VERONA, ITALY — We tend to think of Aida and Turandot primarily in terms of epic grandiosity, but are we right to do so? With their relentless storytelling and taut structures — alternating probing sequences of enigmas, dialogues and spare ritual choruses — the dramaturgy of Verdi and Puccini’s operas is almost classical in its severity, a point brought home by Franco Zeffirelli’s series of productions of large-scale works tailored to all manner of venues.
Arena Aida © FotoEnnevi
Verona’s famed Arena hauls Aida out of ancient Egypt and into the present: towering frameworks of pharaohs and golden fixtures tell us we are in an ancient-day war zone, while the characters wear true-to-life tunics representative of the period. The chorus, as in true drama, becomes a group of omnipresent witnesses to the tragedy in which they also participate.
There are occasional quirks: Clémentine Margaine’s provocative Amneris and Yusif Eyvazov’s troubled Radamès have clearly been embroiled in a dramatic affair before the opera even begins; while Maria José Siri’s Aida has resistance on her mind well before Amonasro, played by Youngjun Park, suggests it. Even so, the singers are formidably strong, and the big confrontations have undeniable force and veracity.
Arena Aida Zeffirelli ©Heads Collective – Copia
It is formidably sung, too. The mix of silk and steel in Siri’s tone nicely contrasts with Margaine’s more voluptuous warmth. Eyvazov belts a little, though his dramatic commitment never wavers. Park is a delightful Amonasro, less overtly fanatical and more sympathetic than many, while Gianluca Buratto makes an excellent, icily manipulative Ramfis. The ensemble ratchets up the tension with inexorable momentum, and the choral singing is tremendous.
That momentum undoubtedly stretches to Puccini’s icy tale of Turandot, recounting the grandeur of imperial Beijing, where love is a dangerous game — and the princess makes it clear that no man will ever win it. The story’s concept has a chilling aura, reflecting both the enigmatic princess trapped in her mental iceberg and the brutality of a tyrannical regime.
The shock of Zeffirelli’s set, with its wall of portraits evoking Asian heritage — or, potentially, Turandot’s would-be suitors in a mythological China — is just as potent, all the more so for the knowledge that there are still places in the world where death is routinely enforced as the penalty for giving the wrong answers to complex quandaries.
Turandot © EnneviFoto
Zeffirelli’s staging returns to tighten the screws in this revival, every gesture and ritual eloquent in its simplicity and precision. Ciampa emphasises the score’s brutality, with the extended chorus at its exemplary finest. Despite moments when pit and stage are slightly out of sync, Puccini’s dramatic thrust is there, as is some sensuous string-playing.
Lise Lindstrom’s laser-like soprano suits Turandot’s glacial nature while also suggesting the inner turmoil unleashed by Calaf’s kiss. Tenor Michele Petrusi gives an assured performance, accomplishing Calaf’s soaring lines with focused ease. In her debut as Liù, Lisette Oropesa’s singing is perfectly poised, the slave girl’s demeanour marked less by servility than by a beautiful serenity glowing in the voice.
Turandot © FotoEnnevi
Making the feared executioner implicit in Liù’s death, rather than depicting the usual suicide, certainly reinforces the element of stark force. So, too, does the crowd holding aloft the dead men’s heads, adding a degree of ambiguity and hollowness to the hymn to love. It is serious stuff, thrillingly delivered.
All in all, Turandot remains more than a fairy tale of riddles and romance. It is an operatic spectacle built around a fundamental conflict between power and vulnerability — the desire to remain invulnerable, and the terrifying possibility of allowing oneself to love. Cheers to that.
by Chidozie Obasi