In questa reggia is a fabulous aria. I love its stark, fiercely enunciated opening salvo in which Turandot’s brief, telegraphic shrieks pierce the still night air around her—a cry in an operatic no-man’s land. And then, as if a dream, the tale unfolds of her ancestress cruelly conquered by warrior kings. A trance, a sing-song incantation ensues. This was, it should be mentioned, the part of the aria that jazz artist Bob Belden explored in his controversial take on Puccini’s ice princess.
Belden underlines the uneasy, subtle dissonance (almost atonality) of the first part of the aria, all too easily overlooked in the more extroverted, melodic mountain-climbing of the latter part. The aria sways back and forth, the keys beneath Turandot’s chants anxious, unsettled over an abyss perilously yawning below, a portal to death and violence poised to open from which, like Pandora’s box of psychological horrors, the passion of the Turandot will emerge.
Belden underlines the uneasy, subtle dissonance (almost atonality) of the first part of the aria, all too easily overlooked in the more extroverted, melodic mountain-climbing of the latter part. The aria sways back and forth, the keys beneath Turandot’s chants anxious, unsettled over an abyss perilously yawning below, a portal to death and violence poised to open from which, like Pandora’s box of psychological horrors, the passion of the Turandot will emerge.
And then come the stabs in the operatic firmament—Quel GRIdo e QUElla MORte! That cry and that death! And a solo shriek echoing throughout the house, this charge, this j'accuse de Turandot, shatters the uneasy calm after which the tune’s lush, florid yet ferocious strings swell belying Turandot's ice maiden appeal. Mai nessun m’avra! No man will have me! When the reality is Turandot is alive and filled with frustrated passion. No timid maiden she, here is a woman alive yet terrified by the overpowering forces within her, the lure of sex, the violence of love’s wrenching sock in the gut, the vortex swirl in which she loses Turandot and becomes the captive of the sex-soaked male who consumes her, driving her higher and higher, rage and terror yielding to love and gasps of full-throated ecstasy. A fight, a duel this aria, a seduction, musical rape. Tenor takes on soprano, man versus woman.
The aria ends in a draw. Turandot makes her case flagrantly, elaborately, operatic excess an embodiment of pain and rancor unleashed to its full, fierce splendor, but Calaf rises along with her, mirroring her vocal thrusts with tenor-tenacity. As the chorus echoes excitement at the fray, the music recedes, like a tide at ebb, power in reserve, forces mustered. And the riddles commence.
The aria demands no more than a splendid singer to convince. Those jabs, those piercing cries must carry, must overwhelm in a sheer wall of sound; fear must limn ostensible hate; passion must seethe amid the bombast. Great Turandots have been few.*
Eva Turner - legendary English soprano. Not the typical dramatic soprano with a rich, sonorous middle, Turner's voice was rather high-lying and frigid-sounding to these ears, not entirely inappropriate for the Chinese ice princess. The high notes glistened while lower in her range the voice could sound somewhat stern and creaky, rather like a headmistress chiding her charges for bad grammar or tracking mud all over her newly washed floor.
Birgit Nilsson - La Nilsson's handicap was always her less-than-ideal Italianate emission. Her voice sqawked where it should have caressed; rubati, portamenti, and legato were all Italian graces not in her arsenal. But Turandot was different. Italian Wagner, as it were, in the long, broad strokes of Puccini's soaring lines, the role's imposing tessitura proved no problem for Our Lady of Sweden.
Eva Marton - no fewer than three commercial video documents exist of La Marton's Chinese princess. The Met's 1988 venture shows her voice thickened and unsubtle while San Francisco c. 1992 shows a voice already coming apart with high note wobbling through which the proverbial truck could pass. But Vienna 1983 showcases Marton at her best. The role's high-lying range presenting no discernible problem, La Marton musters appropriately gleaming tones. Even better, to my mind, she rivals Dame Gwyneth Jones as the best acted Turandot. If the Met and San Francisco videos show a tired Turandot whose cruel edict presents no real psychological threat, in Vienna this is a neurotic, angry woman not to be messed with.
Ghena Dimitrova - My personal favorite among dramatic sopranos can be seen to her best advantage in the open air Arena di Verona, transformed into an arctic-looking ancient Peking, all the more sympathetic for Dimitrova's gargantuan, monolithic, icy Turandot. Her voice has never been heard to greater advantage--the acuti are resplendently full and throbbing, the middle is voluptuous, free of the wobble that later afflicted it, and the bottom notes threatening in the riddle scene. She is attired in a shapeless white gown; her black hair cascades to the floor in great sheathes. She looks like some primitive Kabuki-inspired vision of woman as temptress-destroyer, inhumanly confident and imposing. Her rival Marton may have the edge on Dimitrova in acting, but Dimitrova clearly sweeps the field with the sheer power, range, and ease of her voice. Madame Dimitrova is partnered here with the always reliable, if hardly inspiring, Nicola Martinucci--he looks a bit like an Italianate Sonny Bono outmatched by a physically and vocally grander Cher.
