THE biggest problem with Ellen Kent's operatic travelling circus – this is its farewell tour – is the enormous disparity between the expectations raised by the glossy cinema-style publicity hype and the reality surrounding such dull productions as th
is one of Puccini's Turandot, performed by the Chisinau National Opera.
The inflated blurb promised an "epic production" featuring "magnificent lines of terracotta warriors sweeping the stage, providing a powerful and intense setting which brings China to life".
The reality was a simplistic, stereotypical storybook setting: a sort of pop-up amphitheatre backdrop with one or two oriental effigies filling quiet corners. Within that, a menagerie of crowds paraded stiffly in and out, some dressed in what seemed like raffia mats and lampshades from a Habitat clearance sale. Scantily-clad dancers (locally recruited?) fumbled their way through cameo set-pieces; a cute line-up of kids (also locals?) barely sang.
There was no symbiosis to the disparate groups, so that visually the tight-knit gathering was a mess. Against that the solo cast fought an uphill battle.
Galina Bernaz's Turandot was unrelentingly loud; Irakli Grigali's Calaf bore the same scarcity of depth and subtlety, though his Nessun Dorma brought the only spontaneous applause of the evening – and I suspect it was more for the song itself than the one-dimensional performance.
One promising moment came and went in tragic slave girl Lui's final scene, Irina Vinogradova delivering her selfless suicide with passionate intensity.
But what hope was there against the brazen artillery of the Chisinau brass and percussion? Conductor Nicolae Dohotaru let them off with murder, Puccini being the defenceless victim.
