Intermezzo

ENO's Turandot flamed, grilled and roasted

Turandot - English National Opera, 16 November 2009

Even the uniformly negative reviews didn't prepare me for the sheer amateurishness of Rupert Goold's new production.

Sure, the glossy Chinese gastropalace and its population of post-modern archetypes look good in pics. That's because the designs are imaginative and meticulously executed. Even if we’ve seen some of the ideas before – the last act’s tiled kitchen from Goold’s Macbeth, the animal masks and typeface projections from his Enron, to name a couple – they’re still original enough to constitute an aesthetic rather than a shortage of ideas.

The problem is they're nothing more than an artsy backdrop to some decidedly old-fashioned stand and deliver action. Goold is used to working with the likes of Michael Gambon and Patrick Stewart. Here he’s saddled with a genre of performers for whom acting skills are a helpful bonus, not than a job requirement. That’s not to say that this cast are bad actors, just that they’re typical singers, and they need more direction than they’ve received here to bring out their best. The principals are left pretty much to their own devices. Amanda Echalaz as Liù reprised the memorable drug-addled victim of her OHP Un ballo in maschera. Kirsten Blanck (Turandot) has clearly seen a few Siouxsie videos. Gwyn Hughes Jones (Calaf) just wanders round in his cheap mac like a lost tourist.

The individually-costumed and fussily-blocked chorus and the superfluous dancers are more of a distraction than a compensation. Perhaps he’s trying to say that even people who consider themselves individuals can become complicit in a murderous regime. Whatever. That’s a side dish – it’s not what Turandot is about. When it comes to telling the real story, what Goold serves up is a concert performance in cool frocks.

The only character Goold shows much interest in is one he's grafted on. 'The Writer' - presumably a reflection of Puccini - is an irritating silent witness and occasional participant. He scribbles away in a book until bloodily despatched at Turandot's command towards the end - not uncoincidentally, at the point Puccini stopped writing. His book is picked up by a pig-headed dancer who writes the last few pages. You couldn't offer a clearer opinion of Alfano’s completion than that, but did we really have to suffer the previous hour and half to get there? To most operagoers, whether they like Turandot or not, Puccini's failure to complete it is simply a footnote, but Goold's staging elevates it to the raison d'etre of the entire production.

Relief came only from a handful of sterling vocal performances in the central roles, chief among them Amanda Echalaz’s thrilling Liù.  Gwyn Hughes Jones offered a blank slate of a Calaf, unconvincing in his passion for the ice princess. At least he sang with some ardour and assurance. A more detailed portrayal would make him truly terrific in this part. Kirsten Blanck’s Turandot was heroically powerful, served up in a stern Marlene Dietrich accent with gale force top notes. Benedict Nelson’s Ping was the standout amongst the rest.

Edward Gardner hammered the score into submission as if he was repaying a grudge. It was a loud and dirty fight.

 

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Opera Holland Park's Un ballo in maschera

Un ballo in maschera - Opera Holland Park, 21 July 2009

 Amanda Echalaz inspects Rafael Rojas's teh conductor's imaginary weapon

I've occasionally spotted some funny things in the undergrowth in Holland Park. But there's no grassy knoll, and nothing that could pass for a book suppository. Nevertheless, JFK's assassination is the reference point for Martin Lloyd Evans's contemporary update of Un ballo in maschera.

It should satisfy those who complained that the recent Royal Opera House production skimmed over the story's political aspect in favour of the lurve triangle. In fact the romance is so underplayed as to be almost non-existent.

Instead the 'herb' Amelia seeks via the fortune-teller Ulrica (here the victim/guest in a savagely parodied TV reality show) is the sort that carries a custodial sentence. The gallows scene is transplanted to an urban wasteland where a shadowy hoodie supplies Amelia with her fix - brazenly injected centre stage. Riccardo finds her slumped in post-score coma. The sordid secret she wants to hide is not being caught alone with another man (no longer a faux pas of course - in fact practically compulsory in modern political circles) - but her desperate addiction. 

The staging was unclear in places - why were the conspirators taking pictures of her, did Renato agree to assassinate Riccardo only because he feared a spot of Drugs Shame blackmail, and what was the point of the Bugs Bunny cartoon? And the hesitant movement suggested a couple more rehearsals wouldn't have gone amiss. But although I had a little sympathy with the lone booer at the end of the first scene, by the end it had all knitted together into far more than gratuitous sensationalism - and the warm applause and interval chat suggested that even the more conservative operagoers were convinced.

The bold twist threw Amelia right to the centre of the story throughout. And Amanda Echalaz was absolutely stunning. Her lean, thrilling soprano is nimble but powerful, and as accurate as a laser-guided missile. It may not be the most beautiful voice, but when you hear it in this music, you realise it's exactly what Verdi wanted. The desperation of a woman on the edge of breakdown was palpable. Just brilliant.

The scheduled tenor, Rafael Rojas, wasn't well, so he mimed while his eleventh hour replacement David Rendall sang with creditable power from the pit. What could have turned out a disaster was, save for an inevitable lack of ensemble precision, a barely-noticeable drawback. 

Olafur Sigurdarson sang Renato strongly and fluidly, only succumbing to a bit of blustering at the end. Gail Pearson's voice is a bit on the heavy side for Oscar (here a female office aide), but it projects well, and with her brisk secretarial manner the character was less cloying than usual. Carole Wilson was a terrific Ulrica, properly sung not wobbled through. And Benedict Nelson made an arresting (almost scene-stealing) appearance as Silvano, an embittered wheelchair-bound vet, strongly and expressively sung.

A bit more power from the chorus and tightness from the orchestra wouldn't have gone amiss, but with OHP's limited rehearsal time, it's a risk you take with the first show in any run.