Life in a Northern Virginia suburb of Washington, D.C. B.M.A.T.C., and Etruscan typewriter erasers. Blogged by David Gorsline.
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After a certain age our memories are so intertwined with one another that what we are thinking of, the book we are reading, scarcely matters any more. We have put something of ourselves everywhere, everything is fertile, everything is dangerous, and we can make discoveries no less precious than in Pascal's Pensées than in an advertisement for soap.
—Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time vol. 5, pp. 731-732
posted: 7:01:23 PM |
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Turandot, by Giacomo Puccini, production directed by Franco Zeffirelli,
Metropolitan Opera, New York
Denis Forman wrote of Turandot,
It is absolutely dependent on its production values.
Where you can put on Bohème in a barn, Turandot needs, if not Wembley, at least a Grand Opera House, loads of dancers, dozens of extras, a huge chorus and stunning spectable. And at least three great singers. Given that, it can be an alpha.
and this production, originally mounted in 1987, does not disappoint. Franco Zeffirelli, who directed and designed the set, for Act I has crammed an entire seedy quarter of Peking onto the Met's stage, using a skeleton of circular ramps. Lit in a cold, murky blue light, a mass of supernumeraries, dancers, acrobats, and banner carriers makes the place come alive. There's a slight structural problem with the first act libretto: the title character has no words of her own, although other characters tell us how bloodthirsty she is. Zeffirelli negotiates this problem by placing Turandot, in her boudoir, on a platform at the extreme upstage, which levitates into position at the appropriate time. (This stage position is deadly for sound production, however, which some singers don't seem to have ascertained.) A 30-minute-plus first intermission (and lots of billowing of the grand drape) tests our patience, which is amply rewarded by the appearance of the Imperial Palace in the second scene of Act II. The set's rough timbers have been refaced with wood marbleized and gilded, and the set is ablaze in white light. Earle Patriarco lends a certain gravitas to what is essentially the comic role of Ping. Krassimira Stoyanova sings with expressive dynamics in Liù's Act III suicide scene. On the downside, getting everyone off after Liù's death is a noisy affair, and the hand jive that punctuates Calaf's hesitation over his third answer to Turandot's riddles is just silly. posted: 6:27:57 PM |
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Feeling weariness in all of my 48 years, and grateful that I'd thought to leave the porch light on for myself, I'm back from an overnight trip to New York. Words and pictures to follow. posted: 1:26:46 AM |
 D. Gorsline, Proprietor
   
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