Every time Giacomo Puccini’s final masterpiece Turandot (1926) is staged, go see it. Even it only plays for one night, as it did Thursday, April 24, at the University of Houston’s Moores Opera House, this one-of-a-kind grand opera in the Italian style is one for the ages. There’s nothing quite like it, even for Puccini. It is lush and ultra-dramatic, extremely difficult to sing, and filled to the rafters with that patented orientalism that Puccini mastered in Madama Butterfly.
At the height of his career, dubbed Mr. Opera by the entire world for putting on the mantle of the deceased Mr. Opera, Giuseppe Verdi, and wearing it most nobly, he wrote such successes as Manon Lescaut, La bohème, Tosca, Butterfly, La Fanciuella del West, and the three-part Il Trittico (coming to HGO next season).
Puccini was feted, adored, and rich as Croesus. He liked fast cars, fast women, and cigarettes. The cigarettes killed him with throat cancer, and he died from the experimental radiation treatment during completion of his fairy tale of old China, Turandot. The final apotheosis was left unwritten, but his plentiful sketches for the scene existed. Before he died he pleaded to another legend, the conductor Arturo Toscanini (who had conducted the world premieres of Bohème and Fanciuella) not to let let his Turandot die. Toscanini offered young Italian composer Franco Alfani the opportunity to finish the masterpiece, and the completed opera premiered in 1926 at the famed La Scala in Milan with Toscanini at the podium.
Based somewhat on the 18th century tales retold by François de la Croix in his Thousand and One Days, Italian playwright Carlo Gozzi in his version Turandot, and another stage adaption from German poet Friedrich Schiller in 1801, Puccini’s opera, with fanciful libretto by Giuseppe Adami and Renato Simoni, is magnificently grand in every sense. It is sumptuous in its orchestration with wood blocks clacking in rhythm, a xylophone chiming out, on-and-offstage brass with their thunderous pronouncements, and the use of that fifth-tone diapason sound – the diatonic – which overlays the music with a most distinctive air.
He also uses the chorus as a protagonist – clamoring for the death of those who woo the ice princess, begging the executioner to hurry up and do his job, or hailing their emperor with calls of exultation. It is epic. To say nothing of the stunning, show-stopping arias sprinkled throughout like pearls. The score glistens, shimmers, and roars. It is replete with majesty and magic.
The sextet at the end of Act I, when Calaf impulsively strikes the gong three times to summon Turandot, as Liu, the servant attendant to old Tartar emperor Timor, the three ministers, Ping, Pang and Pong, the mighty chorus, and Calaf all sing their heads off is even more effective and thrilling than the “Te Deum” processional that ends Act I of Tosca.
This production was a one-off, a benefit concert for the Moores School of Music, and it couldn’t have been better. It was a triumph, one of the most impressive Turandots in seasons. The singers were current school students, Master or Doctorate in Music candidates, with the added bonus of international superstar Christine Goerke as Turandot, and rising tenor Limmie Pulliam as Calaf. Both were magnificent. But the real chill was hearing these young singers at the cusp of their careers. What future opera will have when these phenomenal talents hit the national stage. There was no fault to found anywhere down the line.
But I must praise a few. Soprano Alicia Gianni as Liu, who gives her life to spare Calaf’s, was radiant as she soared through Puccini’s celestial tessitura, aching and emotional. She is a star in the making. Baritone John Allen Nelson, tenor Trey Fitzgerald, and tenor Jeremy Luis Lopes, as comedy relief Ping, Pang, and Pong, melded their voices into a trio of utter delight, smooth as the Yangtze. Their Act II reminiscences of their homeland, “I have a house in Hunan” was just another highlight throughout an evening of highlights. Bass/baritone Jacob Desett, even without old man makeup, registered Timur’s age and devotion to his lost son; tenor Gabriel Chona Rueda brought dignity and fine voice to the Emperor; and bass-baritone Wesley Kelley rang out his “People of Peking” with striking strength as the Mandarin.
What more praise can be heaped upon soprano Christine Goerke, except to call her a force of nature? Her Turandot was regal, ferocious, icy as a character from Frozen, then melting and frail as she thaws to Calaf’s overtures of love. She blew away the orchestra with her creamy reserves of unnatural, unbridled power and acting prowess. Her “In questa reggia” (“In this palace”) is a soprano’s touchstone, or, for some, nightmare. Turandot tells her tale of why she won’t marry. It’s a killer aria, as complex as any from Wagner or Richard Strauss. She sailed through it, pouring out stratospheric top notes as if they were steps on a staircase. She never missed a beat. She is, without doubt, the contemporary embodiment of Turandot in today’s opera world. Utterly sublime.
A graduate of Oberlin College’s prestigious music school, Limmie Pulliam retired from singing for a period of 12 years. As he has said in numerous interviews, his size was a problem for casting directors. He worked in security for a while, then started his own security business, and worked on Obama’s Minnesota campaign. He said he didn’t sing for all those years. It didn’t make him happy.
When a few odd singing jobs came his way, he found his joy again, and ever since has been on an upward trajectory, appearing at the Met in Aida, concerts at Carnegie Hall, and gigs with symphony orchestras, like the Verdi Requiem at San Diego. He has definitely come into his own. What a Calaf! This is his debut in the role, but you’d never know it. His voice is full and stentorian, ringing out those Puccini high notes with shine and comfort. This, of course, was a concert staging, so whether he can move on stage wasn’t apparent, for everyone sat at their music stands until time for their part. His voice acts, that’s for sure.
For Calaf, what we always anticipate is his famous “Nessun dorma” (“No one sleeps”), perhaps the most famous male aria by Puccini, perhaps one of the most famous arias in opera. It was stirringly performed, with superb diction, and brought down the house. When he finished, Goerke broke the fourth wall and jumped up and down in her seat, shouting Bravo and clapping her hands in delight. With the audience applauding wildly, this spontaneous compliment was a gracious tribute from one artist to another.
Under the surefire baton of Franz Anton Krager, the orchestral conducting division head, Turandot had power, sweep, and great romance. This unique storybook tale sprang to life with an almost volcanic vigor. The only quibble is that the mighty chorus of 250, on their upstage bleachers, sounded a bit muted. Perhaps where I was sitting, close to the stage, the sound passed over me. Maybe at the back of the hall, the sound blended fully. I don’t know, but they needed more force. This is a Puccini chorus, and that takes a back seat no no one.
Stage director Kathleen Belcher kept the look simple: pastel backdrop projections of a pagoda, the moon, and some out-of-focus stars were all that was necessary. No one declaimed or acted much at all, except Goerke who was riveting. Everyone stood up when called, sang their part beautifully, then sat down again and stared at the audience. This approach drained the drama a bit, but Puccini, the young singers, Goerke and Pulliam, and that eruptive orchestra supplied everything else. A once-and-only splendid night at the opera.
This article appears in Jan 1 – Dec 31, 2025.
