One apparent advantage of Royal Opera's recent purchase of Opus Arte is the speed with which their productions make it to DVD. David McVicar's highly acclaimed Salome, which premiered at Covent Garden only last February, is among a clutch of exciting new autumn releases and maintains the high recording quality that OA has delivered in the past. This stunning interpretation of Richard Strauss' 1905 opera is intelligent and coherent but, above all, fantastically engaging.
By transplanting Oscar Wilde's Biblical narrative, on which Salome is based, to the late 1930s – a time when glamour and depravity collided – McVicar's visual references are potent and wide-reaching. There are Fascist undercurrents in the malevolent military presence, and costumes are informed by interwar fashion, but this is not some camped-up Nazi thriller; rather, the production enhances an already deeply serious drama. A hint of sado-sexual corruption (albeit tamed) is inspired by Salò, Pier Paolo Pasolini's notorious 1975 film adaptation of the Marquis de Sade's novel The 120 Days of Sodom, and the overall aesthetic has a Noirish feel to it.
Es Devlin takes an Upstairs Downstairs approach to her set designs: Herod and his friends enjoy a sumptuous dinner in the top left of the proscenium before descending, after Salome, into a wine-cellar cum wash-room cum whore-house, where the remainder of the action takes place. Typical of McVicar there is a great attention to detail, and one can properly appreciate this on DVD. Apart from the intricacy of the costumes and props, every actor is 100 per cent engaged, so in the background semi-naked women lurk like automatons while soldiers leer and grope, and party guests react accordingly as the story unfolds. Nor does he shirk guts and gore at the opera's bloody end.
Some critics (presumably those favouring Montserrat Caballé's proportions) found Nadja Michael too lithesome and energetic in the title role, and it's true she lacks a sense of sultry exoticism, but her portrayal is gripping nonetheless. Salome is presented as a twitching neurotic, whose suffering is internalised, almost intellectual – her obsession with Jokanaan is as much spiritual as sexual – and as the product, rather than perpetrator, of a dysfunctional family. Michael's soprano favours strength over precision, and there is the odd tonal wobble, but the concentration and sheer athleticism she brings to the visual and vocal character is quite breathtaking.
The supporting cast is strong. Thomas Moser's Herod oozes menace through his voice and articulation, and his role in the Dance of the Seven Veils, here realised as seven psychological sketches, is deeply disturbing. As Herodias, Michaela Schuster is clucking and matronly – and dressed, appropriately, in a bejewelled peacock frock – but well sung. Michael Volle is also excellent as Jokanaan, his baritone booming and blooming from the depths of the cistern-cell. In the pit, Philippe Jordan conducts with a suitable passion and energy.
The opera itself is supplemented by a narrated synopsis, cast photographs, and a documentary, originally broadcast as a South Bank Show, edited and narrated by Melvyn Bragg, which shows the phenomenal effort that was put into the two year production process.
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