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The Royal Opera’s first revival of their double bill L’heure espagnole and Gianni Schicchi opened on Saturday: in place of the originally billed Christine Rice, who amusingly was unable to take the rôle of Concepcion due to pregnancy, the star of the former was the Romanian mezzo Ruxandra Donose. Since Richard Jones had directed the show on its first viewing (the revival was handled by Elaine Kidd), parodistic over-characterization was to be expected, and was by no means in short supply. Concepcion’s two lovers were the tenor Yann Beuron, apparently channelling Peter Sellers at his most myopic, and a buffissimo Andrew Shore. The plot involves both of these hiding inside grandfather clocks which are transported up to Concepcion’s offstage bedroom by the muleteer Ramiro (Christopher Maltman) who, Concepcion belatedly realizes, is far the best material for an affair conducted during her husband’s absence each morning.

Maltman is good casting for Jones’s notion of Ramiro, being both heavily muscled and capable of impersonating intellectual vacancy. Given the stellar career he has enjoyed since winning the Lieder Prize at Cardiff in 1997 (Salzburg, the Met, etc.) it is somewhat surprising to see him back at Covent Garden in such a comparatively minor rôle; but nonetheless welcome. Here he is utterly the pawn of Donose’s vampy housewife – it seems there is no heavy lifting too arduous, which is just as well. Perhaps the only person working harder than Ramiro is Covent Garden’s trapdoor operator, deftly removing and replacing Beuron and Shore from the grandfather clocks without a second to spare. Antonio Pappano conducts Ravel’s fabulously atmospheric score with, as usual, a beautiful touch that could do with just a little more breathing space.

After the interval Puccini’s comedy of antique manners is ruthlessly updated, with the contempt for the bourgeoisie that is Jones’s specialism to the fore. Certainly the Donati family are mostly pretty vile in the first place, but the diagonally striped man-made fibres they are required to wear is a cruelty not to be found in Dante’s original. Curiously, the revival casting makes far more sense of the opera than the first run: Bryn Terfel as Schicchi was as thuggish towards both the Donati and the audience as we have unfortunately seen him all too frequently, while in the present run Sir Thomas Allen – though undoubtedly no longer blessed with the instrument the Terfel can wield, if indeed he ever was – brought charm, emotion (his response to O mio babbino caro was comedic, yet heartfelt) and a range of response to the Donati clan that made the hour-long opera seem like a show with proper character development rather than just a vignette. Allen has National Treasure status, undoubtedly, but he is still an artist who is looking for new characterizations.

Among the Donati Elena Zilio makes good sport as the old bag Zita, and Gwynne Howell, celebrated in the programme for his forty years since house debut, shows he can still handle the rôle of Simone (as well, as we saw earlier this year, as the much more demanding Schigolch in Lulu). Stephen Costello is a handsome young Rinuccio – who seems to be about to take on considerably larger parts in big houses such as the Met. It would be a shame if he were to sing out a pleasant voice that could do well in the lighter Italian repertoire. Anyway, he nailed some high B flats where needed. His intended was Maria Bengtsson, whose tone in O mio babbino was lovely, the voice excellently linked in this difficult aria.

A disappointingly small audience in the Barbican Hall last night witnessed Bernard Haitink and the LSO interpreting the Unfinished Symphony of Schubert, and Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde. That the hall was less than full is perhaps because this was the second of two performances of the same programme; Radio 3 will broadcast it on 22 October, and it may well subsequently appear on the LSO Live label as a CD. So there are plenty of opportunities to experience this offering: should one feel compelled to do so?

In the past Haitink’s Mahler has been well worth a trip to London, and it was the Lied rather than the Unfinished Symphony that persuaded me to book a ticket. Curiously, though, the Schubert made not only a more favourable impression last night, but also a deeper one. The LSO were, not at all surprisingly, classy throughout, with ensemble perfect at almost all times, and an impressively unanimous string tone. But they seemed to operate more naturally in the earlier work, able to explore its emotional range while still working as a unit. No doubt this partly reflects the relative technical demands of the two pieces, and Mahler’s tendency to express himself incompletely or fragmentarily (which I suppose one could as well say of the Unfinished Symphony, in one sense at least). Whatever the reason, the impressive Schubert boded well for the second half – though I spent much of the interval wondering how it’s possible to shift from playing Schubert to Mahler in the same programme and expect to do both to the highest level. It’s certainly not a comfortable change of register for the listener.

