What was the title of Kobbé’s novel (Gustav Kobbé, he of the Complete Opera Book)? Was it not All of a sudden Carmen or something of that sportive sort? This new Carmen, it strikes me, is distinctly all-of-a-sudden. It has just started, stunning us with its sudden fortissimo-prestissimo, and before we know it here is the fate motif and Don José has slipped the knots, Carmen goes free, the bugles are calling to barracks, Micaëla braves the smugglers, we’re back in town for the kill and – all of a sudden – it’s over.

Meanwhile there has been some impressive playing and even some acceptable singing; time also to wonder afresh at the power of this opera to renew its appeal, forever revealing strands of melody, traits of character, details of orchestration. The Carmen herself will, for most of us, be another remarkable discovery. Her voice is an opulent contralto with an ample range upwards, and she knows how to lighten, how to smile and keep the music on its toes with a keen sense of rhythm. She is no lightweight in her conception of the role, yet she eschews melodrama and avoids cheap tricks whether of expression or voice. Altogether there is much to be said for her.

But the presentation focuses very deliberately upon the tenor, Andrea Bocelli, and I’m afraid it is not possible to say so much for him. His voice has an unremitting quality that is far from ingratiating and not thrilling in the primitive operatic manner either. In his duet with Micaëla he is particularly insensitive, never moderating the remorseless forte till the very last phrases, by which time it is too late. He begins the Flower song in stentorian tones which instantly violate Bizet’s loving preparation for a tender appeal. And if I hadn’t been assured that the days of such jiggery-pokery were over I might even believe that he had been recorded separately in what we used to call an echo-chamber and told that if he doesn’t sing as loudly as he knows how he wouldn’t be audible. Just occasionally, as in the “Dragon d’Alcala” song from offstage, does he sound like his more attractive natural self.

Bryn Terfel is a vivid Escamillo who sounds, however, neither Spanish nor French. Eva Mei is a sweet Micaëla till her voice hardens on high. The smaller parts are well taken, and chorus and orchestra seem to welcome the challenge of Chung’s speeds and insistence on precision. The text is the now standard one, incorporating a necessary minimum of spoken dialogue and omitting the “extras” introduced in the edition by Fritz Oeser.