It is so rare nowadays to have a new, starrily cast studio
opera recording, especially one of a mainstream work such as
Turandot, that this set has already excited much interest. That
its release coincides with Antonio Pappano conducting the work
for the first time at Covent Garden in March 2023, as well as
containing the alternative and original Alfano conclusion rather
than the more “traditional, Toscanini-ised” version, has
prompted even further interest.
In my conspectus on
Turandot and in spite of considering nearly forty recordings,
made in the studio and captured live, as well as on DVD, it was
difficult not to still conclude that the Decca recording,
released fifty years ago in 1973, is still the most
recommendable version available, with no weak links in the cast,
fine sound and excitingly conducted by the young Zubin Mehta. A
cynic may well conclude that by utilising the different ending
that this new recording wisely avoids such a head-on comparison,
even if that is only of the final quarter of an hour or so of
the opera – and in any case, the original conclusion has been
recorded rather well previously as a standalone scene, also by
Decca, featuring Josephine Barstow and the forces of Scottish
Opera, conducted by John Mauceri. Such is the challenge facing
any new opera recording of Turandot – the question is, do
Pappano and his company rise to that challenge?
Most
people reading this review will know the story of the opera, of
a Chinese Princess who consents to marry only a man of royal
blood who is able to answer successfully three riddles in a game
of Russian roulette, Chinese-style, where any wrong answer
results in death. The princess’s ice-cold glamour and beauty
attracts many suitors, all of whom fail until Calaf, the deposed
Prince of Tartary, accepts the challenge and is successful, much
to the joy of the people of Peking and horror of the princess.
She begs her father to be released from the oath, but is
refused, so Calaf offers her his own riddle – ‘discover my name
by dawn and my life is yours and you are released from the
oath.’ To this end, Turandot’s guards arrest and torture an old
man and a young girl, Timur, his father, and Liù, a slave, who
had been seen with Calaf earlier. In order to save the old
king’s pain and because of her love for Calaf, Liù confesses
that only she knows the name of the prince, but kills herself in
front of Turandot so she cannot divulge it. It is an important
point in the opera, as it begins the icy Princess’s thaw, as she
starts to understand the meaning of love, as well as the moment
when Puccini died, leaving the final scene incomplete. At its
premiere in 1926, some two years after Puccini’s death,
Toscanini conducted a completed version by Franco Alfano, which
sees Calaf win over the Icy Princess and, with the corpse of Liù
still warm, the opera ends to universal rejoicing at the union
of Turandot and Calaf. It is a solution that has never been
regarded as either satisfactory musically, or dramatically, and
was one of the reasons why Antonio Pappano had never conducted
the work until the recording sessions in 2022.
At his
death, Puccini left thirty-six pages of sketches for the final
scene, containing occasional hints of melody and orchestration,
but with much missing. He had hoped that Riccardo Zandonai would
complete the work, but after objections from Puccini’s son,
Franco Alfano was eventually chosen, since his own opera La
leggenda di Sakùntala was similar to Turandot both in setting
and heavyweight orchestration. His first draft of the completion
was severely criticised by Toscanini, ostensibly since he had
the temerity to orchestrate some of the passages where Puccini
had left no instructions and even added a few lines of his own
to the libretto, which was considered incomplete even by
Puccini. He was therefore forced to submit a revised version
that followed Puccini’s sketches with a narrow-minded dogmatism
which meant that some of the libretto was subsequently omitted,
merely since Puccini had left no indication of how he wanted it
to sound; it is this version that is most commonly heard today.
There is no doubt that the conclusion of this opera is
problematic; a happy ending so soon after the self-sacrifice of
the slave girl is about as dramatically knuckleheaded as having
Isolde contentedly walk off stage on the arm of King Mark after
her Liebestod, as well as being in as much bad taste as having a
love duet between Pinkerton and Kate, cradling their new son,
after the suicide of Butterfly – except that is exactly what
happens. Composition sketches indicate that Puccini was having
the same doubts and was clearly struggling to find a suitable
ending. Had he lived, maybe between him and his librettists, a
different conclusion may have been worked out – after all, it
took three significant revisions after failed live performances
before Madama Butterfly became the work we are familiar with
today. In addition, there are sketches indicating that the
composer was considering composing a revised ending for La
rondine at his death, one that ends with the suicide of
Magda/Paulette rather than her walking away on the arm of her
rich ‘protector’ Rambaldo and abandoning her lover Ruggero (that
potential revised ending has indeed been staged in the US by the
director Marta Domingo).
However, this is all conjecture
– the issue at hand is how different is the original Alfano
ending from the more common Toscanini-ised version we are
familiar with today. Indeed, the ending is fleshed out
considerably, Alfano clearly taking his cue for the final scene
from the very opening chords of the work, where the two
unrelated keys of C-sharp major and D minor are superimposed in
an attempt to evoke the executioner’s falling axe, as the three
chords which open the final scene seem to echo. The additional
passages seem to be orchestrated from the same cloth and lend
the music a more savage and barbaric hue than the more familiar
version. It is difficult, too, to understand quite why Toscanini
would think the revised version preferable, not just since much
of the libretto, which helps explain Turandot’s actions, was
omitted, but (and in particular) the final chorus, for which
Puccini just left some vague mention of the reprise of Calaf’s
third act aria, is now the toe-curlingly banal
‘Let’s-hear-it-from-y’all-one-more-time: Nessun dorma’, instead
of Alfano’s inspired adaption of it, which finds both Turandot
and Calaf soaring above the chorus on the word “amor”. To my
mind, it is musically vastly superior to the completion by
Luciano Berio, which sounds as if Calaf and Turandot have
wandered into the soundworld of Wozzeck, which was premiered the
year before.
