Metropolitan Opera Archives

There was a palpable sense of excitement, of history in the making at the Met this week as Toronto-based Richard Margison made his debut as Calaf the splendiferous Franco Zeffirelli production of Puccini's "Turandot." When he sang the famous aria "Nessun dorma," it literally stopped the show – maestro Mello Santi put down his baton because the cheering went on so long. Not since Franco Corelli "owned” the part In the 1960s has there been such a buzz. As Calaf, Margison is probably without peer-or near-equal in the world today.

The capacity audience gasped as one on Tuesday when shortly after finishing the aria, Margison tripped on a dancer's robe. Only a timely lunge at a handy crouched-lion sculpture kept him from plunging into the orchestra pit. Because he had stepped into the production during the middle of its run, Margison had no opportunity to rehearse in costume, on stage, with the orchestra. But he was in good company, A few minutes later, Turandot herself nearly missed a stair and teeter-tottered precipitously because she couldn't look down for fear of tipping her heavy crown. (A few days earlier at the Met, Brenda Harris, filling in for an indisposed Carol Vaness, tripped on the stairs during Mozart's “La Clemenza di Tito.

As a rare, true lirico spinto (Italian for "push"), and a lyric tenor with the capacity to push into heavier dramatic roles, Margison, is the heir to Placido Domingo and Canada's Ermanno Mauro, and is destined to sing Verdi's “Don Carlos” and “Otello.” Dramatic tenors, who sing Wagner are even bigger voiced, but when they sing Calaf, their voices generally lack the requisite flexibility. (Think of it as a trombone versus a violin: The trombone-sounds louder and bigger, but can't maneuver as easily in soft, delicate passages). Lighter, lyric tenors, notably Luciano Pavarotti, have made a big success of Calaf in the recording studio, but avoid performing it in big houses like the Met.

Margison colours his voice with an ease and spontaneity that almost seems conversational, and he rides over the big "Turandot" orchestra, with its extra complement of exotic-sounding percussion, without strain. He took a high B and two high Cs with panache, including an optional one in the second act's Riddle Scene, at “No, no Principessa altera! Ti voglio ardente d'amore.' ("No, no, haughty princess! I want you ardent with love!”)

In trying to charm and seduce Turandot, he generated chemistry with Sharon Sweet, who also has the technique to negotiate Puccini's angular writing with its frequent leaps. Both singers are physically large, though his form-fitting vest was less flattering than her loose robes. Sweet boasts a dramatic soprano reminiscent of Birgit Nilsson in its laser-like, wall-of-sound intensity, which perfectly suits Puccini's icy princess.

She contrasted vividly with the more feminine and tender-sounding Ruth Ann Swenson in the masochistic martyr role of Liu, who sacrifices herself out of unrequited love for Calaf. Nello Santi, leading the excellent Met orchestra, ensured that Swenson's two big arias were moments of repose in Puccini’s massive score.

Zeffirelli's 10-year-old production remains a benchmark for dazzling, blockbuster stage spectacle, which only a house with the resources of the Met could attempt. After the open*ing tableau of dimly lit peasant squalor, the dazzlingly bright silver-and-white royal palace, set against a background of classic Chinese brush paintings of landscapes and pagodas, looks almost ghostly. Life-like details, such as the ceramic tiles on the houses, and the extremely ornate pagodas, with serpents snaking up the turrets, make for an opulent Imperial Palace in Peking.

Because the opera is based on a fairy tale (Carlo Gozzl's commedia dell' arte play), Zeffirelli and stage director David Kneuss were perfectly within their rights to animate the libretto's many static tableaux with constant movement: Balletic executioners somersault while brandishing wide swords; courtiers dance while holding illuminated shrines; there's even a dragon procession a la Chinese New Year. Indeed, this production is like a Cecil B. De Mille film with a cast of thousands, except that it all makes sense and the activity stays focused. Yet for all its splendour, the production avoids self indulgence. The eye always knows where to look and nothing seems gratuitous or arbitrary.

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