OK, OK, so this is an opera and not a movie. At least, to my knowledge Turandot has not
been filmed for cinematic audiences only.
However, there exists a video of a sumptuous production for the Met designed
by Franco Zeffirelli and starring Placido Domingo (a reason to live all on his
own) Eva Marton, and a truly stunning Leona Mitchell. There is also a terrific 2-disc collection of
the entire opera performed by Birgit Nilsson, Renata Tebaldi, and – glory of
glories – Jussi Bjerling.
First of all, for the uninitiated, every opera lover has “The
Puccini Moment.” It is the one moment in
the work, whichever Puccini opera that might be, that grabs you for life. You don’t have to like Puccini – I don’t,
particularly. But he had a way of
creating an emotional piece in each of his operas that rips your heart out and
holds it captive forever. I knew a woman
– a mature, rational, intelligent and sophisticated woman – who crumbled into tears
in the cold light of day from her mere attempt to recount her Puccini moment
from La Boheme.
In short, The Puccini Moment is a moment to live for, and to
die for.
Once you have one, the memory does not leave you and you
crave to relive it over and over again.
Thank God for modern recording media.
Which brings us to my Puccini Moment. I first found it while watching the Domingo
video – actually I’ve never even seen the opera performed live, which may be
for the best.
The Moment needs a setup, particularly since it occurs at
the end of the first act and there is so much that has NOT happened. But the activity which precedes the Act 1 closing
aria, “Non piangere Liu (Do not cry, Liu)” brilliantly underwrites and colors
all that is to come in subsequent acts.
Turandot takes place “In Peking, in legendary times.” Into the ancient city wanders Calaf, a deposed Tartar Prince craving reunion with
his father and restoration of his dynasty.
He first finds his father, now frail and blind, cared for by their loyal
servant, Liu. Liu alone has remained devoted
to the usurped king, this due to her abiding love for Calaf, a love which grew
out of a single smile he conferred upon her in their distant past.
The happy meeting is marred when they notice a collection of
severed heads decorating the walls of Princess Turandot’s palace. Turandot is a cruel, icy, bitter monarch who
fanatically protects herself from a dire prediction. The prediction is that she will be raped and
denied her crown by an outsider. The
protection is a riddle posed to all suitors.
A man who wishes to approach her must strike the palace gong 3
times. If he replies correctly to the
riddle he will win her hand. If he fails,
he will lose his head. No one has
succeeded, hence the extensive cranial impalements.
Calaf finds this practice particularly offensive when he
observes Turandot’s latest victim, the fair and gentle Prince of Persia. Calaf angrily demands to know what kind of
monster would be so vile to kill so fine a young man. As he rails, Turandot, ensconced in her
tower, reveals herself for an instant and, of course, the Tartar Prince
performs a 180, immediately falling in desperate love with her. Obviously, he sees in her all he has lost,
and all he hopes to regain. There, in
the impenetrable heart of Turandot, is a promise of love, fortune, and power
restored. His indefatigable pride and
confidence assure him that no riddle, no frozen heart, no axe to the neck will
prevent his victory. He is convinced
that his humiliation and anger will end with three rings of a gong.
But Timur, his father, and Liu have suffered too much,
grieved too long, travelled too far.
They crave peace and rest; they want time to celebrate their reunion
with Calaf and see his sudden obsession as a guarantee of disaster and death. Indeed, (SPOILER ALERT), Liu will ultimately
give her life for Calaf’s endeavor. To
know this ahead of time, that two acts hence this heartbreakingly faithful girl
will die rather than betray the man she loves, even as he pursues his passion
for another, truly informs the depth of my Puccini Moment, which at this point
of the story is upon us.
Timur and Liu beg Calaf to abandon his folly and come away
with them. Liu begins to cry, and Calaf
sings what at first is a lilting and tender ballad…
Non piangere Liu – Do not weep … if
I smiled at you once long ago… I smile no more…She is calling me … I have
suffered too much … I follow my destiny…
As the music builds to tsunamic crescendo, blending high
romantic opera orchestration with sprinkles of Asian musicality, Liu and Timur
cling to Calaf as he moves toward the gong, entreating him to stop; the increasingly
unruly crowd derides him. The chorus,
the full orchestra, Calaf’s tenor voice soaring over them, build and rise and
then stop –
Calaf calls out “Turandot”
three times, and then strikes the gong.
Everyone’s fate is sealed.
Curtain.
Uncontrollable sobbing.
(feels so good!)
Actually, Turandot, being as it is the final opera composed
by Puccini, has two Puccini Moments for me.
The second is shared by, and is the same for, all opera aficionados.
Giacomo Puccini died before writing the final music for
Turandot and the score had to be finished by another composer, Franco
Alfano. The opera’s debut was a posthumous
performance conducted by Puccini’s great friend, Arturo Toscanini.
At this first performance, after Liu’s death scene, which
was the last music composed by Puccini, Toscanini put his baton down, turned to
the audience and said, “Here, the maestro laid down his pen.”
At first there was a long silence. Then, suddenly, a spectator called out “Viva
Puccini!” and La Scala erupted in endless, thundering applause and standing
ovation. When the clapping and cheering
finally ceased, an emotionally and physically exhausted audience left, and
Franco Alfano’s finish was not to be heard that night.
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