La traviata at the Royal Opera House - Renee Fleming coughs up

La traviata - Royal Opera House, 17 June 2009 (first night)

For all the prodigious technical gifts of Covent Garden's Coughing Cougar of the Camellias©, I left this show unconvinced that La traviata is the best place to display them. The steely edge that shapes Renee Fleming's luxuriantly creamy tone here becomes a coat of armour. Not a chink of vulnerability peeping through.

Every Violetta needs backbone - it is after all her iron resolve and strength of character that so impress Germont. But this becomes the defining characteristic of Renee's Violetta. It makes her proclamations of love hollow and her tragic end self-regarding. The key weapon of the courtesan - making the man believe he's in charge - is never displayed. And the act around which the whole plot pivots - Violetta's sacrifice - is rendered simply unbelievable. Why would this feisty Scarlett O'Hara give up the man she loves if there's nothing in it for her?

In her Sempre libera, Renee pauses to deliver a cheeky arse-slap to the naked lady ice sculpture (one of this production's delightfully subtle references to the evanescence of beauty). The way she lined up to the sculpture, pausing before administering the immaculately-judged tap, robbing the moment of all spontaneity, exemplified everything about her approach. I bet she irons her knickers.

The little-known Ermonela Jaho, who stepped into the part last year, has nothing like Renee's technical prowess, but her portrayal was an infinitely more touching one. That said, it was impossible to remain unimpressed by Renee's craft, her magnificent breath control, effortless trills and artfully-considered nuances of tone. A croaky start and her habitually mushy diction aside, she was a living, breathing singing lesson - impossible to imagine anyone improving on her musical choices, or executing them with greater skill.

She looks splendid too. She may be 50, but Restylane and Pilates belie the fact. When Germont sings of her youth and beauty, you believe him. The age difference is gracefully set aside in her relationship with Joseph Calleja, who is in reality young enough to be her son. It's more of a seasoned Sarandon/Robbins pairing than a cradle-snatching Madonna'n'Jesus - no suspension of disbelief required.

That's a tribute to the stature of Calleja's Alfredo as well. He's a little too easily flattened by Hurricane Renee - the second act denunciation comes off as a brave attempt to stand up for himself. But especially in his scenes with Germont, there is a growing maturity and confidence about his performance. But he's never too knowing - Alfredo's weakness and impetuousness are effectively conveyed as he cowers before his father. Calleja's singing is old-fashioned in the best possible sense - a big, powerful masculine voice with a touching lyrical side.

He was one of the best things about the evening, alongside Thomas Hampson's Germont. Hampson's voice sounded less fresh than the last time I heard him. Whether it's an artfully-created effect for this role, or simply the toll of time, who knows, but it conveyed Germont's patrician demeanour to perfection. Hampson has never been a 'Verdi baritone', but he's a terrific singer and actor, so who cares?

One of the most gratifying aspects of this revival was the care and attention to detail taken with the smaller roles, perhaps an effect of Richard Eyre's return as director. Sarah Pring as Annina, Kostas Smoriginas as the Marquis D'Obigny and Haoyin Xue as Gastone were particularly impressive, and the chorus were well-deployed, though never fussily so.

I was pleased to see Eyre hadn't changed much. Bob Crowley's mostly tightly-packed boxy sets not only look good, they provide those all-important hard reverberent surfaces to bounce the singers' voices off. The decor may look busy, but it's mostly deceptively achieved with surface pattern and lighting.

Only the last act, which should be the emptiest, looks over-cluttered, with too many bits'n'bobs for the singers to bash into and knock over, and too much of the action forced into the central space. I love the dressmaker's dummy with its skeletal skirt frame though, a reminder of Violetta's parties past.

The action is grippingly choreographed - I think everyone in the theatre gasped as Germont shoved Alfredo to the ground in the second act. The only failing remains Violetta's much-debated speed-lap round the bed moments before her death. The comedy is only piled on when, instead of expiring wiltingly in Alfredo's arms, Renee rams at full speed into his 'ample middle range' (thank you Edward Seckerson) like a quarterback hitting a blocker five yards from touchdown. Does she die of consumption or concussion?

The Royal Opera House orchestra have been playing splendidly recently, and this night was no exception. Pappano caressed them through the preludes like a tiny newborn kitten, as if he were trying to compensate for Renee's lack of fragility. Precious moments of introspection before red-blooded passion and champagne sparkle took over. Traviata is not generally reckoned the best of Verdi's scores, but Pappano makes you realise it's anything but routine.

Performances of this level of all-round quality don't come around often. It's a reminder that the problem with most traditional stagings of familiar operas is not the traditionalism or the familiarity, but simply that they're done without the love and care and skill and thought lavished upon this one.