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Orientalism Unreformed: David McVicar’s Giulio Cesare in Egitto Berlin
Deutsche Oper
04/25/2026 - & April 28, May, 1, 3, 10, July 5*, 8, 2026
Georg Friedrich Handel: Giulio Cesare in Egitto, HWV 17
Christophe Dumaux (Giulio Cesare), Ellena Tsallagova (Cleopatra), Stephanie Wake‑Edwards (Cornelia), Martina Baroni (Sesto), Cameron Shahbazi*/Francis Gush (Tolomeo), Edu Rojas (Nireno), Michael Sumuel (Achilla), Jared Werlein (Curio)
Chorus of the Deutsche Oper Berlin, Thomas Richter (chorus master), Orchestra of the Deutsche Oper Berlin, Alessandro Quarta (conductor)
David McVicar (stage director), Robert Jones (sets), Brigitte Reiffenstuel (costumes), Paule Constable (lighting), Andrew George (choreography), Flavia Wolfgramm (dramaturgy)
C. Dumaux (© Nancy Jesse)
Orientalism was given a fatal blow in 1978 when Columbia University academic Edward Said, known among music lovers as co‑founder, with Daniel Barenboim, of the West‑Eastern Divan Orchestra, published his eponymous and now seminal tome (Orientalism, Pantheon, 1978). Orientalism, the field of studying the East, has long portrayed the East as “The Other” and has been used to justify colonialism and the West’s exploitation of the non‑Western world. Almost fifty years after its publication, the world has changed drastically, at least in its discourse. It would seem that stage director David McVicar has never heard of Palestinian-American Said or “Orientalism”. This production dresses Egypt in the accumulated clichés of British imperial imagination: pith helmets, Ottoman caricatures, exotic dances, languorous harems, and decorative “Eastern” spectacle. McVicar appears to assume that ironic quotation absolves the imagery of its ideological freight. It does not. The result is less a critical engagement with colonial iconography than its comfortable reproduction. One watches not Handel’s Egypt but Edwardian imperial nostalgia masquerading as theatrical wit.
In Orientalist thought, “Orientals” are cowardly, perfidious, oversexed and cruel (which obviously justifies their subjugation and exploitation). Indeed, the Egyptians in McVicar’s staging were given attributes that grossly exceed the opera’s libretto. Another grievance in this production is the Orientalist interchangeability in the staging. Thus, “Orientals” are improperly and interchangeably depicted. As in many productions, elements of India are mixed with those of Morocco to depict yet a third unrelated location. For “orientals”, who extend to much of Asia, the Northern half of Africa, Southeastern Europe, Andalusia and Morocco (the latter two lie to the West of most European countries but are still Eastern), such a hodge‑podge is perplexing. It’s like mixing flamenco dancing and Swiss yodeling to depict Finland, since Spain, Switzerland and Finland are all in a continent called Europe. Indeed, much of the dancing – the most successful aspect of this production – was of Punjabi (Indian) inspiration. There were even Caucasian and Khmer (Cambodian) dances and a Moroccan tea ceremony.
There are productions that survive because they continue to reveal new meanings and those that do thanks to mistaking longevity for greatness. David McVicar’s Giulio Cesare in Egitto, now imported to the Deutsche Oper Berlin after two decades of international circulation, belongs decisively to the latter.
Its reputation rests on craftsmanship rather than insight. Robert Jones’s handsome scenery, the fluid mechanics of Baroque stagecraft, and Andrew George’s choreography undeniably keep the eye occupied. Yet beneath this polished theatrical machinery lies an aesthetic that has aged remarkably badly. What may once have passed as affectionate pastiche now reads as an unexamined exercise in Orientalist fantasy.
The irony is that Handel’s opera itself is psychologically sophisticated. Its exploration of power, conquest, political manipulation and grief hardly requires a layer of pantomime Orientalism to sustain audience interest. Instead, the production repeatedly substitutes visual exoticism for dramatic intelligence, flattening complex characters into picturesque types. Cleopatra’s seductions become a sequence of music‑hall turns, while the Roman occupation is aestheticised into charming colonial adventure. Other than providing a spectacle centered on dance, one could not understand why the Queen of Egypt performed disparate styles, ranging from Charleston, Punjabi, 1920s Cabaret and pseudo‑belly dancing. Though well choreographed, her final act’s aria, “Da tempeste il legno infranto”, dressed en travesty as Beethoven’s Fidelio, was the most puzzling. This Queen of Egypt seems to have been a most accomplished dancer rather than the most erudite and charming sovereign of her time.
Musically, the evening proved equally uneven. French countertenor Christophe Dumaux’s Cesare remained the dramatic and stylistic centre of gravity, combining rhetorical precision with effortless command of Handelian style. This Giulio Cesare included three countertenors, with Dumaux the heftiest, robust enough to be the heroic Roman, with his most impressive moment in Act II’s “Al lampo dell’armi.” Dramatically, he conveyed Cesare’s virility as well as his sentimental vulnerability vis‑à‑vis Lidia/Cleopatra. His voice blended with Cleopatra’s particularly well, especially in their final duet, “Caro! Bella!... Ritorni ormai nel nostro core”. Moreover, his diction was probably the best of the cast. Around Dumaux, however, standards fluctuated sharply.
