Turandot: Classroom Guide

Study guide to Giacomo Puccini’s romantic legend
TURANDOT
Presented by Michigan Opera Theatre at the Detroit Opera House,
May 10-18, 2014
QUICK INFO
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Opera in three acts
Set in and around the Imperial Palace of Peking, the capital of China, sometime in a
legendary ancient past
Premièred at La Scala in Milan, April 25, 1926
Text by Giuseppe Adami (1878-1946, b. Verona), Renato Simoni (1875-1952, b.
Verona)—Adami’s 3rd libretto for Puccini, Simoni’s 1st
Music by Giacomo Puccini (1858-1924, b. Lucca, Tuscany)—his 12th and final opera
Based on an 1801 adaptation by German playwright Friedrich Schiller—Turandot,
Prinzessin von China [Turandot, Princess of China]—of a 1762 century comic play—
Turandot—by Italian dramatist Carlo Gozzi
Sung in Italian with English translations projected above the stage
Running time about 2.5 hours
WISE GUY S:
The com poser of Tura nd ot flan ked by hi s tw o li br ettists .
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THE STORY
(Adapted from The Opera Goer’s Complete Guide, by Leo Melitz, 1926:)
The Princess Turandot, a deeply serious woman with
an aversion to men, is set against marrying. However,
she has agreed to give her hand to whomever can solve
three terribly tricky riddles. He who attempts the test,
and does not pass, is to be put to death. Many have
already lost their heads (quite literally!) as a result of
the test.
Prince Calaf, an exiled royal from a distant land,
arrives on the scene. He manages to answer all three
riddles successfully. But his generous nature refuses
to take the prize on such terms, and he declares that he
will follow the other suitors to the block if the Princess
can pass a test of her own: guessing his name. If she
does not find out the name, though, her hand is Calaf’s
for marriage.
His father and a loving slave-girl, Liù, come seeking
him, and are tortured at the Princess’s command in an
attempt to extract the youth’s name from them. Liù
HI GH FASHIO N:
dies without Calaf’s name falling from her lips.
Turand
ot’s ext ravagant headdr es s
Turandot ultimately does not discover the prince’s
enca ses a mind closed to t he
name, but is not forced to give her hand reluctantly.
pr os pect of lov e. Ima ge from th e
Calaf’s passionate wooing has warmed the princess’s
origi nal c over of the publi shed
emotions, and she surrenders to him with a smile on
sc ore for Tur and ot.
her lips. Asked his name in the opera’s finale, as the
two join together to prepare for their nuptials, the Princess Turandot announces to the
assembled people of Peking: “His name is Love.”
THE CAST OF CHARACT ERS
(AND SINGERS)
Turandot, the Princess of China
• American soprano Lise Lindstrom (May 10, 14,
17)
• Canadian soprano Othalie Graham (May 16, 18)
Calaf, the foreign prince who loves her
• South Korean tenor Rudy Park (May 10, 14, 17)
• Chilean tenor Giancarlo Monsalve (May 16, 18)
Liù, the slave girl in the employ of Calaf’s father
• Italian soprano Donata D’Annunzio Lombardi
AND WATCH OUT FOR T HOSE FINGE RNAILS:
Lis e Lin dstr om as t he titl e prin ces s in a pr oducti on of
Turand ot by Florida Gra nd O pera, 2010.
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The production at the Detroit Opera House will feature the Michigan Opera Theatre
Orchestra and Chorus, led by Italian conductor Valerio Galli, and staging by American
director Garnett Bruce. The performance will also include the young singers of the
Michigan Opera Theatre Children’s Chorus, who recently took all the roles in an opera of
their own, Brundibár (March 16, 2014).
BEFORE A HAPPY ENDING,
THE COMPOS ER’S SAD EN D
The dramatic story of Puccini’s death before he could write the
conclusion to Turandot of which he dreamt; how the opera’s
final scenes were later completed by the composer Franco
Alfano; and who, in the end, has the rightful claim to this
strange and wonderful opera…
Turandot is a woman beyond reach. Almost a
figure of pure legend and not a fleshly being, the
title princess is not heard in the whole of
Puccini’s first act, only seen, from atop a distant
balcony, forbidding. She is “di gel cinta”—
enclosed in ice—as the ardent slave girl Liù
(Turandot’s opposite) admonishes her. Behind
that ice is a star-strewn cloak and silverembroidered veil, and, as she is usually
presented onstage, an out-to-there headdress
that seems to tell any admiring onlookers, “My
THE E M BATT LE D M ASTE R:
Puc cini i n his latter year s.
hairdo, like my heart, is surrounded by such
intricate fortifications that you may never access
it—best not to try.” And that heart can only be won, according to Adami and Simoni’s
libretto, by the solving of three impenetrable riddles. She declares five times throughout
the opera: “Nessun m'avrà!”—None shall ever possess me!
Calaf ultimately does solve the riddles and win his royal bride. But for Puccini, her vow
held true. He never did succeed in possessing her, in capturing the conclusion of
Turandot to fit what he dreamed it could be. The ultimate riddle of her story—how
Turandot would renounce her lifelong vow of chastity, how a frosted heart would
somehow thaw and begin to glow with amorous love—proved torturous for the
composer.
Puccini knew it must be enormous, almost the apotheosis of all his life’s work, a corpus so
purely devoted to love and its transfigurations. He knew that the love of Turandot “must
engulf the whole stage in a great orchestral peroration.” In another letter to his librettists,
he wrote that this love should “burst out…shamelessly, violently, excessively, like a bomb
exploding.” But as he painfully worked, ill health consumed him, and his own heart burst
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before he could make Turandot’s do likewise. The great composer died in his 65th year in
1924, having composed no further than just before that climactic duet.
