Lulu

Royal Opera House, London

Andrew Clements

Published onFri 5 Jun 2009 19.01 EDT

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he Royal Opera was quick off the mark after the complete version of Lulu was heard for the first time in Paris in 1979. Within two years, the British premiere had been staged at Covent Garden, and even revived in 1983, but since then Berg's masterpiece has been out of the repertory. It would be satisfying to report that the new production directed by Christof Loy had been worth the long wait, but while the evening does bring major musical rewards, both dramatically and theatrically it is a nothing.

What we get is a wonderfully detailed account of this rich, teeming score from conductor Antonio Pappano. He, the cast and the orchestra have obviously prepared this formidably difficult music with great care, and the hard work shows in the diaphanous orchestral textures and the security of the singing. Perhaps Pappano's approach could have been more dramatically incisive, especially in the final scene where the music almost congeals as the tension ratchets up. Yet with so little intent, let alone intensity, coming back from the stage, it's easy to understand why he seemed to be holding back.

Many concert performances have more dramatic interest than the wretchedly minimalist production Loy has concocted. Herbert Murauer's "set" is a series of translucent screens; the costumes (by Eva-Mareike Uhlig) are anonymous and contemporary. There is no sense of time or place, very few props (not even Lulu's portrait, which is one of the dramatic leitmotifs of the work) and little depth of character except from those more experienced performers - such as the outstanding Michael Volle (Dr Schön), and Philip Langridge, who doubles as the Prince and Marquis - for whom creating an onstage persona comes as second nature.

Loy's purpose in stripping down this complex and many-layered work escapes me. Agneta Eichenholz's Lulu may be efficiently sung, but psychologically she is a blank sheet, not so much a femme fatale as a femme fatally flawed - a victim of the most passive kind. That is one way of reading the character, certainly, but when there is so little supporting detail surrounding her, it leaves a gaping void around which Jennifer Larmore's glamorous Countess Geschwitz, Klaus Florian Vogt's unpleasantly crooned Alwa and Gwynne Howell's mysterious Schigolch orbit purposelessly.

The unique dramatic mix of Lulu, with its elements of black farce and grand guignol, is comprehensively destroyed. I never imagined I could be bored by what was happening on stage in this supremely great work, but Loy's production, unforgivably, manages it.