Royal Opera

3rd March 2008

I do not understand, why, how, anyone, would wish to write, to compose, to perform, to watch, to associate themselves, in the smallest of ways, with so great a monstrosity. This production, was, particularly, repugnant, in its most gruesome portrayal of the severed head. I do accept that, under the circumstances, this opera, cannot be attempted, without a head, in so unwholesome, a state, but, an alternative, and a far more, palatable one, is, not to perform this opera, ever, in any form.

The ROH orchestra, undeniably, were not unsuccessful, with conductor, Philippe Jordan, inexplicably, finding music, within Strauss’s unfathomable, score. I could almost, enjoy the evening, by watching the orchestra, and ignoring, the stage, but, even at one hour, and forty-five minutes, the work, had indescribable, longevity.

There was singing, of significant greatness, from a few members, of the cast. Joseph Kaiser, in his performance, as Narraboth, suggested, with his opening, that the evening, might not, after all, become unbearable. Michael Volle, as Jokanaan, is certainly, a man, whose mouth, is not unattractive, but I do feel, strongly, that Salome’s desires, are, fully, beyond the boundaries, of good taste. There was also, vocal superiority, from Thomas Moser, as the abhorrent Herod, and from, the deep, contralto, of Michaela Schuster. I hope, one day, to welcome her back to the Royal Opera House, in her rich sumptuosity, in a role, of greater decorousness. And Hairy McMungo, is most certainly, correct, in his fulsome, praise, of the Scottish, handsome, Iain Paterson, here wasted, as the First Nazarene.

Nadja Michael, who sings Salome, was, formerly, a mezzo, and, it was heard, that her lower notes, have an abundant, affluance, unequalled, in her higher reaches, not squally, but, posesing some fragility, in comparison. She did not, sing unacceptably, but, why would anyone, wish to perform, a role, of such repellence? I do not understand it.

The Dance of the Seven Veils, I did not see, having no desire, to behold, the nudity, of an unknown, older lady, but, Fit Crit, declared, her delightfully splendid, if, with a rather less, eloquent, turn of phrase.

The director, was David McVicar, his production, as always, too overt, in its, sexuality. An opera, that makes you, wish, to avert ones eyes, is not an opera, that achieves success. It was offsensive, repulsive, vile, yet, certainly, the bible, Oscar Wilde, Richard Strauss, must share the blame, for the atrocity, which, particularly, has no place, in a world, of such eligance, as the Royal Opera House.

Violetta

primi-divi at hotmail.co.uk