Puccini’s Turandot was hardly in need of another recording.
Extremely well-served on CD and video ( I recently counted 16 on
CD and 14 on DVD), with several starring the unbeatable Birgit
Nilsson, a surprisingly spectacular Joan Sutherland, Gina Cigna,
and Maria Callas, both sui generis, with the likes of Jussi
Bjoerling, Franco Corelli, Luciano Pavarotti, Mario del Monaco,
and Placido Domingo as Calaf. Starry, and each more than worthy
of a place at the top of the discography.
Along comes
this one–the first in 20 years, and a studio recording at
that–with what might be called “today’s great opera stars”. That
appellation certainly rings true and makes this set a must-have,
but there’s another reason. We know that Puccini did not finish
the opera; that job fell to Franco Alfano, and he did a fine
job. But mis-directedly, he was instructed to chop 100 bars from
his finale, and that abbreviation is what we’ve all been hearing
for almost 100 years. It’s a thrilling and noisy 14 minutes,
with lots of competitive singing from Prince and Princess, but
its bombast and brevity does not allow for any character
development, and in an opera with mostly one-dimensional
inhabitants, this is a pity. (Such triumph, immediately after
the suicide of the opera’s only loveable character, is simply
nasty.)
But here Antonio Pappano has opted for Alfano’s
original finale, which runs about five minutes longer than the
abbreviated version–and offers Turandot a chance to evolve and
grow into a Woman who may just have left her hideous memories
and behavior behind. Some of the music is very tender–a good
alternative to the all-out-blast–but there are also some extra
thrills, with big singing from both. Having heard it, I’d be
loath to go back. (N.B: The complete finale was recorded, out of
context, by Josephine Barstow, with John Mauceri conducting.)
Sondra Radvanovsky bravely tries on Turandot’s tiara and the
fit is ideal. With a repertoire that includes the three
Donizetti Queens, Cherubini’s Medea, Amelia in Un ballo in
Maschera, Lady Macbeth, Tosca, the Trovatore Leonora, Bellini’s
Norma, and Imogen (in Il Pirata), it seems there’s very little
she can’t sing with a surprising amount of solidity and
excellence.
“In questa reggia” is huge and imperious,
with moments of introspection that truly stand out. But
beginning with “Straniero, ascolta!” she becomes arrogant and
domineering. These opening notes, seemingly of tempered steel,
would turn away the most stalwart of Calafs; as the questions
continue, you can hear this Turandot’s nerves rattling. In the
last act, she is dreadful with poor Liu, and in the extended
finale we feel her growing closer to Calaf, with no loss in the
ferocity of the high notes. Wow.
Jonas Kaufmann, today’s
most potent tenor, seems a bit lost in Act 1. There’s nothing
wrong with his singing–jumping out of the crowd calling “Padre,
mio padre” for once seems urgent (Bjoerling’s sounds just the
right combo of plangent and relieved) and as if he’s a fine
contender. He strains a bit after a lovely “Non piangere, Liu”
(which seems as if it were recorded out of context; there’s no
flow from Liu’s aria to his), but his second act is sensational:
strong, self assured, momentarily hesitant. Both high Cs ring
out. And in his last act, he’s desperate watching Liu, reaches
great heights in a totally memorable “Nessun dorma”, and is
tireless in his final victory.
Liu is the soprano
Ermonela Jaho, less girlish and even more upsetting than most.
The quiver in her vibrato is just right–fear, sincerity,
pleading are all there, and the pianissimo B-flats are stunning
and true. “Tu, che di gel sei cinta” is defiant rather than
pitiful, and all the more effective for it. I wish I appreciated
Michele Pertusi’s Timur more, but there’s some shallowness in
his tone. Michael Spyres–luxury casting–makes us believe that
Emperor Altoum still has plenty to say about ruling his kingdom.
Michael Mofidian’s Mandarin sounds important against the gongs
and nasty dissonance in the orchestra. Mattia Olivieri, Gregory
Bonfatti, and Siyabonga Maqungo are lyrical and cynical at once.
Pappano’s dynamic range with the Santa Cecilia forces
occasionally brings to mind Karajan’s, and I don’t altogether
mean that kindly. Hushed moments can be close to inaudible (the
spooky Act 1 “moon” chorus), and grand moments are in danger of
making the neighbors complain. But his view of the work, with
one foot clearly in the 20th century and the other in
echt-Romanticism, reads brilliantly: clear, dramatic, and with
some new things underlined.
Yes, the
Sutherland/Pavarotti/Caballé recording on Decca will have to
remain first choice, with either the Nilsson/Bjoerling or the
Nilsson/Corelli tied for second. But there are moments when
Pappano’s sounds like the front-runner.