She sounds strong yet does not project the voice clearly. Malin Byström has a voice still in the making, and not every veil has been lifted off that voice yet. She makes several primal movements, changes her outfits, and pulls off a waltz with Herod, her stepfather, before being eclipsed by a sudden darkness, just at the moment of the supposed intercourse.
The stage installations stream alongside, creating a few dynamic moments. The dance of seven veils has little to do with dancing.
Her movements, however, are quite constrained, almost self-aware if not stiff. Tall and slender, with a hint of resemblance to Cate Blanchett, she adds her Nordic touch to McVicar’s staging. The rising Swedish soprano Malin Byström is praised for looking, walking, and singing the part rather naturally. The singing in German is rhythmic and sharply articulated, yet the conductor Henrik Nanasi creates a softly swirling palette of elusive and puzzling harmonies. The biblical story is transported into an art deco palace with a modernist touch and keeps you thrilled till the last drop of blood. The production lives up to its reputation: bold yet intelligent, complexly symbolic yet elegant. The museum insights into that blunt staging suggested Lady Macbeth could be one day beautified. There it was, a gory production by David McVicar, a museum object in its own right. My curiosity goes back to a brief touch of a piano score a few years ago and then a recent exhibition in Victoria and Albert museum. There are surely more charming librettos in opera than this biblical passage enriched by Oscar Wilde’s queer allusions and splashed across the orchestra by a dissonant Richard Strauss. The shocked stepfather orders her immediate execution. She picks up the bloody head and makes love to it madly. In return, she demands the priest to be decapitated. Rejected by the priest, she succumbs to her stepfather’s advances. My weekend opera marathon starts with “Salome.” The House is packed, and I get warmed up fast by the heaters at the bar lounge.Ī royal teenager, as the story has it, is molested by her decadent stepfather and develops an obsessive lust for an imprisoned priest. The long lines for cloakrooms stifle with imperial colognes, and the tight, even if velvet, chairs make Ryanair seem socially responsible. No room nor time for extra layers, since attending a performance in the Royal Opera House is a cluttered affair. Yet on this particularly evening I leave my coat in the hotel and zip to Covent Garden.
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