Guth achieves the near-impossible for a Salome production: an anti-climactic ending

Ending aside, Guth’s novel devices were effective and moving.

via The Met

The ugliest horror. The most beautiful, uplifting music. The paradox of the final scene of Richard Strauss’ Salome when the dancer of the seven veils fulfils her ambition to kiss the red lips of Jochanaan, defies description. But I’ll give it a go!

Too bad the lips are attached to Jochanaan’s severed head. Salome, soprano Elza van den Heever, completes her descent into madness, embracing the head of the prophet, previously served up on a silver trencher by her stepfather Herod, who is so shocked by Salome’s depravity that he then shouts the final command: “Kill that Woman!”

When Salome, based on Oscar Wilde’s play, libretto by Hedwig Lachmann, was premiered in Dresden in 1905, the infamous Dance of the Seven Veils proved so shocking that within two years it had been staged in 50 opera houses across the world. Except Covent Garden. Banned in London by a misery guts Lord Chamberlain in 1907.

The plot is biblically straightforward, but directors can’t resist embellishments, many of which don’t work. In this otherwise riveting new Metropolitan Opera production from Claus Guth, in the closing moments Salome for some reason rushes off backstage.

She is not, as the libretto has it, crushed to death under the shields of Herod’s guards. Guth achieves the almost impossible with any Salome production - an anti-climax.

Has she rushed off to the restroom? To flee her obsessive stepfather and live to fight another day? Will she re-emerge in a sequel mission, should she choose to accept it, Salome II – The Final Reckoning? We should be told.

Directors are, of course, free to interpret. It would be a drab opera world if they did not. Different settings, read across to contemporary moral or political themes, etc. But to even hint that Salome has somehow escaped Herod’s peremptory death sentence after Strauss’ ninety minutes of tension building is ridiculous. The percussive musical conclusion is wasted.

Especially for newbies at the Met for their first opera, on the edge of their seats, shocked to the core, having turned up for that nice dance of the seven veils. They won’t understand it at all. “Oh, she got away with it!”

Which is a shame as some of Guth’s other novel devices, for which he has been roundly criticised, I found effective and moving. Before the action proper begins a child, the young Salome, is playing with a doll front of stage. She becomes violent, beating the doll’s head on the floor. Immediately we are alerted to the fact that Salome is damaged goods, even as a kiddo.

As the action develops, she is surrounded by supernumerary lookalikes, spanning ages from childhood to adolescence. At one point there are six of them surrounding her. In the scene when Jochanaan confronts her a 6-year-old “other self” perched back of stage observes the scene. Holding the damaged doll.

Choreographer, Sommer Ulrickson, handled the movement of the supernumeraries well, never allowing the growing numbers to distract from the meat and potatoes of the plot, Salome’s ever more manic behaviour as she morphs from being intrigued by the captive in the cellar, through having her advances rebuffed, to finding a means of persuading Herod to hand her Jochanaan’s head on a plate.

The set, designed by Etienne Pluss, was bleak, whitewashed, distressed. Fabulous. The trend in other recent productions I’ve seen, such as Opera de Paris’ Lydia Steier effort starring the unsurpassable Lise Davidsen, have tended to modernist overkill.

At La Bastille, we were treated to a two-deck stage and a Herod perma-orgy streaming on TikTok upstairs, as the corpses of rape victims were dumped in wheelie-bins below by a squad of hazmat suited flunkies.

Even the statuesque Davidsen in all her volume pomp found it hard to compete. “Scuse me, I’m Princess Salome, I want a word with that Jochanaan in the cellar. Shift over.”

This is an opera all about the dangers of illicit looking. At the opening, the young Captain, Narraboth, looking – and lusting after Salome. Salome, intrigued by Jochanaan’s voice in the dungeon, wanting Narraboth to bring him up, so that she can look at him. Herod, constantly looking inappropriately at his stepdaughter, no more so than when she dances for him.

Has to be said in Herod’s defence, he was a generous looker. Being prepared to hand over half his kingdom for a seven-veil shufti. Never expected the prophet of the Lord’s head on a plate thingy.

In the Biblical version, Salome is goaded on by her mother Herodias to ask for Jochanaan’s head. He couldn’t stop tweeting about her being an adulteress who had married her former husband’s brother, after having had him snuffed out. Something about the hashtag, “Whore of Babylon” that miffed her.

The action unfolds thus. At King Herod’s palace, the young captain Narraboth admires the Princess Salome. A page warns Narraboth that terrible things might happen if he continues to stare at the princess. There is a premonition of impending doom from the start.

The voice of Jochanaan is heard from the cistern, where he is kept captive, proclaiming the coming of the Messiah. Salome enters, disgusted with Herod’s advances toward her and bored by the guests at his banquet.

Jochanaan sings from the cistern, cursing the sinful life of Salome’s mother, Herodias. Salome, intrigued, asks about the prophet. The soldiers refuse to let her speak with him, but Narraboth, unable to resist her, orders that Jochanaan be brought up.