The soloists in the Mahler were Christiane Stotijn and Anthony Dean Griffey, the latter replacing an indisposed Robert Gambill. Both were, from my seat in Row D of the Circle, significantly underpowered against the orchestra, and as a consequence the Mahler was far less impactful than I was hoping and expecting. Perhaps the Barbican’s notoriously poor acoustic was to blame: but previous Mahler symphonies in the same hall have balanced without problems – even when the contralto Anna Larson was set at the back of the violas in the Third. What I could make out of the singing suggested that Stotijn was producing rather a sumptuous tone, and working hard to maintain some continuity in the long orchestral passages of her songs. Griffey on the other hand appeared to be overblowing, to not much effect. The Barbican now charges quite astonishing amounts for central stalls seats: possibly audience members in those rows will have had a better experience. Both soloists had microphones for the radio recording immediately in front of them, so I should imagine that Radio 3 listeners will feel differently about the balance.

As to the performance, I recall twenty years or so ago that Haitink seemed possessed by some sort of elemental spirit-being when conducting Mahler. Given his age it’s perhaps as well that he doesn’t engage in the sort of physical histrionics that he once did; and the valedictory air of much of the Lied certainly lends itself to a more measured approach. There didn’t seem to be a huge energy or weight to the interpretation, though – again perhaps this simply reflects the lack of projection (as far as my seat) of the singers.

Nina Stemme is truly outstanding in the Royal Opera’s new Tristan und Isolde: she produces ample quantities of warm, expressive tone; she holds the stage with her personality, not with excessive histrionics; and she looks wonderful. Her standing ovation was thoroughly deserved.

Other than that great performance, the production is a mixed experience: significantly better for those sitting stage left, as fortunately I was. Cristof Loy places the inner drama downstage in what might be a psychiatrist’s interview room, or perhaps the staff table at a school cafeteria, given the juxtaposition of cheap metal-framed chairs with a candlelit and benaped dinner table for the Act 2 duet. An enormous metal wall lours over stage right, and the majority of the action takes place hard against it, invisible to nearly half the audience. If the loud booing of Loy on the first night (according to my canary-fancying friend who attended) was purely for this reason, it was well justified; if for the absence of conventional sets (who needs a ship?), less so.

Behind this antiseptic forestage is a purple velvet curtain, which periodically divides, shifts or is pulled back to reveal different stages of a drunken, all-male, black tie wedding feast. The chorus populating this scene were often required to freeze, or else to carouse boorishly. As the purple curtain divided during the prelude (to reveal the wedding feast laid out but with no guests yet present) it was unclear whether the stage crew had presented the correct opera at all: a cross between two Glyndebourne productions, Eugene Onegin and The Rake’s Progress, was suggested by the white-outlined ballroom. Yet the return of this scenario, numerous times in each act, confirmed beyond doubt that it was intentional: its import was less clear, since I hesitate to accuse a director of Loy’s sophistication of the sub-Chereau device of satirising capitalism by dressing people in dinner suits. The Perfect Wagnerite is over a hundred years old, after all.

Whether or not the conceit has anything to recommend it, many of the performances do – and, as seen in his recent Lulu at Covent Garden, Loy really knows how to direct singing actors. Tragically, the Tristan of Ben Heppner, once a really fine singer, cannot now be said to pass muster. He must know this – a dozen cracked notes in an evening don’t lie – and the gesture of Antonio Pappano in embracing him onstage seemed to reflect the sense of relief that Heppner had made it to the end of the evening with any voice left at all. In a recent interview Heppner was open – uncharacteristically so for a leading singer – about the vocal problems that he experienced in the early years of this decade, and it seemed for a while that he had conquered them. But, though he managed to produce some beautiful sounds, can he really last the run? Beyond that, it will be interesting to see how his planned series of Lohengrins in Berlin in January progresses.

On happier notes, Michael Volle’s vocal contribution was strong throughout, delineating Kurwenal as a darker individual than one usually sees. Sophie Koch’s Brangäne dwelt on remorse but mercifully did not appear one step from a Donizettian madhouse as too many do in that rôle. Ryland Davies was a cynical Shepherd; Richard Berkeley-Steele a forceful if ageing Melot (I wonder if he is understudying Tristan?). The originally advertised Marke was Matti Salminen, and for the first time ever I felt a little regret on hearing that Sir John Tomlinson would stand in (Salminen is returning from knee surgery next week, apparently). It’s the first time for many years that the great Finnish bass has been cast at Covent Garden, and I hope that this setback won’t delay his reappearance in future. Of course, Sir John is to be treasured whenever he is among us: his Grand Inquisitor only last week was terrifying, and he found a different tone altogether for Marke. This is surely one of the hardest rôles to act and sing, in Wagner or elsewhere, and certainly Tomlinson’s was the most moving performance I’ve seen and heard – mostly heard, since volume is at the centre of what Sir John does. How could one not sympathize when Tristan’s uncle is so very disappointed, and so very, very loud? But the drama was central to Tomlinson’s performance – a tour-de-force.

Finally, and most importantly: Nina Stemme’s Liebestod was one of the best things I’ve ever heard in an opera house.