There is no shortage of good and, sometimes, exceptional
recordings of Puccini’s “Turandot,” with aficionados generally
swaying between Molinari-Pradelli’s studio release (with Franco
Corelli and Birgit Nilsson) and Mehta’s landmark take from 1972.
Add to this Franco Ghione and, in excerpts, Barbirolli’s
visceral “Turandots” from the pre-war period, and nearly all
aspects of Puccini’s swan song – from the ritualistic and
bombastic to the sweet and lyric – are covered in a discography
that now spans some 90-odd years.
One may therefore ask
how Sir Antonio Pappano’s newest release for Warner Classics
fits in. It is, in short, a dauntless vision he sets forth, as
it relentlessly exploits the gap between the ceremonial of the
court scenes and the intimacy as much as the conflicts of the
individual characters involved.
Within this context, I
have seldom heard an orchestra express more dynamism than in the
present release: It plays a constitutive part not only in the
narrative progression but also in Pappano’s interest in
situating “Turandot” on the brink of modernity, between change
and tradition, and with marked concern for psychological
development. The latter even extends to the decision of
recording the finale without its customary cuts, giving
unprecedented opportunity for the emotional reversal of the
Princess to unfold.
In the Wake of Modernity
In line
with a musicological rethinking of the Puccini scores,
“Turandot” has, in recent years, emancipated itself from the
reactionary lens under which critics have begrudgingly eyed its
fortunes, tied—to quote the title of a 1991 study—to the “end of
the great tradition” of Italian opera.
It has since
emerged that, rather than being an endpoint, its score marks the
permeation of modernist elements into the musical vocabulary of
early 20th century Italy, with Puccini harking to the tonal
innovations of Schönberg, Stravinsky, and Strauss, to name but a
few.
Within this context, the polarity of “Turandot”
asserts itself as a leitmotif which Pappano triumphantly puts to
the test. In no other version is the contrast between
international modernism and italianità more deeply felt, yet
never has it been more essential to the overall listening
experience.
Take the startling effect of the tympani to
mark the bloodthirsty propulsion of “Gira la cote” or the
clarinet’s ornament to the narcotic, if not overtly morbid
andante of “Perché tarda la luna?” To my knowledge, they are
positively disruptive, and the boldness with which Pappano
carves them out of the orchestral texture is unheard of.
The same holds true for the violence with which a bitonal chord
strikes the Mandarin’s opening lines, not to mention the whole
of the finale in which the tonal and dramatic vocabulary of the
German School transpires to ever new configurations and
diaphanous harmonies. Here, “Turandot” is being reestablished at
the forefront of the operatic avant-garde in Italy.
On
the other hand, there is plenty to relish in terms of melodic
buildup. For instance, the grandiose finale of act one takes on
all the qualities of a symphonic experience, Pappano being
slightly slower than Mehta but more stringent altogether than
Karajan in 1981.
The orchestral detail sounds more
plastic and constitutive to the situational dynamics than in any
other version I can think of. The flute’s delicately tuned scale
ornament to Kaufmann’s diminuendo on ‘fanciulla’ is a sheer
marvel to listen to, as it perfectly shows Pappano’s intention
to have the score’s modernity coexist with the lushness of the
typical Puccinian melodies.
“None Shall Sleep” to Jonas
Kaufmann
Other than the excellent forces of the Orchestra
dell’Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia, the British star
conductor had at his disposal Jonas Kaufmann in the role of
Prince Calaf.
From his very first lines, it appears that
his voice has become grainier and less rounded than in his last
full operatic studio production, Verdi’s “Otello” from 2020. It
does not have the full body of a heldentenor’s tone anymore, yet
it has preserved all its softness in the mezza voce register,
which Kaufmann amply puts on display.
Moments like his
reveling in the beauty of Turandot (“O divina bellezza”) are
full of a morbid intensity akin to the sentiments he expressed
in the 2019 run of Korngold’s “Die tote Stadt.” Overall,
however, some congeniality lacking, the timbre not matching the
luminosity traditionally associated with the role, and the
phrasing being good but not nearly up to Kaufmann’s own
standards of psychological insight.
