ARTS / MUSIC | October 30, 2009
Music Review | ‘Turandot’: He’s Come to Melt the Heart of an Ice Princess
By ANTHONY TOMMASINI
The dramatically alluring and vocally impressive soprano Lise Lindstrom made her Metropolitan Opera debut on Wednesday as a last-minute replacement for Maria Guleghina.
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CONTROVERSY ON TURANDOT PRODUCTION???
One of our students, Marika Bonacorsi, was unable to attend the Turandot discussion because of an exam conflict. Instead, I decided to provide her with a make-up writing assignment. She had remarked to me that Zefirelli productions in general, and Turandot in particular, were too ostentatious for her personal taste. So, I challenged her (as the make-up writing assignment) to describe briefly how she would stage her own production of this opera. Her written response is superb, and I am attaching it below for your consideration. What I want each of you to do is to tell me whether her proposed staging does or does not appeal to your tastes, and why.
Marika’s Paper: After spending a week avoiding this word document, which has sat ominously on my desktop, silently harassing me since last Saturday, I think that I have finally come to a decision on its contents that I can feel confident about. As I watched Saturday’s live Met production of Zeffirelli’s Turandot, I was almost certain I had this essay all figured out. I even left the theatre thinking writing this would be simple. I had basically formulated an entire production inside my head—one that was all my own—and all I had to do was describe the scenes now playing proudly over and over again in my head. Then I got home. I made this document. I put my hands on the keyboard to start writing when suddenly the weight of my mythical production smacked me casually in the face.
The basis for what was suppose to be my brilliantly constructed remake of Zeffirelli’s self-indulgent classic steamed from a vision that came to me while I was watching the first scene between Ping, Pang, and Pong. Quite unexpectedly, I thought, wouldn’t this scene be great if these characters were played by gay men of today? It seemed so perfect at that moment in time that I literally smiled to myself. It was fabulous. It was modern. It was entertaining. It was so HBO. And best of all, from it steamed a whole production.
As I envisioned it, these homosexuals represented various levels of flamboyancy. One could pass for metro; dressed in a designer suit, groomed extremely well, yet still not out rightly identifiable to the naked eye. The other would be slightly chubby, yet with skintight clothing, newly waxed eyebrows, perfect hair, and possibly some neutral colored eye shadow and nail polish that matched a vintage scarf wrapped carefully around his neck. The last would be borderline female. He would wear a dark brown wig of long hair, full on make-up, and a black leotard complete with a tutu and 6 inch black stilettos. It would be amazing, I thought, and funny—as this scene should be—but still tasteful…they were still singing Puccini, weren’t they? So, a whole modern day story unfolded easily in my head.
These eccentrics would be the best friends and protectors of a famous model named Turandot, notorious for ruining the lives of New York’s most eligible bachelors. I pegged Caláf as a famous businessman who was just about to enter into a big deal, giving him a firm grasp on the American economy for the rest of his life (aka Donald Trump circa the 1970s). Lu would be his childhood best friend, or quite literally, the girl next door. All this, and more, I came up with as I watched the untouchable tradition that is Zeffirelli’s production.
It would be so different, I thought with giddy mischievousness. It would be so scandalous—so demeaning to a production that had far too much self-importance for my liking. I intended it to be downright malicious in its rebellion. Blacks and grays and whites; chromes and metallic’s; everything frosted in Swarovski crystals. All these colors and textures danced in my head to a beautiful symphony of revenge against a production that had stifled creativity and the plight for universally enjoyable opera for, what, the past several decades?
So, I left Saturday’s production with the enthusiasm that this essay was already half done, even past the point of brainstorming—to the point where I was writing it in my head on the car ride home. But then I sat down at my computer, stared at the blank page, and knew that not one sentence was going to be written that day. It was like my self-indulgent tangent of malice came to a screeching halt as the utter ridiculousness of it all finally registered. What was I thinking?! It wasn’t that I cared what opera aficionados thought about my production—that they would likely want to burn me at the stake for pulling something like this. No. They had never sung the rich, dreamy lines of Puccini. They had never experienced the supreme understanding of a composer that came through performing his opera nor could they make the connection between singing a composers melodies and somehow becoming the capsule that conserved what he had chosen to leave behind in his music: his own human experience.
What I knew, which the highbrows likely didn’t, was that when singing opera, your written character is only half of whom you are playing. The other half is a much more palpable character, who is to an extent, the composer himself. His life. His experience. His emotion. All captured in his music. It was my understanding that opera singers didn’t just play Turandot, but Turandot and all the women she was to Puccini—the women who had inspired the richness and dreaminess of his compositions. Women as addictive as his melodies. Perhaps a lover. Perhaps a friend, sister, or mother. Even perhaps the first diva that played her. But more than likely, a hybrid woman who was a mix of them all. Whoever she was, you can feel her in every pianissimo and decrescendo. Yet, in too many productions she is stifled by the inflated representation of the written character herself.
When I finally came to this realization, I knew that the production I had intended to write about would never be justifiable in my own eyes. How was it any better in representing the true, multifaceted Turandot than the Zeffirelli original? It wasn’t…but I finally decided what would be.
I think that the best way to reproduce Turandot for today would be to recreate it as it appeared upon its first production (La Scala, 1926). By doing this, the production would most effectively capture the essence of Puccini himself, since it took place at the relative time and place of his life. The very first production was a manifest of the written characters in Turandot and of Puccini himself—his life during the 1920s in Italy.
As far as logistics go, to really make this production perfect, the original costumes, make-up, and sets would be used, along with the initial stage direction. Although, I have no idea if any of these things still exist…
In any case, I think this production would be equally as relevant as the Rent meets Gossip Girl rendition that I had initially intended. I think it would reinvent the drama of opera that so often crosses the line of ridiculousness into a piece of beloved history. The production would seem vintage, nostalgic, and therefore chic. Most importantly, it would be like a large scale shadowbox of Puccini’s world—the world that inspired his music—the world that the opera calls home.
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