Dame Gwyneth Jones - I love Dame Gwyneth, although, it must be said, hers is a voice that takes some getting used to. At its worst squawky, raw, and wobbly, Dame Gwyneth's voice at its best could muster trumpeting laser high notes while keeping vocal unsteadiness at bay. Her best attribute was the total commitment she brought to all her roles. Dame Gwyneth was never an indifferent performer; she could never be accused of phoning in a performance. Her best moments in this Turandot are frequently nonvocal--the long seething stare she shoots Calaf before launching In questa reggia--as if to imply, "How dare you challenge me!"
There have been more Turandots in recent years tending toward the full of figure and full of voice to the more slender variety. Jane Eaglen undertook the role for several years during her brief heyday but soon abandoned it--all considered, probably a wise decision. Where Turandot's tessitura blossoms to thunderous acuti, Eaglen's voice narrows to a pinch. Alessandra Marc was, during the 1990s and early 2000s, another notable exponent. Possessed of a refulgent middle and shimmering top, Marc struggled to convey character and overcome the limitations of avoirdupois. Both Madames Eaglen and Marc are of the heroic phenotype, something of a rara avis in our intensely visual, movie star-struck age.
Two other Turandots of recent years reflect this shift. Maria Guleghina has had her weight ups and downs, but her success seems in part to be based on statuesque appeal. Of the divas mentioned above, only Dame Gwyneth Jones can be said to have evidenced the same. Guleghina came to the role of Turandot somewhat late in her career, and the voice has suffered for it. While still possessed of a warm middle of impressive volume, the high notes have become wiry and the chest notes weak. Even more than Guleghina, Liese Lindstrom is something of a glamazon Turandot, one not possessed of a voice of significant girth but rather some thrust and an appropriately metallic timbre. Hers is a lithe, visually striking Turandot, striking poses worthy of Erté. But it is the voice that matters above all in this most cruel of parts, and one wonders how long Lindstrom's essentially lyrical instrument will hold out or whether it too, like Turandot's suitors, will be felled by her riddles.
*The diligent opera aficionado will notice that the obvious diva, Madame Callas herself, is nowhere to be found in the pantheon above. La Divina was a sublime artist, but one, in this reviewer's opinion, whose genius flowered in the more hothouse subtleties and dramatic exigencies of bel canto than Puccini's broadly drawn battle of wills. A great Norma, Violetta, and Tosca, Callas was not the ideal Turandot, a role requiring something of the blunt impact of a 747 taking off. Callas offered psychological complexity, to be sure but was somewhat lacking in more elemental qualities of power and thrust.
There have been more Turandots in recent years tending toward the full of figure and full of voice to the more slender variety. Jane Eaglen undertook the role for several years during her brief heyday but soon abandoned it--all considered, probably a wise decision. Where Turandot's tessitura blossoms to thunderous acuti, Eaglen's voice narrows to a pinch. Alessandra Marc was, during the 1990s and early 2000s, another notable exponent. Possessed of a refulgent middle and shimmering top, Marc struggled to convey character and overcome the limitations of avoirdupois. Both Madames Eaglen and Marc are of the heroic phenotype, something of a rara avis in our intensely visual, movie star-struck age.
Two other Turandots of recent years reflect this shift. Maria Guleghina has had her weight ups and downs, but her success seems in part to be based on statuesque appeal. Of the divas mentioned above, only Dame Gwyneth Jones can be said to have evidenced the same. Guleghina came to the role of Turandot somewhat late in her career, and the voice has suffered for it. While still possessed of a warm middle of impressive volume, the high notes have become wiry and the chest notes weak. Even more than Guleghina, Liese Lindstrom is something of a glamazon Turandot, one not possessed of a voice of significant girth but rather some thrust and an appropriately metallic timbre. Hers is a lithe, visually striking Turandot, striking poses worthy of Erté. But it is the voice that matters above all in this most cruel of parts, and one wonders how long Lindstrom's essentially lyrical instrument will hold out or whether it too, like Turandot's suitors, will be felled by her riddles.
*The diligent opera aficionado will notice that the obvious diva, Madame Callas herself, is nowhere to be found in the pantheon above. La Divina was a sublime artist, but one, in this reviewer's opinion, whose genius flowered in the more hothouse subtleties and dramatic exigencies of bel canto than Puccini's broadly drawn battle of wills. A great Norma, Violetta, and Tosca, Callas was not the ideal Turandot, a role requiring something of the blunt impact of a 747 taking off. Callas offered psychological complexity, to be sure but was somewhat lacking in more elemental qualities of power and thrust.
