Asmik Grigorian as Turandot [Monika Rittershaus]

Who is Turandot? An ice princess from Chinese fairytale? Forget that in Claus Guth’s outstanding new staging for the Wiener Staatsoper. Never one to deal in kitsch or cliché, Guth has no place for Chinese lanterns or dragons. Instead, he focuses on the psychology of the protagonists in a highly symbolic reading that signals Sigmund Freud and Franz Kafka more than the Far East. Throw in a pair of role debuts – Asmik Grigorian as Turandot and Jonas Kaufmann as Calaf – and Vienna was abuzz with anticipation on opening night.

Typically for Guth, the action takes place in a white set (Étienne Pluss), the chorus relegated to the fringes. We are in a Kafkaesque waiting room where bureaucrats in mint green uniforms administer the execution of Turandot’s suitors with clinical efficiency. Officials Ping, Pang and Pong carry out their duties with zealous attention to detail. Heads are measured to fit storage boxes, paperwork is scrupulously completed, the executioner’s sword is sharpened.

Liù (silky-voiced soprano Kristina Mkhitaryan) and the blind Timur (sturdy bass Dan Paul Dumitrescu) enter via a filing cabinet. Video of Turandot is projected, white-haired behind a frosted pane, smearing blood. Calaf is lured by this fantasy figure, willing to try his luck despite witnessing the grisly results – Turandot in a bridal veil slowly waltzing with a decapitated would-be bridegroom. Liù pleads with Calaf, assisted by four doppelgangers who restrain him in a web of black ribbons.

Beyond the heavily bolted door, we meet Turandot. The court invades her bedroom – an intimate, private space – where a traumatised Turandot curls up like a frightened child, protected by four masked figures in pink dresses. Beneath the bed, a chest contains the bones of her ancestor Lou-Ling, raped and murdered. Turandot is another abuse victim, her riddles forming a protective shield.

As soon as Calaf answers the third riddle, her refuge is turned into a marital bed. That bed is upended in Act 3, Turandot cowering under the sheets as the derelict palace is turned upside down searching for Calaf’s name. Defence turns to attack as she threatens Liù before the slave knifes herself to avoid revealing his secret.

Then comes this production’s trump card. Puccini died before completing Turandot. Franco Alfano was commissioned to finish Act 3, but Arturo Toscanini – who ended the premiere at Liù’s death, the last notes Puccini wrote – forced Alfano to butcher his completion, reconciling Turandot and Calaf with implausible haste. Kaufmann recently recorded the original Alfano ending and that is the version chosen here, allowing longer for Turandot to come round. When she finally announces his name as “Love”, order is restored – but just as it looks like they have to succumb to state protocol, Turandot removes her ceremonial sash, encourages Calaf to do likewise and they elope, escaping state suffocation.

Marco Armiliato drew vivid orchestral playing, painting Puccini’s pentatonic chinoiserie with primary colours and bold brushstrokes, supporting his cast sensitively. Kaufmann made an impressive role debut as Calaf. ‘Non piangere, Liù’, taken daringly slowly, found him in velvety voice, albeit a little pale, as if holding something in reserve. There was a hint of a crack in Act 2, but ‘Nessun dorma’ was stylish – a black mark for the concert ending! – and he negotiated the taxing ending well.

Grigorian astonished. There was serious blade to ‘In questa reggia’, without bludgeoning the ear, and her high notes glistened. She coloured her soprano sensitively and sang Kaufmann off the stage in the finale. Above all, her acting mesmerised. Thanks to her – and Guth – we saw the real woman behind Turandot, more than a ruthless ice princess.

This review originally appeared in the Spring 2024 issue of Opera Now. Join our community of opera lovers – subscribe to Opera Now today