Lust for a Deceased Head: Richard Strauss’s Salome at the Met Opera

As the 2024-2025 opera season comes to an end, the Metropolitan Opera has concluded one of its darkest productions of the year: Salome (1905) by Richard Strauss (1864-1949). Despite being a short, one-act opera, Salome rightfully remains one of Strauss’s most celebrated compositions, with its comically grotesque story and intensely dissonant music that borders on atonality. The Met’s staging was elaborate and intricate, showcasing the incredible talent of the cast and creative team.

The tale of Salome, the Jewish princess and stepdaughter of King Herod II, was first mentioned in the New Testament of the Bible in the Gospels of Mark and Matthew. In the original story, Salome’s father promises her anything in the kingdom if she performs a dance. Urged by her mother, she demands the head of John the Baptist. This story was later elaborated and popularized by storytellers; in the early 20th century, the late-romantic composer Richard Strauss, who watched a performance of the one-act French play written by Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), sought to create an opera version of it.

The first scene depicts Salome (soprano Elza van Den Heever)’s childhood and the events leading up to her curiosity about Jochanaan (baritone Peter Mattei). The Met’s staging for this scene consists of a giant hall in the front and a smaller platform in the back. This layered set hints at a corrupt underworld—masked actors and semi-naked women occasionally drift across the stage, reinforcing the palace’s moral decay. Salome is first characterized as mischievous and spoiled, used to getting whatever she desires. When she hears Jochanaan’s voice crying out from his prison cell, Salome asks Narraboth—captain of the guards who is hopelessly in love with Salome—to open the door to the prison. Narraboth first refuses but later succumbs to her seduction, agreeing to help. Here, the audience gets the first taste of Salome’s spoiled and disturbing nature as she lays on top of Narraboth, manipulating him with her own body.

When the trapdoor opens, the stage elevates to an eerie, greyish-white basement that is its lower level. Scene two begins here—childhood toys scattered around and a human doll (played by a child actor) evoking Salome’s younger self. At the corner is a pale white body, chained and deformed by malnutrition—the man Salome is looking for. This scene fully demonstrates Oscar Wilde’s greatness: he was able to make Salome and Jochanaan conversation witty and entertaining. During the exchange, Salome repeatedly compliments Jochanaan’s body, hair, and mouth with absurdly infatuating phrases. Seeing how Jochanaan stands unmoved, she then curses at him, shouting “I hate your body (hair/mouth)” and yet soon returns to the same lustful desire for him. Then, Jochanaan starts to sing and praise Jesus in a hymn-like style. Mattei delivers Jochanaan’s lines with solemn dignity, singing hymns in calming defiance. Despite Jochanaan’s repeated rebukes and religious pronouncements, Salome’s fixation only grows. In a moment of jealousy, Narraboth tries to kill Jochanaan but is instead killed by Salome. The second scene ends as Salome ascends the stairs back into the palace.

The third scene is the opera’s most memorable. It begins with an orchestral introduction leading to Salome’s aria, during which she, like an upset and immature child, shatters a statue on stage—one of 17 used throughout the run. Later, King Herod II (tenor Gehard Siegel) and his wife Herodias (Mezzo-soprano Michelle DeYoung) emerge along with several party guests. Jochanaan’s distant voice returns from below—the music changing to a solemn, rhythmic hymn in accompaniment. Meanwhile, the floor of the stage is filled with waves of dreamy light, making the entire stage seem surreal.

The highlight of the scene is Salome’s infamous Dance of the Seven Veil. The Met’s performance had Salome and six child-actresses dance in succession, all dressed in white with hair dyed blond. Each represents a younger self from her past. A male masked figure serves as their partner the entire time, making moves toward the dancers that can be interpreted as abusive and violating. From the many hints previously in the opera, it is possible that the man represents the sexually-abusive stepfather during Salome’s childhood—the cause for her warped and distorted personality.

The final scene is brief but nonetheless unforgettable. Salome descends into the basement to find Jochanaan’s severed head. As she holds it up, she passionately kisses its lips and sings the opera’s final aria: “Ah! Ich habe deinen Mund geküsst (Ah! I have kissed your mouth).” Strauss builds tension; he layers a series of intertwining and alternating leitmotifs—representing Salome, her desire, and the kiss—culminating in a chord so ugly and dissonant that it has been called “the most sickening chord in all opera.” It is a sonic expression of complete madness and desire, fulfilled at a horrifying cost.

The Met’s interpretation is impressive in its visual symbolism and psychological insight. In an interview, conductor Yannick Nézet-Séguin explained that Strauss explores the concept of unconsciousness through the dissonance in the music. The Met’s staging echoes this; the surrealism of the white basement reflects her fractured psyche. In the end, every version of Salome—her childhood selves—gathers around her as she kisses the severed head. Her horrible obsession has been relinquished. 

Salome is quite arguably one of the greatest operas written. The production combines Wilde’s wits, Strauss’s genius, and the Met’s daring and memorable staging to create a masterpiece of grotesque opera. Salome may not be an ideal opera introduction for newcomers due to its absurd story and dissonant music, but it is a piece that deserves savoring and resavoring many times over. For seasoned audiences, listening offers something extraordinary—a glance at one of the most horrifying and obscene operas that submerges itself in the societal taboo of lust.