Macbeth, Glyndebourne, Festival Opera, Sussex Lucia di Lammermoor, Scottish Opera, Glasgow

Dressed in Day-Glo tartan by Ultz, lit with fairground panache by Wolfgang Göbbel, and conducted with demonic intensity by Vladimir Jurowski, Richard Jones's Macbeth is a scream. The witches are three generations from the parts of Scotland seldom seen in tourist-board literature: Govan grannies with stilton-veined cheeks, Sauchiehall suicide-blondes, Craigmillar teenagers with slack post-partum bellies. In Linda Dobell's Act III ballet, they are joined by a skeleton, a mummy, and a werewolf in cowboy boots.

The bloodied cardboard box that stands for Banquo's ghost, the industrial washing machine that Lady Macbeth (Sylvie Valayre) fills with white gloves, the projectile scotch fir that heralds Birnam Wood, the novelty-photograph "666" through which the nonet is sung, and the row of little axes that spring up at the footlights in Macbeth's "Mi si affacia un pugnal" ensure that this is one of the most lively Macbeths to have been seen. More impressive, however, is the way in which the supernatural and super-naturalistic imagery underscores the erosion of Macbeth's sanity, and the corruption of his victims' "Patria oppressa". You don't have to believe in witchcraft to be chilled. But you do need to feel that murder, whether calculated or chaotic, is bad magic.

By previewing the final scene in the overture, Jones makes clear that Macbeth (Andrzej Dobber) is doomed. Moving as though he has spent his whole life in battle, Dobber is, together with Stanislav Shvets (Banquo), a believable soldier. His singing is fascinating: first reserved, then rawly expressive. Valayre's musty spinto may lack plangency but has such concentrated energy that she too is compelling. Peter Auty's lyrical Macduff sweetens the mix, while Luke Owen's non-singing performance as Fleance is magnetic. In the pit, Jurowski conjures exotic colours from the London Philharmonic Orchestra, maintaining detail, character and momentum of a sort only heard when conductor and director are equally committed to one vision. Meanwhile, the chorus sings with dynamism and discipline.

Surprised by a smattering of first-night boos, I wondered whether I'd feel as enthusiastic had this been Handel's Macbeth. While the da capo form has achieved the protected status of a snow tiger, Verdi's rum-ti-tum choruses have acquired a facetious air they did not have in 1847. But the difference between Macbeth and the more razzmatazz opera seria productions I have seen is that Jones does not attempt to distract from any perceived deficiencies in the score. Perhaps those of us who are used to the arterial excesses of the Scream movies are primed to appreciate the absurdity of serial-killers. Perhaps their banal obsessions with signs and numbers and their dull, domestic postmortem chores have become as interesting as their venality. Either way, there's nothing a bibulous Glyndebourne audience likes more than to laugh, and I await Katie Mitchell's St Matthew Passion with trepidation.

I'd like to be kind to Scottish Opera. But gosh, they make it hard. Sans tartan, sans irony, and as grey as the Granite City on a dreary December day, John Doyle's production of Lucia di Lammermoor plays host to more torch-lit processions than the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games. But for the proud singing of the chorus, and a glorious orchestral performance under Julian Smith, I would have left at the first interval.

In the title role, Sally Silver has a sepia-tinted girlishness to her voice that ideally suggests Lucia's fragility but is otherwise what my in-laws would call "a sonsie piece". With subtle flattery from the costume department, and a director who prizes stillness over scenery abuse, she might be able to hoodwink her audience into believing she is the romantic waif of Sir Walter Scott's imagining. Alas, that same girlishness informs her movements in the Mad Scene, where she skips about like a giant pre-schooler dressed up in her mother's nightie, making one fear for the stability of Liz Ashcroft's sombre sets.

Silver is joined in her offensive by Nicholas Ransley (Normanno), who lurks meaningfully, heavy-petting the scenery, and slender love-interest Bülent Bezduz (Edgardo), whom Silver regards with the excited expression of a hungry spaniel presented with a bacon sandwich. All three are outhammed by Andrew Schroeder (Enrico), who snarls majestically when not waving his hands in the manner of someone who has accidentally stuck his fingers in the cat-litter while searching for his glasses. There is much dramatic swirling of cloaks: from Schroeder, Silver, Bezduz, and, eventually, a synchronised swirl from the entire chorus. As the lady next to me observed, looking out over the bloodied corpses on stage, the music "leaves you with a smile on your face". So, in quite the wrong way, does the acting.

a.picard@independent.co.uk

'Macbeth', Glyndebourne Festival Opera (01273 813813) to 21 July; 'Lucia di Lammermoor', Theatre Royal, Glasgow (0870 060 6647) to 31 May