Opera
Injudicious fidelity
Rodney Milnes
Joachim Herz's production of Salome for the ENO, first seen 12 years ago, was one of the earlier examples of the work of the Great Wave of Mad Marxists who swept so determinedly and so hilariously through the world of British opera in the dear dead 1970s. How long ago it all seems now, how silly we were to get so worked up — my regular foamings-at-the-mouth in these pages were positively Pavlovian — or were we? Then it seemed as if it were all here to stay: Salome was succeeded by the Herz Butterfly and Forza del Destino (at least the WNO hasn't had the sheer blind sadism to revive that), by the Kupfer Pelleas, by both of them having a stab at Fidelio, and by the Friedrich Freischiitz, which was on quite a different level (i.e. adult). Where are they now? Well, time like an everlasting stream ... Now we have a David Freeman to shock us all rigid (yawn, yawn), a Hytner to tickle our educated palates, a Pountney to frazzle our psyches in meat-processing plants and nurseries, and a new resident teenage genius in Richard Jones (resident mainly in the provinces so far, but watch this space). Marxism is out, sweeties, and thank God for that.
So to see Salome again, revived with injudicious fidelity to the original by the good Professor Herz himself, is to enter a time machine. Now as then, the symbolist action of this Strauss-Wilde confection proves decisively resistant to either social- realist (a drainpipe still pokes fatuously out of the late Rudolf Heinrich's archaeologi- cally precise set) or orthodox left-wing interpretation, and the two anyway fight like cats; the latter demands that a banker be amongst Herod's dinner guests, but the former refuses to allow him to wear a top hat and carry a brief-case with dollar signs on it. So we have a banker specified in the programme and spend an interesting hour (well, fairly interesting) trying to work out which of the three togaed extras it might be. Herz is still directing the opera he wishes Strauss had written, not the one he did write, and how desperately old-
fashioned it looks now, how tacky with its topless courtesans and teasingly not-quite-
flashing androgynes (goodness, 1 hope this isn't selling tickets) as though the Profes- sor's idea of decadence were still stuck in the groove of Maria Montez movies, but with a hint of the Russ Meyers to bring it up to date. Even Strauss deserves better than that.
Musically, however, the show has been transformed. Mark Elder, practically twice the age he was when he first conducted it in 1975, has relaxed into the music, allowing it to breathe, relishing its fineness rather than brandishing its polychromatic out- rageousness in our faces. The sound is beautifully organised, the playing im- measurably better — reminding us that the ENO orchestra has matured into a world- class instrument — and the pacing perfect- ly controlled from first to last, from the lowering, flickering premonition of the opening pages to a beautifully 'spread' voicing of the famous discord at the end.
Firmer control of external balance is of great help to the soloists, all of them new save for Josephine Barstow in the title role. No need to re-rehearse the unkind de- mands that Strauss makes on the middle of Miss Barstow's voice, better to marvel at the utter security of her top, which soars invigoratingly over the orchestra and is capable of extreme delicacy of effect. The perfectly poised soft G sharp as she de- mands the Baptist's head is still ringing in my ears as I write, and it's a moment one dreads from sopranos more naturally suited to the role. The conviction she brings to her impersonation almost per- suades one that Herz's version of the character is valid — a superhuman achieve- ment — and by any standards this is a performance of great distinction. At the end of the Dance, she is a Moreau Salome made flesh — simply stunning.
It is not often that one comes out of Salome singing the praises of the tenors, but such was the case last week. Stuart Kale, in his finest Coliseum performance since his unforgettable Michel in Julietta, really sings Herod's role, phrases it, shapes it, caresses it, and there is neither a yelp nor a bark to be heard all evening. And not only is Edmund Barham's firm, cleanly projected tone ideal for Narraboth, but he also has the tiff for the second 'Vie schOn', the moment when a performance either takes you by the throat or doesn't. It did.
Norman Bailey's Baptist sounds unbe- lievably young and fresh, Felicity Palmer's Herodias goes some considerable way over the top but wittily so, and Annemarie Sand looks and sounds a treat as the Page. Soldiers and Nazarenes are serviceable, but the caricaturing of the quintet of Jews is distinctly uncomfortable, and not only in the way that Herz intends it to be.
If the ENO were to decide to issue blindfolds with the tickets, it could have a hit on its hands.
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