Jephtha at the ROH: compromise is not in Oliver Mears’s dictionary

Rarely, an opera director contrives a moment that draws a whole audience up short. Director, Oliver Mears, created such a moment in the last act of Handel’s Jephtha recently at London’s Royal Opera House (ROH), Covent Garden. 

Mears was appointed ROH’s Director of Opera in 2017 and from his first hard-hitting and sexually explicit Rigoletto, with no redeeming human characteristics – well, Verdi’s corpse-strewn corrupt morality tale is hardly a comedy – Mears signalled that compromise was not in his dictionary.

So it proved with Handel’s Jephtha, not set in the usual context of a Middle East biblical battle between the Israelites and Ammonites, but in England somewhere between the seventeenth century Civil War and Handel’s era. The conflict is between Puritans – whose humourless women folk are decked out in bonneted Amish fashion – and a Hogarthian self-indulgent upper class orgying splendiferously in the background. 

Set designer, Simon Lima Holdsworth, drew heavily on the visual arts. As well as a portrayal of one of Hogarth’s famous seamy London works series there was a vision of William Blake’s The Song of Los, which transformed spectacularly into the corona of a solar eclipse. 

The staging was dominated by massive moving walls with biblical text etched onto them, inspired by contemporary American artist Richard Serra. With distinctive lighting by Fabiana Piccioli, the staging reeked puritan disapproval, yet was visually compelling.

Mears, like any wise theatrical impresario kept his best to last. In the closing moments of the final scene, he delivered a coup de théâtre that had hairs bristling on necks, open-mouthed afficionados gasping, and those less familiar with opera’s tricks of the trade wondering if they had slipped into a performance of The Lion King down the road at the Lyceum Theatre by mistake. Before the big reveal some background and plot narrative.

Jephtha started out as a sung oratorio. Performances involving biblical characters were banned from theatres in Handel’s time. It was the last of his great works and the music is sublime. Listen to the aria Angels waft her through the skies if you entertain an iota of disbelief. Jump into this Kenneth McKellar/Adrian Bolt recording about four minutes in. 

ROH has started including one handel-staged oratorio each season. Last year, it was Theodora. Fabulous. Traditionalist commentators still question whether or not it is “proper” to stage oratorios. My view is that it brings Handel’s masterpieces to life. Get over it. 

Seeing a bunch of stuffed shirts and cocktail dresses standing still while singing about passion, death and general Armageddon seems to me to miss the point. The censor is no more – at least for portraying biblical characters on stage. Get with the dramatic action. I hope the ROH continues its habit in the 24/25 season.  

The Jephtha biblical story is almost straightforward – if a tad bizarre. The Gileadite, Jephtha, some years before had been banished by the Israelites because his mother was a prostitute, and he was a bit of an embarrassment at the Gilead family Passover dinner. He is, however, still recognised as a great warrior so, when the Ammonites invade, “Who you gonna call? …… Jephtha”.

Unsure of his perhaps atrophied skills, Jephtha enters a pact with God. “Tell you what, your Wondrousness, if you give me the smiting rights over those pesky Ammonites, I will sacrifice the first person who comes out of my house to welcome me.”

What’s all that about? Why gods in general are persuaded by this sort of useless sacrifice offered by idiot heroes in biblical operas is unclear. The prospect of a traditional glass of sherry and a home-made mince pie on the fireplace at down-chimney time would surely be more tempting to any demanding sublime being. Better than some hacked-about corpse at the front door. Wouldn’t you think?

And those deities are all at it in opera. Easy plot line. Not just the Israelite’s Jehovah, the Greek gods too. In Mozart’s Idomeneo sailors make their way ashore in the storm, begging the gods to show mercy. Their king, Idomeneo, has drowned. But, as the sea calms, Idomeneo appears. Not dead. Saved by Neptune. God of the sea. 

But only after Idomeneo has vowed to sacrifice to Trident-man the first person he comes across on the shore. That man turns out to be his own son, Idamante, who has come to the beach seeking solace in sand-kicking, after hearing of his father’s death. You can see an operatic plot trope developing here. 

So, if any of your family has entered into a festive season pact with a deity, or perhaps Ho-Ho S. Claus, to secure that must-have prezzie, be jolly careful when answering the doorbell to Amazon. You may end up as an unwitting sacrifice in a future Mears-directed Handel or Mozart opera.

Back to Jephtha. Jephtha accepts the Israelites/Puritans’ invitation to return and take up arms, confident in his virtue and goodness. He is a bit of a smug sod. Jephtha was sung by tenor Allan Clayton, who inhabited the role as convincingly as he did the role of Hamlet in the New York Met’s recent Bret Dean production.

Clayton is, arguably, one of the world’s current go-to tenors. His combination of total commitment to acting and strong tenor chest-delivered voice were perfect for the shambolic and conflicted Jephtha character Mears conjured up.

