Verdi's Requiem
London Coliseum
*

Emerging from English National Opera's production of Verdi's Requiem, I couldn't help but wonder if someone, somewhere, had lost the plot. It goes without saying that the piece was never intended for theatrical performance, but that doesn't seem to be a deterrent to a company that, as part of its Italian opera season, shoved on stage a film score during the course of which no one sings a note.

For all its popularity, the Requiem itself has produced a divergent ambiguity of response. It has been described as "dramatic" and "operatic", words that have frequently been flung at it indiscriminately, and that actually fall wide of the mark, since action, psychology and the vocal delineation of individualised characters form no part of its scope.

The work has also been seen as inherently irreligious. Verdi, an agnostic, took a dim view of organised religion, which he saw as inculcating fear. The God of the Requiem is a vengeful deity who doles out judgment and damnation in equal measure, terrorising humanity in the process.

This certainly is the starting point of Phyllida Lloyd's awkward production, which pits cowering mankind against an unseen destroyer who appears - if the gestures of the cast are anything to go by - to be located in the Coliseum's dress circle. The opening, to be fair, is rather good. The chorus sit in rows, heads bowed, as if in prayer, then rise to their feet during the Kyrie in gestures of defiance.

When the day of judgement is unleashed, however, things rapidly start to go wrong. The stage becomes a war zone as furniture is noisily flung about and the chorus huddle together in all-purpose dread. As we progress, the imagery becomes increasingly banal. The mezzo-soprano goes into what psychologists call "denial", ignoring her mortality by contemplating herself in the mirror of her powder compact. The chorus try to placate God with libations, which include a ballgown and a plant pot. Kids romp around the set in arbitrary unconcern with what is going on, and a heavily pregnant naked woman wanders on, presumably suggesting the origins of all life, which is about to be destroyed. By the time we get to the Lux Aeterna, the cast have stripped to their underwear and spend their time lighting candles.

All this is depressing, but musically the evening is a nightmare. No one seems to have taken into account the fact that Verdi's compositional technique differed depending upon whether he was writing for the theatre or not. Within five minutes of the kick-off, it's painfully apparent that the balance is rendered redundant when the orchestra is in a pit and the singers are on stage. The chorus sing it with brave ferocity, but can't disguise the fact that the polyphony blurs when the individual vocal groups are jumbled together. Paul Daniel, conducting, can't hold the resulting miasma together, and the soloists have a terrible time of it. Only the bass, David Pittsinger, comes close to conveying the necessary nobility and range of emotion. The tenor, Rafael Rojas, is an also-ran, while the mezzo line lies too high for the usually excellent Susan Parry. The soprano is Claire Weston, hopelessly over-parted, with a wide vibrato that flaps somewhere round the notes under pressure. She's very young, and should never have been advised to tackle the piece.

The whole is one of the most dispiriting evenings I've spent in an opera house. Don't waste your money on a ticket. If you want to hear the work, buy a decent recording instead.

• Until December 16. Box office: 020-7632 8300.