Turandot, Deutsche Oper, 10 October 2019

Deutsche Oper, Berlin

Turandot – Elisabeth Teige

Altoum – Peter Maus

Calaf – Ragaà Eldin

Liú – Meechot Marrero

Timur – Byung Gil Kim

Ping – Samuel Dale Johnson

Pang – Michael Kim

Pong – Ya-Chung Huang

Mandarin – Patrick Guetti

Prince of Persia – Olli Rantaseppä (voice), Spyridon Markopoulos (stage)

Two Girls – Alexandra Hutton, Anna Buslidze

Lorenzo Fioroni (director)

Claudia Gotta (revival director)

Paul Zoller (set designs and video)

Katharina Gault (costumes) 

Children’s Chorus of the Deutsche Oper (chorus master: Christian Lindhorst)

Chorus of the Deutsche Oper (chorus master: Jeremy Bines) 

Orchestra of the Deutsche Oper
Claude Schnitzler (conductor)

© Bettina Stöß, 2008

Having seen and thought well of Lorenzo Fioroni’s Deutsche Oper production of Turandot five years ago, I was keen once more to make its acquaintance. It did not disappoint, sadly remaining the only interesting staging I have seen,  even though what I took from it this time was somewhat different this time around: whether from difference in emphasis onstage or in my reception I am not entirely sure.

The setting is a relatively modern fascist state: perhaps 1970s, on the basis of costumes and flocked wallpaper, though I am not sure it especially matters beyond not being a regime of Puccini’s own time. (That would open up interesting possibilities for dealing with orientalism and downright racism, yet must await another day.) The people, who had never reminded me so strongly before of those in Boris Godunov, are kept in check by police brutality; quite who is running the show remains unclear, though, the Emperor clearly old and frail, and not alone in that in what seems externally to be a gerontocracy in desperate need of renewal. Why one woman in the crowd refuses to turn and bow to him is again never explained: is she deranged, a dissident, or both? She is eventually beaten into submission. Lack of explanation, though, enables one to draw connections as one will: of whom, or what, is she a harbinger? Liú in heroic defiance? Calaf in foolhardiness? Turandot in a hysteria that here strongly characterises both setting and action? We see Turandot desperately trying to keep things together both before and during the riddles. And she too must obey something higher, an initial refusal to concede following defeat met with police on either side of the stage barring her way.

Marriage of terror and hysteria is the overriding impression, indeed the true marriage, of which that of Calaf and Turandot will be but a reflection. It may and should be understood both politically and psychoanalytically. We see it in the video images of children unable to sleep prior to ‘Nessun dorma’; we see it in the crowd; we see it in the deeds of individuals. We see it also in the falling scenery after the interval (between the two scenes of the second act): the cruelty of a metal frame a metaphor for society and emotions alike. Liú remains hanging from a noose, a warning sign to those who might actually attempt to tell, let alone live, the truth: for her presence, at least that fashion, is also a lie: she was not hanged, but stabbed by the knife she grabbed and turned on herself. The repellent nature of Calaf’s victory is underscored by his final deed: moving to embrace his father, who had been wandering aimlessly before sinking in depression, only to stab him and, quite without emotion, return to his bride. A theatre of cruelty indeed.

Not that the commedia dell’arte is neglected, far from it, whatever the problematical nature of Puccini’s injection of (too much?) psychological realism into the scenario. (Perhaps the problem lies more with unsatisfactory performance traditions; a baleful operatic culture that too often damns Puccini’s operas with box-office-driven productions in mind has much to answer for.) Whatever the truth of that, the pantomimes performed by Ping, Pong, and Pang fascinate, enlivening yet ultimately disconcerting in their mockery. They anticipate, imitate, repeat endless rituals of hope and death that lie at the heart of this strange yet all too familiar society. Are they tellers of potentially liberating truths, in which a Turandot in travesty may gently be mocked? Ultimately not, it seems. Not only are they prisoners too; they, Ping in particular, participate with relish in the capture and torture of Liú. Perhaps they are not to blame; how could they act otherwise? (As we know, they would rather return to the country.) They offer a way of seeing ourselves in all our contradictions, as well as the other characters onstage. Rightly, they fail to live up to our delusional expectations.

Both the chorus and orchestra of the Deutsche Oper were on fine form, clearly relishing the cruel yet often playful drama of Puccini’s score. Claude Schnitzler led his forces well. If his direction sometimes seemed a little too hard-driven to begin with, only to relax a little too much in response, that should not be exaggerated. Harmonies that might have come from Schoenberg or Debussy were just as much the thing as Stravinskian rhythm. Puccini’s Italian heart continued to beat below, however sadistic its dictates. Elisabeth Teige and Ragàa Eldin both took a little time to settle into their roles as Turandot and Calaf. The former greatly benefited from relative taming of her vibrato, proceeding to offer a performance of considerable verbal and musical acuity. Once he had found his balance with the orchestra, Eldin likewise won his laurels, though he might have sung ‘Nessun dorma’ a little less as a stand-alone aria. The tragic tenderness of Liú’s death did great credit to Meechot Marrero, sadistic knife cuts from her torturer – onstage, that is, as opposed to the composer – rendering it close to unwatchable. From the rest of the cast, Samuel Dale Johnson’s quicksilver Ping made one especially keen to see and hear more, but his companions, Michael Kim and Ya-Chung Huang impressed too, as did Byung Gil Kim’s sonorous Timur. This was a strong company evening, then, that did credit both to the repertory system and to this ultimately bizarre and repellent opera.

Turandot, Deutsche Oper, 12 December 2014

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.