I take as an example
the transition from the exclamatory “Uno soltanto a te ne
proporrò” to the moderato sostenuto of the violins’ introducing
the theme of “Nessun dorma” at the end of Act two. Pappano again
demonstrates the contrast between modernity and tradition with
the music moving from a percussion-heavy backdrop to a pure line
of melody entirely driven by the strings, in true Puccini
fashion.
Strangely, Kaufmann does relatively little to
capitalize on this moment of introspection, which I have always
found to be among the most beautiful in all of “Turandot.” The
phrasing of “Il mio nome non sai” is not entirely lyric nor
conveys the same sense of spontaneity, almost naivety, as
Pavarotti’s in the 1972 recording from Decca. There sure is a
memorable diminuendo on ‘morirò’ but the effect remains somewhat
arbitrary.
One has to wait for his “Nessun dorma” to
retrieve the German tenor at his customary best. Here, he is
sensitive and more poetic than in his 2015 recital, modulating
the heroic, including the high B, with considerable prowess.
Radvanovsky Cloaked in Ice
On the other hand, the
Turandot of Sondra Radvanovsky takes up nearly every expectation
the performance history has more or less definitively bestowed
upon the part. She is an imperious ruler, both vocally and
dramatically, with a fair amount of the proverbial steel in her
voice, making the exhortation of “Straniero, ascolta” a
terrifying start to the riddle scene.
Similarly, “In
questa reggia” is being navigated with palpable ease. Even the
most casual of listeners will hear some of Birgit Nilsson’s
shadow in the crystal clear phrasing leading up to “quel grido e
quella morte.” This does not prevent her from surprising with
technical feats like including a series of diminuendos to the
repeated urging of “Tua figlia è sacra,” transforming Puccini’s
marking con ribellione into a heart-wrenching plea.
As
with Kaufmann, there are moments, however, in which the dramatic
intensity subsides, notably in the third act. Radvanovsky’s ‘su
parla, vecchio’ and her subsequent retort of ‘vedremo’ are less
cynical than anticipated in light of her imperiousness in the
riddle scene.
This does not tarnish her truly excellent
performance overall, as with the end of Puccini’s original
score, the music moves towards a more Germanic concept of
cleansing (“poi Tristano” in Puccini’s own words, shortly before
his death) in which the aura of the Ice Princess is
progressively breaking down.
A Formidable Liù and
Supporting Cast
The cast is completed by Ermonela Jaho’s
harrowing portrayal of the enslaved girl Liù. With her
characteristically fast vibrato, every syllable of her
delicately molded “Signore, ascolta” sounds like the fluttering
of an anguished heart. Technically, she is in full control: from
her emphatic phrasing to the infinitely subtle filature of ‘ah,
pietà.’ The same feat she repeats in her farewell aria of “Tu,
che di gel sei cinta.”
With Michele Pertusi, the release
boasts a sympathetic and careworn Timur. Michael Spyres lends
his lush baritenor to the small part of the Emperor while the
trio of Mattia Olivieri, Gregory Bonfatti, and Siyabonga Maqungo
fill the semi-comedic roles of Ping, Pong, and Pang in admirable
fashion, attentive to the stiltedness of their commedia
dell’arte-style characters yet less memorable, vocally, than
their counterparts in the already mentioned Decca recording.
The 21st-Century “Turandot”
How, then, is the Warner
Classics release to be situated? It proposes a novel approach,
thriving on the stylistic and, to some degree, ideological
contrast between the Italian tradition and the tonal experiments
of mainly transalpine composers, Strauss and Stravinsky being
perhaps the most instantly recognizable ones.
Pappano
aims to capture this polarity in every imaginable way, from
inducing stark variations in his tempi to nearly overstressing
the effect of the brass and percussion instruments. His take is
symphonic in nature but built less on a vision of overarching
homogeneity (like Karajan) than on a palimpsest of markedly
disparate elements. With Jonas Kaufmann and Sondra Radvanovsky,
he is at the helm of two vocally impressive singers who, for the
most part, impressed with their technical abilities. When it
comes to details, I would sometimes have wanted them to be more
boldly imaginative.
Only time will tell whether this is a
“Turandot” for the ages. What is sure, however, is that it will
leave its impact on the performing standards of Puccini’s swan
song for many years to come.