Prologue

I love Turandot, but Act Three’s a killer!

I’ve already been standing, swaying, gliding, kneeling, dancing, leaning, singing and bowing for nearly two hours onstage at the Sydney Opera House, and I’m about to enter Act Three to stand for another half an hour.

I enjoy Acts One and Two, and I always manage to survive the physical requirements; I adore the music and have grown to love this particular production. But as I stand backstage, dressed in a long cotton undergarment, three layers of floor-length silk organza, a massive and very uncomforatable hat secured under my chin, canvas shoes that offer no support, and a black fan hidden up my right arm, ready to be revealed about twenty minutes later when everything turns to custard, my lower back is already screaming.

The audience are finally getting what they paid for. That famous tenor aria ‘Nessun dorma’ (‘No-one shall sleep’) heralds the opening of Act Three and it’s glorious. The applause after the tenor nails that top note fuels an adrenaline rush. My chorus colleagues and I are adding some rather impressive ethereal backing vocals from behind the stage before preparing for our next challenge. 

Despite what you might think, the backstage area is hardly palatial, with barely enough room to swing a cat. After the crush in the wings, I attempt to make my way down towards the front entrance of the stage, standing on a multitude of chorus costumes along the way – which can’t be helped. I have just enough time to find my spot in the lineup. Draped in black, I emerge from the darkness of backstage at a rather fast pace straight out onto a completely darkened set, so it’s no wonder a Turandot season never goes by without a few casualties. It’s a ‘gird your loins’ kind of entrance, always accompanied by a quiet giggle or two as we navigate the ‘death trap’.

Not long after our first vocal entry, we must appear to grace­fully glide to the opposite side of the stage to position ourselves across three levels of rostrums. I use the term ‘gracefully glide’ loosely, because we have about eight bars of music to make it before being crushed by a troupe of dancers entering the stage behind us wielding a giant dragon head. No pressure. I feel like a sardine squashed up against all the other sardines. It’s like standing on a London tube at rush hour. What’s making it worse are the hot flushes I seem to be experiencing lately, heralding ‘the change’. All I want to do is shed a few layers of costume, sit down and fan myself. But this is not the place, Katherine!

Now the real fun begins. Liù, a rather unfortunate character in the opera, isn’t having such a great time. The ice maiden Turandot is unhinged and about to lose her shit because she wants to know the name of the tenor who answered her three riddles in Act Two. Confused yet? ‘Well, bugger you,’ the tenor thinks. ‘I’m going to give you a riddle. Two can play at this game. You think you’re so clever, but I bet you don’t know what my name is!’ 

But now Liù doesn’t want to reveal the tenor’s name either. You see, the tenor is actually a prince, and she knows his name, because he’s the long-lost son of this old blind guy she’s been helping. And to top it off, she also fancies the tenor and doesn’t want Turandot to have him. It’s ridiculous.

Actually, thinking about it, if his name had been revealed at the end of Act Two, I could be halfway home by now, but no. Meanwhile …

Now it’s our turn to join in, and we start yelling ‘Speak, speak, the name, the name!’ Everyone just wants the tenor’s name, but Liù’s kneeling down the front there, refusing to play ball. So I continue to stand, and while I should be feeling sorry for her, I’m actually starting to feel sorrier for myself. Next minute, Turandot has called in her executioner and his assistants to sort the situation out. In walk five guys, tanned, oiled and half naked, wielding large, shiny and intimidating swords, and looking like they spend every waking minute at the gym.

Suddenly, Liù’s like, ‘I’m sick of being harassed. I’m going to end it all and take his name to the grave.’ Before we know it, she’s dead and we still don’t know his bloody name!

If only we could yell out, ‘Calàf! His name’s Calàf! Now can we all just get out of here?’

As Liù is slowly carried offstage by a group of muscular dancers, we finally reveal our fans, cover our faces to mark her passing and then sing the most exquisite passage of music. The scene is breathtaking. As we sing the final note, I turn upstage with my face hidden behind my fan, attempt to grab as much costume as possible in my other hand, and slowly leave the stage, trying to avoid the sea of black organza at my feet. As we walk back into darkness, I’m grateful that for a few minutes I can shed a layer of costume, ditch the fan, sing an offstage, grab a quick drink of water, have a chat and find somewhere to sit for five minutes before we re-enter the stage for the big finale.

But do you know what? This is life in an opera chorus, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.