Let’s talk about meltdowns. The good news is I don’t have many meltdowns. The bad news is that when they come, they come on an epic scale and it’s always the seemingly minor things that set them off. That’s a lesson my colleagues had to learn the other day when I was showing signs of a meltdown after having found out that the Vienna State Opera will have a new music director. Truth be told, as I am not much of an opera lover, I really don’t care who the new music director of the Vienna State Opera will be. However, I do care that said person will forsake his post at the Vienna Symphony Orchestra to work at the opera because how could any person in possession of his full mental faculties prefer the opera to orchestral music? To me, orchestral music is the epitome of human achievement and always leave me happy while the opera is just, well, the opera and always leaves me slightly troubled. Just as nuclear scientists have to do things that nobody understands to keep a nuclear reactor from extinguishing mankind when it’s about to have a meltdown, I also have to do things nobody understands to keep myself from extinguishing mankind when I’m about to have meltdown. This time, I averted death and destruction by getting hold of the libretto of Turandot, which is the last opera I’ve seen at the Vienna State Opera. And because I felt like thrashing something, I decided to give said libretto a good and thorough critical reading to answer the following question: why had I felt so very troubled after my evening at the opera although the production had been nothing short of fabulous?
The story starts, as pleasant stories do, in turmoil, which is not particularly shocking if you come from Vienna, where each and everything can set the mob off. A Mandarin announces that the Prince of Persia will be beheaded because he has failed to answer the three riddles given to him by Turandot, whom he wanted to be his bride. The crowd beseeches Turandot to let him live (because he’s a cutie), but Turandot orders his execution. While I do understand that one has to subject possible future husbands to a bit of an intelligence test (in fact, I have come up with my own set of questions and please be informed that the correct answer to ‘Would you like to accompany me to an exhibition?’ is not ‘What’s that?’ followed by ‘What would you look at pictures for?’ after having received enlightenment about the meaning of the term), doing stupid people in seems like taking it one step too far. Also, Turandot’s father needs to understand that marriage is not a viable option for his daughter at this stage in her life and encourage her to get an education instead of letting her kill all these people. But then, I do know from first-hand experience that even a the possession of a graduate degree does not completely free you from the wish to cleanse the earth of unsuitable suitors if you’re so inclined (note to myself: there’s a business idea hidden in here somewhere), so Turandot should clearly get help. The first act has just begun and already it is clear that the opera is named after a slightly deranged person.
Among the spectators there is a nameless prince who sees Turandot and because she is beautiful he falls for her. Forget brains, forget kindness, forget everything else, women are apparently deemed desirable if they have beauty and power. In case you’ve now silently begun to groan about me complaining about the unfair portrayal of women, let me tell you that men don’t fare much better. The nameless prince turns into a blubbering idiot incapable of making rational or even kind-hearted decisions as soon as he sees Turandot. Instead of taking care of his father, who he has just found out is alive, he leaves him with their slave Liú, who is secretly in love with him, and goes after the crazywoman. Then follows a scene the importance of which always eludes me. Three Chinese ministers called Ping, Pang and Pong engage in a round of complaining. Ping, Pang and Pong? Seriously? May I point out that I find naming three people from China Ping, Pang and Pong highly racist? Having similar names is only funny if you’re a duck and live in Duckville! But be that as it may, the next scene shows Turandot explaining to the nameless prince and to her hear father why she does not wish to get married (having an ancestor who was raped and killed seems like a fairly good reason to me), but the prince is not to be dissuaded. He solves all her riddles, but because Turandot still refuses him, he offers her a way out. If she can tell him his name, he will die.
Then comes what used to be my favourite part of the opera until I made the grave mistake of taking a good look at the lyrics. Because Turandot is one of those people who believe that if she has to suffer everyone else has to suffer with her, she keeps everyone up to find out the prince’s name and threatens to torture them if they don’t do as told. Meanwhile, prince charming gives himself some prep talk in the form of one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written (‘Nessun dorma’). I have long wondered what kind of prep talk men give themselves before going on a date, but no matter what it is, I sincerely hope that real-world pre-date prep talk does not end with the words ‘I will win. I will win. I will win!’ (Because as my very first boyfriend had to find out the hard way: You won’t! You won’t! You won’t!) Talk about toxic masculinity. When I’ve just recovered from the aria, there comes my least favourite scene. Liú commits suicide so as not to give away the name of the man she loves. He just watches. But don’t get upset. She’s just a slave. One has to keep things in perspective. As my very bright friend Susi once said, ‘Some of us are VIPs. Some of us are IPs. And some of us can be glad if they even pass as Ps!’ The body is not even cold when the sun rises and because Turandot has not found out the prince’s name he does what any decent fiancé would do: he just kisses her against her will, which is always the part where I feel like jumping on stage and lecturing the bastard on consent. What usually keeps me in my seat is the deus ex machina that makes Turandot melt in his arms and begin to love him. Bravo! That’s rape culture at its best. And it’s the reason why I get upset every time I go to see Turandot.
What it boils down to is that Turandot is the story of a woman trying not to get raped, while the men in the story (including her father) gang up on her. By the end of the story, both the protagonists have blood on their hands. All the halfway decent people in the story have been killed just because they were a bit dumb or lower class. And what I find most troubling is that this nobody except me seems to see all these things. It’s presented as a love story, for heaven’s sake! Sure, it takes a genius to come up with an opera like that but in light of the many, many, many things that are wrong with the story, I am no longer surprised that I left the opera somewhat ill at ease. The question that remains is where to take it from here. Should I just stop going to the opera if I get so upset every time or should I take the opera like one of these weird friends we all have. You know, the ones that you kind of like to meet but know that you can never fully trust because once you let your guard down they’ll do something that might cause you to have a little meltdown.
