Big-budget studio recordings of standard repertoire operas
for which there are multiple alternative offerings are now a
rarity, the preserve of megawatt star casts. Warner Classics has
assembled just such a line-up for its new Turandot, headed by
Sondra Radvanovsky, Jonas Kaufmann and Ermonela Jaho. There is
even some luxurious casting in the minor roles – Michael Spyres
as the Emperor of China, no less – and to have Antonio Pappano
at the helm, conducting the Santa Cecilia orchestra, rounds off
a sumptuous package.
The recording is distinctive in
being the first to use Franco Alfano’s original ending, which
was later cut down at Toscanini’s behest. It is hard to argue
that Alfano’s music (in either of the two versions) is anything
other than markedly inferior to the rest of Puccini’s score;
nevertheless, it is interesting to hear the opera as it was
presented to audiences in 1926. They would not, of course, have
heard it with the extreme social distancing forced upon this
cast and orchestra by Covid restrictions but happily an apparent
problem has been turned into something of an asset. The
resulting sound quality has a sense of expansiveness that seems
rather fitting for Puccini’s least-intimate opera, a work set
mainly in piazzas, courtyards and gardens.
Surprisingly,
all the headline names in this venture are coming to the opera
for the first time, with the exception of Jaho, a superlative
interpreter of Puccini’s most heart-rending roles. Her Liù does
not disappoint in its mix of poise and vulnerability and its
sheer vocal beauty; the character’s death revolts us as vividly
as if we were seeing it depicted on stage. Radvanovsky and
Kaufmann make thrilling antagonists, their confrontations heady
and visceral. Determined at the outset, almost kitten-like at
the end, Radvanovsky uses considered vocal inflection to bring
psychological credibility to a notoriously ‘robotic’ role, her
voice bright-toned and never heavy or steely. Kaufmann’s
muscular, mature Calaf will no doubt delight his fans, though
his interpretation lacks the Italianate brightness some
listeners will require from the role. (I would, for instance,
look elsewhere for my ideal ‘Nessun Dorma’.)
Pappano
writes in the sleeve notes of having purposefully avoided
conducting what is arguably Puccini’s most problematic work in
the theatre in the past. (He is conducting it at the Royal Opera
House, Covent Garden at the time of writing, the experience of
recording the opera apparently having made him a convert to the
piece.) The interpretation captured here offers all the passion
and intelligence we would expect from this celebrated Puccinian:
the rhythmic detail is electrifying, the conductor’s deep
understanding of Puccini the symphonist mesmerising. Turandot is
an opera that displays its composer in starkly contrasting
guises – as both sentimentalist and sadist, with deliberately
unnerving shifts between the two modes. It is the attention
Pappano pays to crafting the contrasts between passages of
intense sensuality and of mechanistic brutality, casting new
light on a familiar score in the process, which really makes
this a major recording event.