Conducted by Stuart Stratford

Directed by Sir David McVicar

Review by Dominic Corr

The Festival Theatre

Halloween has one final trick and (hell of a) treat to bring to the audiences of Edinburgh…

Decaying Art Deco opulence collides with a macabre, phantom-haunted atmosphere as Scottish Opera, resurrects Giacomo Puccini’s Turandot under the visionary direction of Sir David McVicar. Transporting the mythical court of Peking out of antiquated chinoiserie and into a crumbling, cobweb-strewn 1920s theatre where an eternal wedding banquet rots away, this landmark co-production with Irish National Opera makes history by staging Franco Alfano’s rarely heard, full-length original completion of Turandot for the first time on a professional UK stage. Charles Edwards’ staggering, dilapidated set design, Doey Lüthi’s deathly-pallored costumes, and Ben Pickersgill’s searing illumination construct a world saturated in gothic decay, where the bloodthirsty ritual of imperial execution meets the shimmering polish of high-end theatricality.

Yet, this production is far more than a hollow visual exercise; the sheer aural might unleashed by The Orchestra of Scottish Opera under conductor Stuart Stratford ensures that the sonic architecture matches the striking stagecraft. Digging ferociously into Puccini’s adventurous, late-Romantic score—with its intoxicating blend of pentatonic melodies and thunderous percussion—Stratford shapes the music so seamlessly that the century-old seams between Puccini’s final notes and Alfano’s restored conclusion become virtually imperceptible.

Admittedly, the operatic libretto itself remains an inherent structural hurdle, as the abrupt emotional pivot from murderous vengeance to mutual surrender stretches dramatic credibility thin, leaving the central romance feeling mechanically rushed despite the extra hundred bars of restored music. Furthermore, while the offstage choruses add ethereal texture, the tinny speaker amplification piping in the offstage brass occasionally dulls the acoustic sheen. However, McVicar’s intelligent direction works tirelessly to smooth over these rough edges by anchoring the narrative in profound intergenerational trauma rather than one-dimensional villainy.

Stepping into the titular role with commanding authority, Trine Møller portrays Princess Turandot not as a stereotypical cartoon ice-maiden, but as a psychological captive of her own ancestral vow, shadowed throughout by Kirsty Durie as the vengeful ghost of her wronged forebear. Møller navigates the punishing, razor-sharp vocal demands with piercing clarity and soaring power, making her eventual vulnerability genuinely affecting. Acting as her resolute foil, Victor Starsky brings a rugged, grainy tenacity to the unnamed suitor Calaf. Starsky attacks the role with physical earnestness and rousing vocal stamina, delivering the inevitable crowd-pleaser Nessun dorma with thrilling gusto while holding his own through the gruelling final duet.

Providing the undeniable emotional anchor for the entire evening, Hye–Youn Lee delivers a heartbreakingly tender performance as the devoted slave girl Liù. Lee fills the auditorium with exquisitely phrased, tear-inducing vocal control, turning her defiant aria prior to her self-sacrifice into a moment of devastating intimacy. Meanwhile, Insung Sim lends a sturdy, dignified bass to Calaf’s frail, deposed father Timur, grounding their reunion in genuine familial warmth. Rising wraith-like from beneath the stage with blood dripping down his chin, Jamie MacDougall brings a macabre, full-voiced tenor authority to the weary Emperor Altoum. Adding sharp, Chaplinesque physical comedy to the surrounding gloom, the ministerial trio of Ping, Pang, and Pong – played with slickly choreographed precision by Josef Jeongmeen Ahn, Aled Hall, and Luvo Maranti – provide welcome flashes of vaudevillian wit, even if their nostalgic reverie occasionally leans too heavily into comic caricature of some of the world’s best, and most recognisable vaudeville and screen performers. The audience is narratively supported by Daniel Barrett’s ringmaster-like Mandarin, Max Burns’s stark turn as the doomed Prince of Persia, and a monstrously magnificent chorus of hollow-eyed socialites, the entire company operates at full throttle.

As the withered court flushes with light and the last orchestral chords fade into the rafters, Scottish Opera’s Turandot triumphs through sheer sensory ambition and vocal majesty. More than a gathering of grim, grinning ghouls looking to socialise, it is a lavish, darkly intoxicating achievement that proves that when aesthetic theatricality and musical excellence collide, even an unfinished masterpiece can rise gloriously from the cobwebs.

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