At the opera’s première in 1926 at La Scala, the conductor Arturo Toscanini lowered his
baton at that point, turned to the audience, and spoke the words, “Here ends the opera
left uncompleted by the Master, for at this point the Master died.” No more music was
heard in the house that night. But on all subsequent performances, Toscanini would
finish the work with added music to bring the fairy tale to its happy ending, the same that
we will hear from Michigan Opera Theatre.
It was commissioned from the composer Franco Alfano, who paid close attention to the
sketches left by Puccini, which were not in all cases thorough. (One note by Puccini, in
the margins of the libretto text for the duet, read merely, “Find here the characteristic,
lovely, unusual melody.”) Alfano dispatched his dubious task with diligence and fidelity, if
not real inspiration. Puccini had dreamed of an “explosion,” a gushing torrent of melted
ice from the proud woman’s heart. Alfano gives us a drip-drip, all rather too quiet, so that
we scarcely notice the transformation.
Is it right to perform the opera as such, and call it Puccini’s
Turandot, when the composer did not anticipate that
someone else would finish it for him, and authorized no one to
do so? It is a question of ownership. To whom, ultimately,
does Turandot belong? To Puccini, the fallen master; his
librettists, whose words, approved by Puccini, close the opera;
the unfortunate Alfano; the enterprising Toscanini? Or does it
belong, perhaps, to someone else? Puccini did not write for
his critics or fellow composers, who, perhaps jealously, called
his style sentimental or old-fashioned. He wrote for his
public—music to bypass even the mind in its mad dash to the
audience’s heart. When he was searching for a libretto idea,
just before he and his librettists hit upon Turandot, he wrote
to them of his need to find “something that will make the
world weep.”
PI NCH COM PO SER :
Fran c o Alfan o (1875- 195 4, t his
ph otogra ph ca . 1919), wh o
would fini sh T urand ot a ft er
Puc cini’s deat h.
Yes, it is clear now, on these glorious days of May, as the
impassioned strains of “Nessun dorma” drift outside to greet
the buds of spring, and love is in the air along with the scent of
imagined lotuses. Turandot is ours, the last offering of a
composer who wrote for the people. However the music ends, we cherish it as the
composer’s final gift, and tear open its jade-colored wrappings with eagerness and joy.
Tonight, Calaf will strive mightily to claim the heart of his chosen princess. She will cry,
with equal thunder, that she belongs to no one. Little they know! Turandot already
belongs to us. Tonight she is not only Princess of Peking, but Queen of Detroit.
(But only temporarily, don’t worry, Aretha.)
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LISTEN TO “LISTEN ”
The first piece to appear in Turandot that may be considered an “aria”—an extended
passage for a soloist, with a musical and emotional quality of its own separate from the
surrounding action—is “Signore, ascolta” [Sir, listen]. It is sung by the slave girl Liù, a
supporting character. She is in love with Calaf, and serves his father Timur, the
dethroned King of Tartary (formerly, a region of Northern and Central Asia). Calaf
announces his intentions to try the test of the riddles, thereby risking his life to win
Turandot’s hand in marriage. Liù—ever devoted, ever full of affection—implores him not
to make the dangerous attempt. The music Puccini writes for her is unlike that which he
writes for fearsome Turandot—it is warm music, and tender, lyrical and lilting and
dripping with emotion, delicate rather than declamatory.
What also makes the music unique is its authentic Chinese
influence. Puccini found the base tune for it in a music box he
came across, the original Chinese song being called “Sian
chok.” It is written entirely in the pentatonic scale—a mode
that contains five notes per octave, and is commonly used in
East Asian music. You may access the pentatonic scale by
playing only the black keys on the piano. What sort of feeling
does playing only those notes give to the music? What do you
think inspires Liù’s plea—her care for King Timur, her
concern for her own survival, or, more secretly, her love for
(and envious feelings surrounding) Calaf?
LI STE N U P, B UDDY BOY :
Leon a Mitch ell as Liù sing s h er
heart out to stu bborn Pri nc e Calaf.
As you watch a performance of this aria by American soprano
Leona Mitchell (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lDMEmYuDmFE—Metropolitan
Opera, 1988), follow the words and translation below, and think about the musical and
dramatic qualities of the piece. What, to your mind, has made it such a famous and
enduring aria for the soprano voice?
LIÙ
Signore, ascolta! Deh! signore, ascolta!
Liù non regge più!
Si spezza il cuore!
Ahimè, quanto cammino
col tuo nome nell'anima,
col nome tuo sulle labbra!
Ma se il tuo destino,
doman, sarà deciso,
noi morrem sulla strada dell'esilio.
Ei perderà suo figlio...
io l'ombra d'un sorriso!
Liù non regge più!
ha pietà!
LIÙ
Sir, listen! Oh, sir, listen!
Liù can take no more!
Her heart is breaking!
Ah, how long I’ve walked
with your name in my soul,
with your name on my lips!
But if your destiny
will be decided tomorrow,
we will die on the path of exile.
He will lose his son…
and I the shadow of a smile!
Liù can take no more!
Take pity!
 Michigan Opera Theatre Communications Department 
 For group tickets, contact Kim Gray at kimg@motopera.org 
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 Guide written and prepared by Michael Yashinsky, yashinsky@post.harvard.edu 