Offstage Clayton takes great pride in being known as something of a scruff-bag. In fact, for this role, he was probably the only available tenor who had to “down-scruff” for the role and “scruff-up” when exiting post-performance onto Bow Street. It is said if you bumped into him in the street, you would be tempted to offer him a half-sovereign. But nothing can take away from his performing genius. He made the role of the conflicted Jephtha his own.

Jephtha’s wife, Storgè, next confides she will sorely miss him, but will subdue her feelings to the national cause. Selfless. Anything to get the old smiter out of the house. 

Iphis, their daughter and only child, enjoys an encounter with her suitor, Hamor, but when he asks her to name the day, she turns austere recruiter and requires him first to join up and help save their people. Hanky panky post-conflict.

Jephtha feels inspired by God and vows that, if granted victory, he will sacrifice or devote to God whatever or whomever he first sees on returning home. Storgè, a bit of a psychic, is frightened by premonitory nightmares of danger threatening Iphis, who reassures her mother, anticipating a happy future with Hamor. 

An embassy to the Ammonites having been rebuffed, Jephtha encourages the Israelites/Puritans, who declare their trust in God prior to battle. Hamor and his companions bring joyful news of a divinely assisted victory. Iphis prepares a hero’s greeting for her father.  Jephtha congratulates his comrades, acknowledging that the victory was God’s, not his.

On his return, the first being Jephtha meets is …… Iphis, welcoming him with a festive procession. Distraught, he sends her away. There is horror and confusion and much Clayton cloth-rending. You get the pessimistic gist from his aria, Open thy marble jaws, O tomb.

Now comes the awkward moment when Jephtha says “Oops!”. And, to his dumbfounded brother, wife, and prospective son-in-law, explains that this beloved only child must die because of his vow, which God has sealed by giving them victory. 

Storgè invokes universal chaos. Hamor, keen to impress future father-in-law, offers to die instead. Pointless, as that would prevent Jeptha ever becoming his father-in-law. Never mind. All join in an anguished quartet, Jephtha refusing to break his pledge to God, Oh, spare your daughter. 

Iphis returns, having learned her fate. She accepts it, content that the vow resulted in her country’s salvation. Jephtha is overcome by her goodness and his terrible predicament. 

In one of Handel’s most deeply felt and disturbing choruses, How dark, O Lord, the Israelites/Puritans attempt to come to terms with God’s apparent will. The sacrifice is prepared. Jephtha prays that angels will waft Iphis to heaven – that Angels, waft her through the skies aria. Iphis encourages the hesitant priests to carry out the vow and prepares to die, looking toward a brighter world. 

An angel, whose day job is to read the small print on online terms and conditions consent pages, appears and explains that the vow did not require Iphis’ death, which God would abhor. “Come on Jephtha, you also said she could be devoted to God, as a perpetual virgin, eternally honoured.” There follows a celebratory aria. But she and the luckless Hamor don’t appear entirely convinced. 

In the traditional interpretation, Jephtha was not wrong to hold to his sense of his vow. After all, The Holy Spirit dictated it. Not a Spirit to cross. Jephtha expresses his gratitude. The community hymns God’s justice and mercy. Storgè and Hamor in turn voice their gratitude for Iphis’ reprieve. Storgè and Hamor, bemoan their loss, but are reconciled to their doomed prospects of marriage.

Iphis again sets a pattern of acceptance, as she and Hamor face their future apart. Their duet of love and resignation becomes a quintet celebrating Iphis’ courage and faith. The final, rousing chorus, Ye house of Gilead, rejoices in God’s preservation of His people. 

Finally, the promised big reveal. The foregoing is what the ROH synopsis and conventional interpretation broadly led the audience to expect. We were all lulled into a sense of conventionality. 

Instead, Mears the mould-breaker delivered an ending from the other end of the emotional spectrum, a completely novel interpretation of the libretto without changing its text.

Storgé and Hamor refused to be thwarted, looked at each other, embraced and eloped. Jephtha was accused of thwarting the will of God for insisting on human sacrifice in His name. Mears was inveighing against every fundamentalist who straps on a body bomb or commits murder in the name of his/her God. Powerful stuff for these troubled times.

Instead of celebrating a happy resolution the house was suddenly coiled in tension. Suddenly spotlights blazed, framing the Amish-bonneted female chorus who had, unseen, processed down the stall aisles, bursting into the Ye house of Gilead chorus, while pointing accusing fingers at a now-cringing Jephtha.

The immersion in the chorus surround sound was overwhelming. We, the audience, were swept up in the drama. As the lights dimmed, I turned to my neighbour, a Covent Garden regular. We were both visibly shaken. We agreed it was for such occasional heart-stopping moments we came to performances again and again. 

Opera directors like to think they can change the world. At Covent Garden that night, Mears did.

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