Timi and I ponied up close $300 for two tickets to Salome at the Vienna Opera last night. I was the one on the fence this time, but he convinced me we had to seize our chance, so we wrangled a babysitter, gussied up and scuttered out into the rain for a night of old-world sophistication.
From our perch in the Parterre I could gaze down directly into the orchestra pit and hear the harmonic chatter of strings and horns warming up. I watched the grand dames of Vienna arrange themselves next to portly, yet still dapper, escorts in crisp bespoke suits. It was enchanting to see how the Viennese still convey themselves with style. For a second, I swear I felt the rustle of the Habsburg court coming out of the shadows to claim their places, and I settled in ready to be transfixed by an alluring evening of century-old beauty.
The story began, and we quickly find out that Princess Salome has strong desires for the imprisoned prophet Jochanaan. He scorns her and makes all sorts of crude remarks, while she cajoles him to let her kiss his mouth. I can't say I was surprised by how simple and open her desire was; Opera isn't exactly famous for being indirect.
Salome's stepdad, King Herod, lusts after her (of course!), and begs her for a dance. She agrees, but only after he's promised to return the favor by giving her whatever she longs for. Her wish: the prophet's head brought to her in a bowl.
I confess I was disappointed. The graduated sounds floating out of the orchestra pit just didn't match the silliness going on on stage. Perhaps the simple American in me was so distracted by all the gaudy make-up and the uninspired costumes, and the fact that Prophet Jochanaan looked more like a balding John Reilly than he did like Brad Pitt, that the characters failed to sway me at all. And the climactic dance of the seven veils was so meek it could have been shown to a Panola County, Texas methodist-church congregation. After boldly sashaying around the room for six laps, Salome turned toward left field, and away from Herod, when it was finally time to reveal to him the slightest glimpse of herself from beneath the seventh veil. I was close enough to see that, even if she had whipped it off and faced him, she was still fully concealed in nude opaque tights and leotard. Jeez Louise. (Rumor has it that last spring at the Metropolitan Opera she did the full monty, and yet we're supposed to be the prude Americans?)
Miraculously, Herod fulfills his part of the bargain anyway, and gives her what she asks for (guess she really had his number), and the performance ends with Salome crouching down in front of John Reilly's bloody kopf in a bowl. She then performs some kind of weird and kinky faux-kissy thing with the dead head. Yuck. The curtain closes and I look around for clues: do we clap, cry or giggle. Hmmm.
I don't know much, but I'm beginning to think that if Italians and the Germans had lyricists like Rhett Miller, they wouldn't have ever needed opera. Perhaps the ghosts of Maria Theresa and Franz Josef will want to join me when Rhett Miller plays here in Europe again next spring. Now there's a performance worth waking the dead for.
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