Review: ELEKTRA, Royal Opera House

The Royal Opera House’s new production of Elektra could do with an extra pinch of Saltburn-esque depravity.

German auteur Christof Loy’s new production doesn’t try to reinvent the wheel. Instead it wields Strauss’ thrilling score as a scalpel to dig deep into the eponymous heroine’s psyche. Slice by slice he builds an image of a broken woman crushed by fate. The music is thrillingly realised thanks to Anthony Pappano in his last outing at music director at Covent Garden, but for all the unflinching exploration of psychological torment, it doesn’t go far enough on the visual intensity.

We all know how it ends; the House of Atreus’ downfall is well explored on stage on page and everything in between. Loy’s production, anchored by Nina Stemme’s Elektra, is cloaked in mystery. From the drab darkness surrounding her to the portentous reveal of Orest, her brother whom she had presumed was dead. Perhaps this is less about the destination and more about navigating the bleak journey.

Unfolding outside the back of a mansion, the dreary smoking area where maids gather and gossip, Elektra is dwarfed by the building’s looming windows and door. She is a rat scurrying in the gutter, helplessly plotting matricide against Klytämnestra to avenge her father Agamemnon.

Nina Stemme is rock solid as Elektra. Her misty vocals swaying with a tangle of anger, love, and passion. It bubbles and boils filling the space with her delicious torment. She erratically plants a kiss on her sister Chrysothemis. Is it genuine sisterly affection? Is she drawing her into the conspiracy to kill their mother? Or is it something far more twisted?

Sara Jakubiak’s Chrysothemis is equally potent, slowly conjuring guttural power. And whilst Karita Mattila’s diamond crowned Klytämnestra lacks vocal weight, she compensates with her caricatured Cruella de Vil like physical presence. Clad in an ocean blue ball gown she floats across the stage with vampiric menace.

But other than that there’s not much to break up the drab aesthetics. The only other dash of colour seems to be those anaemic streaks of red in the not-so-the bloody climax. Annoyingly it prefers to tantalise with suggestions of violence. There’s a flicker of an axe’s shiny blade, and a few measly streaks of blood.

I can’t help but feel we are robbed of an in-yer-face Wolfenstein gorefest. That’s certainly where the production seemed to be moving. But for what it lacks in colour visually it makes up for aurally. The interwoven textures of Stauss’ gorgeously mercurial score grant the piece weighty tragic texture and pulsating thrill.

Pappano’s final outing at Covent Garden is a triumphant one, effortlessly finding the heightened lustrous and the moody subtler elements of the music. If only the visuals could match its Technicolor lustre.

Elektra plays at the Royal Opera House until 30 January 

Photo Credit: Tristam Kenton 

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