British mezzo Stephanie Wake-Edwards was, quite simply, a disastrous Cornelia. Even allowing for the possibility of indisposition, the performance suffered from insecure intonation, laboured phrasing, and a tone so unfocused that Handel’s nobility of grief dissolved into vocal distress. Cornelia should embody stoic dignity under unimaginable suffering; here she became an obstacle one endured between the opera’s stronger scenes. As she sank to ugly low notes alien to Handel, I imagined a mediocre mezzo attempting to sing Azucena in Il Trovatore with excessive chest notes. Thus some of the opera’s most glorious moments, such as the Act I aria, “Priva son d’ogni conforto, e pur speme” and Act II’s “Cessa omai di sospirare!” were botched, as was Act I’s glorious “Son nata a lagrimar,” one of Handel’s most gorgeous duets (between Cornelia and Sesto).
Russian soprano Elena Tsallagova’s Cleopatra presented the opposite problem. The coloratura was dispatched capably enough, and the dancing displayed admirable commitment and physical elegance. Yet technical accomplishment alone cannot create Cleopatra. Her voice itself proved curiously inhospitable: cool, metallic and emotionally monochrome, with an ungenerous timbre that resisted seduction at every turn. Handel conceived Cleopatra as irresistible because intelligence, sensuality and vulnerability continually intermingle. Here there were the notes, but scarcely the woman.
Neither “V’adoro, pupille” nor “Piangerò la sorte mia” generated the erotic magnetism or emotional intoxication on which the opera depends. One admired the professionalism without ever believing the character. She was most credible in her final duet with Giulio Cesare, “Caro! Bella!... Ritorni ormai nel nostro core.” Her voice had much more colour than earlier and she seemed to truly express joy, the first and only credible emotion of her performance. Might her concentration on dancing in the earlier arias have prevented her from such expression? This is a pity, as I suspect she could have been a convincing and credible Cleopatra had this distraction not been the production’s main focus.
Iranian-Canadian Cameron Shahbazi was a strong Tolomeo, a demanding yet non‑heroic role that calls for strong dramatic instinct and a lively comic flair, qualities Shahbazi certainly boasts. He eschewed excess in his Act I aria “L’empio, sleale, idegno,” and was appropriately pathetic in Act II’s “Sì, spietata il tuo rigore,” where he supposedly woos the grief‑stricken, recently widowed Cornelia. Technically, his Act III “Domerò la tua fierezza” was spot on. Other than having an excellent voice that contrasted with Dumaux’s heroic countertenor, Shahbazi was an excellent actor. Unlike many, he avoided overly effeminate affections. His Tolomeo was entitled, supercilious but by no means a caricature.
Italian mezzo Martina Baroni was dramatically convincing as an ardent pubescent young man. Her voice was perhaps too light for the role. Sesto’s delightful Act I aria, “Cara speme, questo core,” in which the young man voices his resolve to avenge his father, was exquisitely phrased and deeply moving.
American bass-baritone Michael Sumuel was most welcome in the secondary role of Achilla. One wished he had more to sing other than his three short arias, all marvelously interpreted. His Act I aria “Tu sei il cor di questo core” was brilliantly interpreted. A first‑rate actor, the versatile singer who was a terrifying Alberich in Deutsche Oper’s recent Ring, exuded dignity and rendered the villainous character somewhat sympathetic.
In addition to the production’s passé Orientalism, it took a miscalculated swap at homosexuals to generate easy laughs, a ploy one had hoped was dead and buried with the advent of the twenty first century. Chile’s Edu Rojas, as Cleopatra’s confidant Nireno, was more lady‑in‑waiting, so excessive was his camp portrayal. In decades of operagoing, I do not remember a singer parodying a flaming queen to this extent. This Nireno even cruised the invading Roman/British officers. Unfortunately, Rojas’s voice was also inadequate for the role.
Giulio Cesare in Egitto features one of Handel’s richest and most imaginative orchestrations, scored for a sumptuous baroque ensemble of strings, woodwinds, robust basso continuo, and four horns—an exceptional luxury for the period. Yet despite the score’s vibrant palette, Alessandro Quarta drew little vitality from the orchestra. Where historically informed performances generally rely on buoyant tempi, Quarta adopted an almost uniformly deliberate pace. By dispensing with the customary edits that make Handel’s sprawling dramas theatrically viable, he stretched the evening to nearly five hours, which felt even longer. At these tempi, and with uninspired accompaniment, the da capo arias became exercises in stasis rather than dramatic development, draining the performance of the momentum, energy, and expressive bite that would create a lasting memory.
Ossama el Naggar
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