The first five minutes of Turandot see a long-lost father and son reunited. Give it a further five and a beautiful girl declares her long-hidden love for a handsome youth, and if you can manage to hold thumb-twiddling ennui at bay for just a few moments longer a prince is executed for the love of a cruel princess . . .

Turandot truly is the Romantic opera par excellence, with more drama spilling out of its opening scene that most cram into three acts. The story of the coldly murderous Chinese princess won by the bravery of a suitor has little of the psychological subtlety of La boheme or the dramatic elegance of Madame Butterfly, yet what it does have in overwhelming excess is passion – and that, set to some of the best and biggest tunes ever written, is what opera of this kind is all about. ‘Tasteful’ is a benchmark neither useful nor applicable for productions of this larger-than-life Oriental fantasy, and Ellen Kent’s full-blooded staging – spectacular in the most literal sense – provides a visual framework equal to the story’s epic proportions, and the structural simplicity of Will Bowen’s ingenious amphitheatre set works well, highlighting the colourful excesses of costume and choreography.

Despite a strong line up of principals the musical quality was frustratingly uneven. Constant rhythmic tugging between singers and orchestra left one feeling rather sea-sick, most notably in the Ping, Pang and Pong trios and choruses. Puccini’s exuberant score demands some rather strident orchestral textures, and under the rather unyielding baton of Gheorghe Stanciu they came close to obliterating the voices on several occasions.

Turandot however stands or falls with its two leads, and Irakli Grigali (Calaf) and Galina Bernaz (Turandot) did much to ensure the former scenario. Despite some tightness in the upper register Grigali’s bright tenor brought a lyrical tenderness to his music, and Bernaz too was vocally impressive in the most challenging of soprano roles.

Yet this production is somehow more than the sum of its parts. Energetic and generous it has ‘it’ – that flighty and fanciful something that no amount of slick professionalism can generate. Call it passion, call it magic, but perhaps Puccini himself had it right when he called it, ‘love’.

Alexandra Coghlan