Deutsche Oper, Berlin
Turandot – Catherine Foster
Altoum – Peter Maus
Calaf – Kamen Chanev
Liù – Heidi Stober
Timur – Simon Lim
Ping – Melih Tepretmez
Pang – Gideon Poppe
Pong – Matthew Newlin
Mandarin – Andrew Harris
Prince of Persia –
Aristoteles Chaitidis, Jan Müller
Two Girls – Elbenita Kajtaz,
Christina Sidak
Lorenzo Fioroni (director)
Claudia Gotta (revival
director)
Paul Zoller (set designs and
video)
Katharina Gault (costumes)
Chorus
of the Deutsche Oper (chorus master: William Spaulding) of the Deutsche Oper
Orchestra of the Deutsche Oper
Ivan Repušič (conductor)
 |
| Production shot from first staging: © Bettina Stöß, 2008 |
The Deutsche Oper has a very
fine production of Turandot on its
hands. Lorenzo Fioroni leaves us in no doubt what a magnificently vile opera it
is, homing in quite rightly upon Puccini’s sadism, drawing out its political
implications, and playing down, though far from entirely obscuring, the work’s
deeply problematical Orientalism, which otherwise has a tendency to impede appreciation
of what is still more repellent in the work. Put another way, this staging stands
as distant from Zeffirelli and mindless school thereof, that is, from what has
given opera in performance so bad a name, as Puccini does from Donizetti and
the other drivel that has given Italian opera so bad a name and which, sadly,
has in may houses relegated Puccini’s œuvre to the level of at-best-anodyne
productions, cynically relied upon to boost the accursed box office.
Fioroni sets the action in a reasonably
generic totalitarian state. There is enough of an imaginary ‘China’ hinted at,
should that be important, but it is not central to the production. An enfeebled
Emperor – or is he? is his present state partly a ruse de guerre? – presides, with the help of Turandot, a deeply
sinister junta or Politburo (according to taste), and thuggish security
services on the street, who mete out casual, or rather less-than-casual,
physical punishment to those who would step out of line. Turandot appears to be
calling the shots – almost literally, in some cases; for instance, when,
following the solution of the riddles, she hysterically reaches for and uses her
gun – but, as in all such cases, the dynamics of power and violence are not entirely
straightforward. The crowd seems submissive, largely cowed, relishing yet
fearing the brutality, but who knows? Ping, Pang, and Pong are now less an
offensive and/or irritating addition, but political opportunists. They, like
everyone else, do what they need to survive; they are not inhuman, but
necessity and the promise of reward ensure collaboration and perhaps more than
that.
Theatre is extremely
important here. What we see enacted
and re-enacted takes us to the heart
of the problem, as indeed it does in Gozzi’s original tale. Ritual is enforced
but also permits of certain criticism. Ping, Pong, and Pang, those crucial
ministers – more crucial, I think, than I have seen before – employ the
costumes and customs of theatre to show the people and us what the rules are
and what the outcomes will be. Their tableaux involve impersonation, most
notably in the case of a gender-subverting portrayal of Turandot herself, veiled
and later preparing for a wedding; they also, inevitably, remind us all of the
likely bloody outcome of any challenge to the system. And yet, they shift,
chameleon-like, when the new order comes: a new order brutally signalled by the
death of the Emperor and, most chillingly of all, Calaf’s stabbing of his
father immediately after. Regime change has come upon us – and the courtiers,
whatever their sly mocking when unseen, will adapt and most likely prosper.
The most shocking violence,
of course, whether in work or production, is that suffered by Liù. Her
enslavement, born of both social position and gender, is clear from the outset,
when Calaf briefly forces himself upon her, making a great deal more sense of
his actions in the third act. It is power in all senses that he wants; a moment
of regret is all that is therefore necessary. Yet her figure, hanging in front
of the action throughout the rest of the act, reminds us of the cost and the
barbarism. ‘Love’, whatever that means, may claim to have won, but we know that
it is merely a form of power, or rather that it is perhaps the most deadly form
of power at all. (Coincidentally or otherwise, Wagner’s discovery of that truth
during the writing of the Ring comes
to mind.) The cruelty of the score, of its ritualisation and exploitation, is
at one with what we see. For a view of the violence as not only instrumental
but concerned with degradation of the body for its own sake chimes very much
with Puccini’s fabled sadism. This, then, is a fidelity to the work that draws
out what is present in it, a fidelity greater than that which the cheerleaders
of a naïve Werktreue seem capable of
understanding.
It was a pity, then, that Ivan
Repušič’s conducting was not up to the same standard. There was nothing too
much to worry about, but this was competent and, sometimes, a little frayed
rather than clearly directed. The Orchestra of the Deutsche Oper played
magnificently, though, so the occasional blurring did not detract so very much
in practice. Nevertheless, a more incisive, indeed brazenly modernistic touch
would have heightened the disturbed and disturbing sensations further. Choral
singing lay almost beyond praise. William Spaulding’s training of the Deutsche
Oper Chorus is well known, but still deserving of the highest plaudits; so, of
course, is the contribution of the choral singers themselves. Keenly directed on
stage as they were here, the heft, clarity, and meaning of their musical
contribution was very much of a piece with their ambiguous yet threatening
dramatic role. This was a mass that more than stirred musically, hinting
perhaps at trouble to come for the new regime?
In the title role, Catherine
Foster offered a committed dramatic portrayal, sadistic yet clearly hinting at
great problems, personal and political, lying behind the sadism. If one could
hardly empathise, one could begin to understand – which is just about all one
can ask with this repellent character and her actions. Intonation was not
always all it might have been, but for the most part there was dramatic
compensation. Kamen Chanev’s Calaf was not dramatically subtle; such seems,
alas, to be the way with the role. But the production, for which revival director, Claudia Gotta, surely also deserves plaudits, offered depth to what, in
purely vocal terms, was an impressive performance. Simon Lim’s Timur was deeply
felt, however, attention to words and musical line impressing throughout.
Likewise, Heidi Stober’s Liù, which gained in resonance – in more than one
sense – as the evening progressed. As the ministerial trio, Melih Tepretmez, Gideon
Poppe, and Matthew Newlin all offered cleverly considered performances, alert
to the shifting circumstances on stage and responding accordingly. The company
and the performance as a whole proved more than the sum of its parts. A DVD
release would be invaluable, especially for those misled – often understandably
so – by more typical, inert presentations of Puccini.
