By Cal
Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s9-GvuLZnds&t=2s
Available until: February 2021
Very strange things happen in Turandot. Strange and horrific. Usually, the music is enough to ensure we don’t think about this in too much detail, but it’s more difficult in this production, which seems not only to focus on the horror but to revel in it.
It probably also doesn’t help that there are no sub- or
surtitles. It’s a while since I’ve seen this opera so I was relying a lot more
on the action to tell me what was going on. This proved an even more difficult
task than I anticipated when I realised the Croatian National Theatre in Zagreb
production appeared to be set in a zoo.
Placed haphazardly around Nicolas Bovey’s set are a number
of what seem to be cages. These are white and as the sides of the cages aren’t
easy to see through, it’s difficult to be sure what’s inside, but one certainly
seems to contain a polar bear. The bear comes out of the cage later and stays still
without attacking anyone (I wish I could say the same of the human characters) so
perhaps the place was actually some sort of museum, but it’s fair to say that
Stefano Ricci’s production got my attention and that’s what any director wants.
It’s the people, rather than the bear, who behave like
animals. The glacial but beautiful Turandot will accept a proposal from any
man, but if he fails to answer the riddles she gives him, he will be put to
death. Apparently, quite a number of men have been idiotic enough to try it and
in the early stages of the play, the assembled crowds almost salivate in
delight at the news that the Prince of Persia has failed in his quest to become
Turandot’s husband. This scene appears in every production, but this crowd are
particularly bloodthirsty.
Marta Bevilacqua provided a considerable amount of
choreography for this production and it’s… interesting. I’m certainly not
complaining about the part where a group of men remove their clothes and dance
in their pants. I really don’t mind that sort of thing and considering what
else happens in the production, it almost seems like normal behaviour.
Bevilacqua’s choreography includes a lot of shaking, rolling on the ground and
attacking people. It’s deeply unnerving but strangely apt for a society which
thinks it’s okay to put people to death for not being intelligent. At one
point, a group of men don horse heads with others providing the back end of the
horse. I would have said this was a moment to send for the men in white coats,
were it not for the fact that the men in white coats were the ones performing
the exercise. Gianluca Sbicca has created some intriguing costumes for this
production, though I do think this opera might be one to be careful of if you
have a fear of clowns.
When a woman appeared in a wedding dress, I assumed it was
Turandot, showing a rare willingness to do her bit in this wedding business (though
admittedly, she would have been appearing onstage far too early which would
have completely messed up the ‘love at first sight’ business which
happens later), but it’s actually the slave girl, Liù,
who cares for a blind elderly man named Timur (Berislav Puškarić,
probably the nicest person in the opera). It’s not a mistake I ever
expected to make with this opera - Liù
shares little in common with the princess other than a taste for rather
annoying men. The wedding dress remains a mystery – not only is Liù unlikely to marry, it seems astonishingly generous
of Timur to have given her such finery for walking through the streets. Liù often provides the emotional heart of this opera
and Valentina Fijačko Kobić is no exception,
her inexplicable love for the conceited Calaf is deep, sincere and very
touching, her beautiful voice soaring. Even Turandot is charmed: she strokes Liù’s hair even
as Liù waves
a gun around (there’s a lot of strange behaviour in this opera. You’ll probably
get used to it).
Here’s something else I never
expected to say - Rebeka Lokar managed to win my sympathy almost immediately.
Turandot usually seems hard and cold, but this Turandot seems deeply unhappy. She
does not lack dignity or presence, but when she looks away from the crowd,
there’s a great sense of loneliness which makes me wonder if she’s as trapped
in the riddle nightmare as everyone else. Lokar’s voice is strident, as you’d
expect from a Turandot, but with the impression of suppressed emotions under
the surface.
If anyone in this opera is
heartless, it’s probably Calaf. He’s been reunited with his father Timur after
many years, but rather than celebrate or get to know him again, he immediately
risks his own life by deciding to attempt Turandot’s riddles. Renzo Zulian
answers the riddles with aggressive triumph, though Turandot rather gives away
the answer to the second riddle, given that she appears to be bathing in it.
It’s difficult to believe in Calaf’s love for Turandot and even his actions
late on in the play seem more a calculated ploy than love conquering all, but I
have always felt this way about Calaf and there is something compelling about
Zulian’s determination to succeed. ‘Nessum dorma’ rings impressively around the
opera house but lacks somewhat in emotion – though the worst thing for me is
when the audience start clapping before the audience have finished
playing. This is rude, particularly as
Orchestra of the Croation National Theatre in Zagreb, led by conductor Marcello
Mottadelli, were playing with passion and I really wanted to listen. (If
Mottadelli’s conducting lacks a bit of heart earlier in the piece, this is
entirely suited to the cold, hard world we’re introduced to at the start._
While I’m certainly not
suggesting that Turandot and Calaf have any chance of living happily ever
after, Calaf would actually fit into this society rather well. He’s not immune
to the strange compulsions that often seize them. He is more than happy to sit
on the polar bear. The last time I saw someone sitting on an animal onstage is
when I saw Equus. Not that Equus isn’t a wonderful play, but
Calaf’s behaviour here really does make me wonder about him. Are you sure,
Turandot? Are you really sure?
As the opera draws to a close,
the crowds hold up letters. The message in Croatian, but google translate
informs me that it reads: He who lives in fear dies every day* – a
profound statement till you realise that he who lives in fear clearly has some
degree of immortality.
*(I've just realised this is a translation of a translation of a Julius Caesar quote, but my point still stands.)
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