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'Colour, light and lavish fabrics dazzle the eye': a scene from Turandot at the Royal Opera House.
'Colour, light and lavish fabrics dazzle the eye': a scene from Turandot at the Royal Opera House. Photograph: Tristram Kenton
'Colour, light and lavish fabrics dazzle the eye': a scene from Turandot at the Royal Opera House. Photograph: Tristram Kenton

Turandot – review

This article is more than 10 years old
Royal Opera House, London
None shall sleep indeed, as Puccini's crowning glory pits beauty against brutality at maximum volume

I'm sorry, you'll have to speak up: my ears are still ringing from the battle of the belters at Covent Garden last week. The Royal Opera's new season opened with a spectacular revival of their hit production of Puccini's Turandot and, my goodness, if it's not careful it will have a noise abatement notice slapped on it.

Everything about this last of the grandest of grand operas is, well – grand. Puccini requires an orchestra so big and so loud that the players' hearing must be under threat; the chorus is so vast there's no room for them on stage, they have to be stacked in tiered galleries; massive wheeled machines go charging about; golden thrones drop from the heavens and everywhere colour, light and lavish fabrics dazzle the eye.

Yet this is the most barbarous and sombre of stories. The citizens of Peking (we are centuries before we talked of Beijing) bay for blood, caught up in the ritualistic cruelty of Princess Turandot, who adorns the city walls with the heads of men who have tried to melt her frozen heart. Any suitor must answer three riddles: the penalty for an incorrect answer is death.

Into this charming scene steps Prince Calaf, who, inexplicably, falls hopelessly in love with Turandot and decides, against entreaties from all sides, that he will undergo the trial of the riddles. Bull-headed determination is the only way to play Calaf. There's very little room for subtle interpretation when all around you (and inwardly most of the audience) are screaming "don't do it". The superb Italian tenor Marco Berti understands this. He is the physical and vocal embodiment of implacability, reinforcing his resolve with such astonishing volume you fear for his vocal cords – and the crockery.

'Well-matched': Marco Berti and Lise Lindstrom as Prince Calaf and Princess Turandot.
'Well-matched': Marco Berti and Lise Lindstrom as Prince Calaf and Princess Turandot. Photograph: Tristram Kenton

Equally determined is American soprano Lise Lindstrom, making her Covent Garden debut – and this Tuesday marking her 100th performance as Turandot, a performance which will be broadcast live to 1,000 cinemas worldwide. She is a complete match for Berti, bringing a suitably icy edge to her upper register as the thrilling riddle scene unfolds – just one of the many moments of high drama that punctuate Puccini's most coherent and ambitious score, each episode dressed in the startling orchestral colours of marimba, xylophone and gongs vast and small.

In 1920, when he began work on Turandot, Puccini – already steeped in the pentatonic language of oriental music – went back to source, incorporating ancient melodies garnered from printed collections and from a little Chinese music box which yielded three authentic tunes for the score. One of these, the hymn Mo-li-hua, provides one of the few tranquil moments in the evening, beautifully sung by a boys' choir as the the moon rises, F Mitchell Dana's lighting spilling silvery shafts through elegant filigree panels, just one feature of Sally Jacobs's hugely impressive design. This is a magical moment of repose – carefully realised by conductor Henrik Nánási and the orchestra – even though we know that the risen moon will be the signal for yet another execution.

Andrei Serban's production (revived here by Andrew Sinclair) exploits these contradictions: just as lovely music heralds the terrible rising of the moon, so dancing full of grace and charm accompanies the young, tiny King of Persia to his horrible death. Indeed, all of Kate Flatt's choreography (ingeniously derived from tai chi) has a hypnotically chilling beauty at odds with the horrors unfolding on stage.

Bounding into the grimness are the sinisterly comic ministers of state, Ping, Pang and Pong (Dionysios Sourbis, David Butt Philip and Doug Jones), hamming it up outrageously until they become the enthusiastic torturers of Liu, the slave girl who loves Calaf and takes her own life rather than reveal his name to Turandot. Again, Puccini places beauty against brutality, giving her two sinuous arias while she is writhing in agony. Eri Nakamura won the largest ovation on opening night but I fear that was more to do with the sympathetic nature of her role rather than the quality of her voice.

And what of Nessun Dorma, the opera's most enduring aria? It's difficult to separate it from Pavarotti – and Berti doesn't try; he's in the same mould. It's a glorious sound. Go and hear it.

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