Opera Australia’s Turandot at Sydney Opera House
Review: Turandotally obsessed
When I arrived at Turandot, I was expecting culture.
Let me explain.
While Brad Pitt, Liam Hemsworth and Jacob Elordi are all undeniably thriving in the cheekbone arena, it takes more than symmetrical bone structure to make my heart do so much as a polite flutter. A jawline is lovely. A bicep is commendable. But talent? Talent is the thing that sends my pulse into a light jog.
I require charisma. Skill. A certain indefinable electricity. Ideally accompanied by competence and the ability to pronounce “croissant” correctly. (We are not animals.)
So yes, I arrived expecting grandeur. Velvet curtains. Tragic longing. Possibly a dramatic soprano flinging herself at a high note like it owed her money.
What I was not expecting was to develop a full-blown, slightly inappropriate crush in row N.
And yet.
There I was.
Fanning myself with the programme as if this were 1897.
Emotionally compromised.
Young Woo Kim is the new Pavarotti
It was Nessun dorma that did it. Up until that point I was intrigued. Alert. Mildly dazzled. I’d leaned over to my friend and whispered, “Who is this tenor?”
But then he sang. And I got actual shivers. Full-body, hairs-on-arms, oh-my-God-what-is-happening shivers.
My friend turned to me, eyes wide, and breathed, “He’s equal to Pavarotti.”
Which is not a sentence one tosses around lightly. And I agreed. I mean, who am I to compare anyone to Pavarotti, but in that moment it felt entirely reasonable.
Young Woo Kim. I looked him up afterwards, obviously. Married. I am also married. Also much older. So this is strictly a cultural admiration scenario. Entirely fantasy. Completely respectable. (I did not zoom in on any photographs. Much.)
He began studying singing at Chugye University for the Arts on a scholarship and has since won a cascade of international awards, including the Irene Sandford Competition Award from the Royal Irish Academy of Music. I’m not listing all the accolades because frankly there are too many and also I would prefer to preserve some mystery. But let’s just say that when he sings Siegfried in Götterdämmerung at the Elbphilharmonie, Cologne Philharmonic, Paris Philharmonic or the Dresden Music Festival, I will be investigating European flight sales with alarming focus.
Anyway. Enough about my entirely dignified operatic crush.
On to the production.
Big Brother is watching on Elizabeth Gadsby’s set
Elizabeth Gadsby’s set featured a vast digital face projected across the backdrop, its colours shifting, its eyes opening in a distinctly serpent-like way. It was spectacular and slightly unnerving, like Big Brother had discovered stage lighting. I half expected someone to announce rations.
The overall costume aesthetic, courtesy of David Fleischer, leaned heavily into authoritarian chic. Black. Blue. Stark. The chorus looked as though they might break into synchronised skating at any moment, all in coordinated tracksuits that screamed Winter Olympics: Dystopia Edition.
Now, I love a bit of sparkle in opera. I require shimmer. And thankfully, amidst the disciplined gloom, there were six attendants in electric blue, Cousin-It-meets-mermaid costumes swirling around Turandot herself. Finally. Texture. Movement. Glamour.
The only other significant sparkle came from Calaf’s father, Timur’s jacket, which I would happily see on a Milan runway.
Maria Teresa Leva’s standout performance as Liu
But on to the performances. Liu was a standout. Maria Teresa Leva’s Signore, ascolta! was so tender it almost felt intrusive to listen. Ping, Pang and Pong provided welcome comic relief, though I remain slightly confused as to why they were equipped with walkie-talkies and appeared to be running a back office somewhere in Hong Kong. Opera logic. One mustn’t question it too closely.
The dancing of the Dead Spirit of Lou Ling, performed by dancer Hoyori Maruo in her flowing blue costume, was haunting and fluid and oddly mesmerising.
Rebecca Nash was commanding as Turandot, all icy poise and lethal precision. From her first entrance she radiated authority, her soprano cutting cleanly through the orchestra with thrilling clarity. This wasn’t a cardboard cut-out ice princess. There were flickers of vulnerability beneath the steel, hints that the cruelty was armour. By the time she allowed even the smallest crack in that façade, it felt earned.
A happy ending in an opera?
And what I really loved? This opera has a happy ending. Sort of.
Yes, someone always has to die. It’s opera. There are rules. But for once it wasn’t the main romantic leads. Turandot and Calaf actually make it out alive, which felt refreshingly optimistic.
Although, and I say this with affection, I’m not entirely sure I’d trust Turandot long term. She has form. Prince Calaf might want to sleep with one eye open.
Then again, perhaps she too is a woman who values talent.
And in that case, who among us hasn’t made questionable decisions in the presence of a phenomenal high note?
Calaf, my love, pop on a silk sleep mask, set an alarm, and snore lightly but alertly. Romance is grand, but vigilance is wise.ngs and a wrecking ball and we’re toast.
Tickets via Opera Australia now playing until 27 March 2026
