As surely as Turandot gives the imperial Chinese equivalent of the thumbs-down to the luckless Prince of Persia, so would I to this uncongenial video. Mindful, however, that we’ve a democracy here and that the death-sentence is no longer on the statute-book, we’ll allow some possible lines of defence. The Ping, Theodore Baerg, sings attractively. The Calaf, Michael Sylvester, has a good solid voice; the Turandot, Eva Marton, a very loud one with all the notes in it. Donald Runnicles conducts with a judicious blend of firmness and flexibility and the orchestra plays well. Some effective lighting is in evidence and was probably as responsible as any single element for whatever visual magic the production achieved in the theatre. In particular, the story-book mystery of the stage in the opening of Act 3 appeals to the imagination. The sets are bold in colour and design …
But already the Defence is beginning to falter, leaving a gap to be filled, in which, for a start, the word ‘bold’ can be taken up and repeated with some distaste. The word ‘brash’ may then be substituted. Of course, it depends on what you want, but personally I like a Turandot that is visually subtle, suggestive rather than plainly defined, with a delicate interplay of shades rather than a picture in paint-box primaries and bright flatness. Such sets and lines of production were never likely to come from David Hockney, and to my mind the name which is evidently considered a powerful selling point and given central prominence of the box and booklet-cover is, in fact, a distinct deterrent.
Another, I’m afraid, is the presence of Eva Marton in the title-role. To my ears the quality of her tone and the nature of its vibrato simply make disagreeable listening; one may be to some degree reconciled in a large opera house but not in the living-room and on the small screen, where close-ups provide no compensating pleasure or enlightenment. Nor indeed does any distinction of the style arrive with Sylvester or Lucia Mazzaria, the Liu, all too ample of voice and person, too lacking in fragility, nuance, charm. Then there is the chorus, so important in this opera that if they make a good sound the performance may still be exhilarating in spite of indifferent soloists and production. Alas, for most of the time they are so placed or so recorded that the thrill is denied us; moreover they seem to have among them some very wobbly sopranos. No: it’s thumbs-down. Summon the executioner – and note (subtlety at last) that in this production he is played by an enormous man called Liu.'