This new recording allows us then to hear
the original conclusion for the first time as part of a complete
performance, rather than the standalone torso featured on the
Barstow-Decca final scenes album. Recorded in the summer of 2022
under Covid restrictions that saw the chorus needing to stand
two metres apart and with the orchestra spread out over the
enlarged Santa Cecilia concert hall stage, which had the
soloists standing in between the orchestra and chorus, there is
no compromise in the sound that is wonderfully resplendent and
clear. Indeed, some may find that the orchestra is recorded a
little too close when compared to the singers, but since this is
an opera by Puccini, I am not complaining.
If Sir Antonio
Pappano had never conducted this opera before the recording was
made, it matters not a jot when he brings all his considerable
experience of the opera house to bear with his conducting in
this recording. He is especially good at telling the story with
his baton, which is evident as early as the opening pages with
the chorus’s responses to the Mandarin reading the laws of the
land, which are thrillingly involved and alive to the action, as
they are in their proclamations during the Riddle Scene. He is
also particularly good at evoking the majesty of Ancient China,
be that whenever the Princess appears on the scene, or with the
massive chords which punctuate the Emperor’s initial exchanges
with Calaf. Needless to say, he conducts the final scene with
great commitment, although – and somewhat to my surprise – it is
Mauceri who captures the greater sense of blazing discovery with
his standalone recording of the final scene only on Decca.
That said, he is treated to a starry cast, especially in
today’s parsimonious times. Indeed, it may be of some surprise
to many to see the name of the forty-two-year-old Michael Spyres
singing the role of the Emperor, which is usually reserved for a
cameo appearance by some great from the past (in the 1987 live
recording on DVD from the Metropolitan Opera, James Levine cast
the eighty-five-year-old Hugues Cuénod in the role, giving him
his debut in New York). Spyres is unable to disguise the fact
that his is a young voice, but his exchanges with Calaf are most
entertaining and he certainly conveys the Emperor’s exasperation
at all the blood being spilt merely for the hand of a princess.
The trio of government ministers, Mattia Olivieri, Gregory
Bonfatti and Siyabonga Maqungo, aided and abetted by Pappano’s
colourful conducting, make a characterful bunch, while no-one
can have any grumbles with any of the other minor roles.
One who may have reason to grumble though is the Timur of
Michele Pertusi, who is not afforded the usual honour of his
name on the front cover as befitting most of the previous
deposed kings of Tartary. Alas, although he articulates the text
cleanly, his tone is grey and woolly and cannot be counted a
success.
As his slave-girl, Ermonela Jaho’s is presented
as more womanly and fuller-toned than usual, her voice having
hints of darker hues, with a hint of contralto. She is certainly
most involved in the action, but she does not banish memories of
previously great Liùs on record, lacking the fragility of
Schwarzkopf, the sweetness of Barbara Hendricks, the nobility
and pure tones of Margaret Price, or the frankly astonishing
breath control of Caballé on the legendary Decca-Mehta
recording, to name just a handful of my favourites. Hers is a
fine appraisal, just not a great one.
Reviews of the
concert performances that took place the week following the
recording sessions were overwhelmingly positive, but did add one
caveat about Jonas Kaufmann. In particular, it was noted how his
voice sounded “gutteral, small and lack[ing in] squillo”
(Mauricio Villa, Operawire, 30 March 2022), often failing to be
heard at all (for example, for long stretches of the ensemble
which closes the end of Act I). Certainly, those listeners used
to the sweetness of Björling, the charisma of Corelli and the
panache of Pavarotti in this role may not initially react
positively to Kaufmann’s smokier, baritonal tenor, although
thanks to recording engineers, or otherwise, he is thankfully
present in the sound-picture throughout the recording. His is a
sensitive portrayal of Calaf, often singing very softly with
smooth legato, even if he comes dangerously close to crooning in
parts of ‘Non piangere, Liù‘ and sounding mannered as a result.
That said, he does not duck any of the high notes, unlike the
more golden-toned Plácido Domingo on the Karajan recording. For
me, once again it is a fine, rather than great assumption.
The Turandot of Sondra Radvanovsky reveals all her
credentials at her entrance with ‘In questa reggia’ which is
both commanding, as well as, crucially, having a hint of warmth
too. In particular, she is especially observant of Puccini’s
dynamic instructions in this aria, something many sopranos
disregard, powering through the music like air-raid sirens – for
me this is important, as it gives hints that this Icy Princess
is capable of thawing even at this point in the opera, which
then lends credence to Calaf’s belief he can persuade her to
love him. It is a delicate balancing act of fire and ice, rage
and vulnerability, which if you observe the piano markings too
exaggeratedly (as Montserrat Caballé did on her EMI recording in
1977) can sound mannered. Radvanovsky sails through the test
with aplomb, as she does later on, riding the orchestra
majestically at the climax of ‘Figlio del cielo’. In my opinion,
this is another of the current century’s great Turandot
portrayals to set alongside those of Lise Lindstrom and
Alessandra Marc.
The accompanying booklet contains a
brief essay by Antonio Pappano in English, French and German,
plus full libretto with translations, which is useful in light
of the different ending being used than usual. There is no
synopsis, but the tracking is copious, fifty-seven in total,
with a bonus track of a standalone ‘Nessun Dorma’. This release
is available as both hard copy compact disc, as well as the
usual download formats, but care must be taken with the mp3
issue where the sound is very one-dimensional, especially in the
grand choral scenes.
Overall, if I still believe the
correct “starter-kit” for Turandot to be the Decca-Mehta
recording released half a century ago this year, along with the
standalone torso of the original Alfano final scene with Barstow
and John Mauceri also on Decca, there is no denying that this
new recording of Turandot is a fine entry to that opera’s
discography; anyone purchasing it will not be disappointed.