Salome quickly becomes obsessed with Jochanaan’s body, asking him to let her touch his hair, his skin, and finally his lips. It’s quite a pre-emptive chat-up line for a princess seeing her stepdad’s prisoner on a first date.

Jochanaan rejects her forcefully. Narraboth, who can’t bear to see Salome’s desire for another man, stabs himself. He is so inconsequential Salome doesn’t even notice. Now beside herself with sexual excitement, she continues to beg for Jochanaan’s kiss. The prophet tells her to save herself by seeking Christ and, not unreasonably, retreats into the cistern, cursing Salome.

Herod appears from the palace, looking for the princess and commenting on the strange look of the moon. Another premonition of doom. When he slips in Narraboth’s blood, he suddenly panics and suffers hallucinations. He is concerned that Jochanaan’s rantings will have a negative impact on his poll ratings. After all, the Herodian kingdom is a Roman creation designed to subject the Jews. His crown hangs on a shoogly peg.

Herodias angrily dismisses his fantasies and asks him to go back inside with her, but Herod’s attentions are now focused on Salome. He offers her fruit and wine, but she rejects his advances. From the cistern, Jochanaan resumes his tirades against Herodias, who demands that Herod turn the prophet over to the Jews.

Herod refuses, maintaining that Jochanaan is a holy man who has seen God. His words spark an amusing argument among the Jews about the true nature of God – the only light-hearted moment in the bleak ninety minutes. Two Nazarenes argue the toss about the miracles of Jesus. As Jochanaan continues to accuse her, Herodias demands that he be silenced.

Herod asks Salome to dance for him. She refuses, but when he promises to give her anything she wants, she makes him swear to keep his word, and agrees. Ignoring her mother’s pleas to stop, Salome dances seductively for her stepfather.

This is the point where an overweight soprano courts disaster. Often, the avoirdupois challenged, adherents of the “park and bark” tradition, would be replaced by a spritelier dancer.

Sir Peter Hall’s Royal Opera House production in 2011 took a different tack. Taking advantage of the American soprano, Maria Ewing’s grace and presence he had her cast off the seven veils, only to reveal that on her London trip she had not visited Marble Arch to buy Marks and Sparks’ undies.

Herod – now goggling, not looking – is horror-struck when Salome asks for her reward—the head of Jochanaan on a silver platter. He instead offers her riches, half of his kingdom, even the holy curtain of the temple, but Salome won’t be dissuaded and insists he fulfil his oath.

Stepdad finally relents, and as the executioner descends into the cistern, Salome anxiously awaits her prize. The prophet’s head is brought to her, and she passionately addresses Jochanaan, finally kissing his lips. Herod, terrified and disgusted, orders his soldiers to kill Salome.

At the Met, Jochanaan was sung by Swedish baritone, Peter Mattei who has enjoyed a stellar international career since the 1990s. He brought a statuesque dignity to the role, avoiding the trap of sounding off like an angry young prophet. His was a voice of destiny. He is off to Bavarian State Opera in July to sing Count Almaviva in Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro, then on to Munich in 2026 for Wagner’s Parsifal where he sings Amfortas.

German tenor, Gerhard Siegel, sang Herod alongside American mezzo soprano Michelle De Young, Herodias. Narraboth was Polish tenor Piotr Buszewski. This was a strong cast.

The performance was adorned by one of the finest performances from maestro Yannick Nézet-Seguin I have heard. There I was, seated in Box 2 in the Dress Circle, with a full view of the Met orchestra below in the pit. Almost as intriguing as the onstage action. Strauss’s score makes huge demands on players. I single out a passage on cellos requiring the most complex, unconventional bowing to create a rasping soundscape. Brilliantly executed.

I’ve been fortunate to catch three productions of Salome in the last year. The Steier production at La Bastille, Alison Pogorelc’s excellent Des Moines Festival Opera’s version, and now Guth’s in New York.

This Strauss opera opened the gates to a new era of opera, paving the way for the likes of Berg’s Wozzeck in 1925. It is an experience that should leave the audience overwhelmed. This Met production, with one caveat, pulled it off. “Here’s looking at you, Salome!” Or, perhaps, best not to.

And Another thing!

Bloomsbury Theatre is to host an event featuring “lost music,” written by inmates of Auschwitz, Hitler’s notorious death camp.

The Lost Music of Auschwitz, will run for five nights from June 3. It will be performed as semi-staged opera. US choreographer Claudia Schreier along with Leo Geyer and his production company Constella Music.

They will be joined by opera singer Caroline Kennedy, whose own relatives were murdered at Auschwitz. The soprano, who has performed with the ENO, Scottish Opera, Opera Holland Park and more, is the descendant of Belgian Jews.

Geyer has meticulously restored, and in some cases reinterpreted, scraps of scores discovered during visits to the prison camp. This will be a rare opportunity to accompany Geyer on his voyage of discovery. Delighted to have nabbed a ticket.