Calaf, on the other hand, can be mobile, especially in the first act. But, after sounding his gong at the end of the act, he spends most of his time pondering. And singing, of course, and that often has to be very powerful. The body does have its limits.
There are two lesser characters in Timur and Liu. Timur is old, lame and blind, so without Liu's help, he cannot credibly add movement. Liu has two very demanding sections and, it has to be said, has the opera’s best music. At other times, however, she is tied to Timur’s immobility.
Ping, Pang and Pong, the triple act of priests, sometimes threatening, sometimes comic, at root fed up with their lot, do offer a director an opportunity for action. This is often translated to dance, but the roles actually have some demanding singing, and finding a singer who can dance as well is hard – let alone three! This often leads directors to split the roles between different people – one who dances and one who sings for each role. For the audience, this creates spectacle but does nothing for the drama.
Add to this mix the Prince of Persia, whose only role in act one is to be beheaded, an emperor in failing health, and not in full voice, let alone full body, and then minor roles which hardly figure, and one concludes that finding action in Turandot is not easily solved.
The chorus, therefore, is the opera’s main stay in terms of action. But the chorus has to do quite a lot of singing at high volume. The solution for designers is often to tier the stage with the singers occupying the gallery, whilst the action takes place at ground level. Productions often resort to a fashion show, where poor oppressed Chinese peasants wear glittering colourful costumes. Not in Valencia…
So how about this production in the hands of Alex Ollé in Valencia? Galleries for the chorus were used. These consisted of Escher-like staircases that went up and down leading nowhere. The costumes were largely black (for peasants and guards) or white for dignitaries. The principles, Calaf, Timur and Liu wore tertiary neutrals.
The use of black and white was clearly indicative of a society where there was no political power for the masses, and no desire to accommodate them on behalf of the elite. This totalitarian society thus maintained itself by recruiting soldiers from the masses – (hence dressed in black) – who oppressed the masses from which they came on behalf of the white-clad elite.
There were no dancers until the temptresses for Calaf in act three, so Ping, Pang and Pong had to do their own vaudeville routines, which worked to an extent. The problem in this production with Ping, Pang and Pong was their roles. They simply did not know who they were. In act one they appear on the street as drunken louts who taunt Calaf about his obsession with Turandot. Their concern did not convince. They are revealed in act two as army officers who inexplicably had a day off when the Prince of Persia was being beheaded! They are disgruntled about the role they feel they have to play. It comes as no surprise. Then in act three they are dressed in white – presumably priests and therefore part of the elite – when trying to attempt to persuade Calaf not to go through with his plan. Doubling these roles with dancers adds confusion. To make their three appearances seem like different characters makes no sense whatsoever. Even the implied transition from street to elite did not communicate, as a result of the functional roles they have to play in the drama.
So what then were the pluses in this production? Above all, it was act three. The final scene of Turandot was not written by Puccini who had died with the completion of Liu’s suicide. Liu killed herself so as not to divulge Calaf’s name, and she killed herself out of love for him. This leads Turandot to a change of heart. If love can do that for Liu, maybe she should try it?
No, the final scene of Turandot is usually dramatically about as convincing as Ping, Pang and Pong’s characterization in this production. Apparently, this icy princess, who has killed every suitor that has approached her, suddenly has a change of heart. It’s about his convincing a sainthood to a nonbeliever.
Alex Ollé in this production saved his master stroke until the end and – after many years of seeing productions of the opera – this was dramatically convincing and wholly in character. Calaf and Turandot walk around the dead Liu whose body remains in full view, professing their selfish love for one another, which really is love for themselves and their own interests. But Turandot does not convince anyone. Surely, she is leading her suitor on.
In Alex Ollé’s version, Turandot retrieves Liu's knife and hides it in her sleeve. Then, as she admits that it was love that changed everything, she too commits suicide as the chorus repeats Calaf’s earlier “Vincero”, meaning that it is Turandot who won in the end, still her pure self in death. She has not compromised and it makes an utterly convincing finale.
Add to that Mark Elder’s insistence that “Nessun dorma” should finish dramatically in context and not with rousing major chord and applause for the tenor. So the evening was musically convincing as well.
So what had been up to that last act an average performance of the opera, beautifully sung and played, of course, not withstanding the poor characterization of some roles and an average staging, was elevated to magical status by making sense. Gregory Kunde, Ekatarina Senenchuk, and Carolina López Moreno as the principles was superb as well, but it is the ending that will endure.
