OPERA REVIEW : ‘Turandot’ Is Better Seen Than Heard

If only the scenery could sing.

The vehicle at the War Memorial was Puccini’s “Turandot.” The most important credit heralded “production and design by David Hockney.”

The celebrated British painter, whose “Frau ohne Schatten” opens at the Music Center Sunday night, is no stranger in the operatic paradise. He must, in fact, be the man of the hour in the irrational world where people insist on expressing their innermost, also outermost, thoughts in song.

Hockney is busy illuminating lyric stages everywhere these days--well, almost everywhere--with his inimitable stylized squiggles glowing in shameless primary hues. Remember the “Tristan und Isolde” commissioned by the Music Center in the distant days when Wagner was deemed a suitable component of the Southern California diet?

In the case of “Turandot,” a lavish production shared by San Francisco and Chicago, Hockney didn’t do everything alone. Peter McClintock helped move traffic (sometimes clumsily). Ian Falconer executed the costumes, most--if not all--in the appropriate Hockney mode. Thomas J. Munn coped with the obviously tricky lighting problems.

Still, for better or worse (probably better), this is Hockney’s show. The operative word is show.

Ignoring the usual quasi-serious ode to let’s-pretend chinoiserie, he places the inaction in a naive storybook Peking where nearly everything is subjected to abstraction or simplification. The stage darkens to focus on individual characters in moments of crisis or extreme introspection. Most of the time, however, Hockney assaults the senses with geometric forms throbbing in shocking crimson and outrageous blue. The blue, not incidentally, is frequently contradicted by corrugated structures that scream in clashing green.

To help define time and period, Hockney throws in one sophisticated backdrop that simultaneously invokes and distorts the narrative device of the ancient Asian woodcut. The multiple image suggests brash mockery at one extreme, a respectful tribute at the other, yet remains delightfully decorative in either case.

Even with lighting values “augmented”--that’s the unapologetic word in the program--for videotaping on Tuesday, this “Turandot” looked terrific. It certainly was better seen than heard.

Donald Runnicles--usually an uncommonly sensitive and stylish conductor--concentrated here on sound and fury, possibly by default. He didn’t slow down for the heroic climaxes, and he hardly pulled back for any passage of repose. He coaxed an all-too mighty noise out of his pit band, sometimes blanketing the singers, and settled for raucous tones from his understaffed chorus.

Runnicles conducted like a man who wanted to get home as soon as possible. Under the circumstances, one couldn’t blame him.

Eva Marton’s big, blustery soprano sounded strident and wobbly under pressure. The title role demands a lot of pressure.

With Hockney’s help, the Hungarian diva did make a conscientious effort to humanize the icy princess. She eschewed the mile-long train and yard-long fingernails dictated by silly tradition, and she tried valiantly, if not always successfully, to focus Turandot’s vulnerability from the start.

Not surprisingly, she did her most persuasive singing in the last act when steely bravado could legitimately give way to a reasonable facsimile of tenderness. But it was too little, too late.

Michael Sylvester, her burly and stately Calaf, served notice of a major talent in distress. In the first two acts, his tenore semi-robusto emerged bright and sweet, if a bit tight at the top.

Then, before the last act, a company spokeswoman appeared before the curtain with a dreaded announcement. Although our hero was afflicted with laryngitis, he would complete the performance.

It didn’t turn out to be a prudent decision. Since the alternate Calaf, Vladimir Popov, was in the house, it wasn’t an imperative decision, either.

Sylvester literally squeaked through “Nessun dorma,” for which he was rewarded with no applause. Then, apparently voiceless, he marked and mimed the rest of the opera, reducing the final passionate duet to an awkward solo for forsaken soprano. Wisely, perhaps, he chose not to join his colleagues for individual curtain calls.

Lucia Mazzaria, a soprano imported from Italy to portray “piccola Liu,” looked big and sounded small. Theodore Baerg, Dennis Petersen and Craig Estep performed the mask trios blandly, but Joseph Frank paid Puccini the compliment of singing, not croaking, the utterances of the aged emperor.

The most memorable performance came from an artist in a forgettable assignment. Kevin J. Langan’s rolling basso and keen dramatic focus ennobled the all-too-brief platitudes assigned Calaf’s father.

If only the opera were called “Timur.”