Kristina Mkhitaryan there is once again a gorgeous Russian soprano on stage for whom I do not hesitate to use the word natural talent. Calaf does not allow himself to be restrained by the ladies despite the ribbons they pull from his vest. His appetite for risk is only stimulated by them. The monumental door in the background is a copy of the entrance to Siegmund Freud's practice in the Berggasse. Twice Calaf will kneel in front of the door and announce his participation in the competition with a knock on the door. As an image, it is stronger than a bang on the gong. The choir sounds rather underpowered in this stream, as does the orchestra which seems to hold back in the finale.
If the space of the first act is a kind of antichamber, the second act is set in the princess' bedroom. But first there is the slapstick of the scherzo with the three ministers Ping, Pong, Pang. Their cleverness, wit and mocking spirit, often disappointing in conventional productions, remains captivating. They half-dress and drink a beer. In their rêverie of the Chinese countryside, they are so at ease that they also take off their wigs. The transitional music to the second scene, sometimes reminiscent of American musicals, proves once again to be an earworm. Emperor Altoum does not seem pleased with his daughter's capriciousness. The chords that accompany his entrance are impressive. The orchestra is now more emphatically present in the sound image. Four girls with doll heads sit at the foot of Turandot's bed. With the deathly look in their lifeless eyes, they combine innocence and terror, just as in horror movies. It is the antagonism that also lives in Turandot. This foursome, which moreover illustrates her immaturity, is also a real asset to the production. During "In questa reggia," the puppet girls unearth Lo-u-Ling's ancient bones from a chest, the origin of Turandot's trauma. The riddles proceed like a Masonic ritual with blindfolding and hand-washing. And they don't miss their effect. The low notes played by the double bass, bassoon, contrabassoon and timpani give an impression of dull, opaque hammering. The chorus now sounds from the wings but does not sound weakened as compared to the first act. The children's chorus is also good again.
No one sleeps in the third act, especially not the princess. Kaufmann's "Nessun dorma" is rewarded by the audience present with prolonged applause. Liù is also very good in her farewell. Afterwards, the opera is actually over as I have already mentioned above. Vienna plays the long Alfano finale which seems to have gained in importance through Antonio Pappano's recent recording, also with Kaufmann. During the final bars of the official wedding ritual, Turandot takes her Calaf by the hand and drags him backstage with her.
For Jonas Kaufmann, 2023 must have been an annus horibilis. Recently, he gave details of the bacterial invasion in his lungs. That seems to be a thing of the past. He did not spare himself and the voice is all the way back with all its flaws such as the gloomy, edgy timbre and the uncomfortable pressure on the voice in the high range. But still he manages to make the most of his vocal abilities and largely compensate for the flaws with style, poetry, and penetrating the meaning of the words. Kaufmann remains a tenor of modern cut. His Calaf is virile without being macho. "Non piangero Liù" and "Nessun Dorma" were very good.
This was also a debut for Asmik Grigorian. Once again, she manages to charge the part with the electrifying intensity that has become typical of her. She reaches the highest notes and nothing seems to indicate that this is a part that threatens to ruin her voice. She sounds steady in voice throughout the whole tessitura with a tonal beauty that dramatic sopranos, often past their prime, will envy her.
Kristina Mkhitaryan is more than a lyric soprano, which is required here for Liù. She sings with fullness of voice and one wonders what it would have been like if the roles of Liù/Turandot had been reversed. After all, the tessitura hardly differs. Even though her timbre is almost that of a mezzo.
Jörg Schneider sang a very nuanced portrait of Emperor Altoum. Dan Paul Dumitrescu was a solid Timur. Of the three ministers (Martin Hässler, Norbert Ernst and Hiroshi Amako), baritone Martin Hässler left the best impression. And for once the Mandarin was also well sung by Attila Mokus.
Marco Armiliato knows the piece like the back of his hand. He will never err in terms of tempos but will bet on the poetry and exoticism of the score. The balance problems seemed to me more like a problem created by the sound engineer.
Watch the stream on ORF 2 via VPN.