Don Pasquale, Royal Opera House, London <br></br> Academy of Ancient Music, St John's Smith Square, London <br></br> WDR Symphony Orchestra/ Bychkov, Royal Festival Hall, London

Miller? He gives me a great big pain in the neck

Ten days before the Covent Garden premiere of his 2001 Maggio Musicale production of Don Pasquale, Jonathan Miller announced that this would be his last production in this country. Why? Because the British opera companies consider him "too old and feeble minded" to direct operas fit for modern audiences. Speaking on Radio 3 last week, the orotund polymath repeated his allegation. "I'm pissed off," he added, "because I'm doing some of my finest work now."

In terms of Miller's non-operatic output, it is hard to disagree. A Brief History of Disbelief, his BBC 4 series on atheism, was so timely and provocative that I'm saving the tapes to show the next person who rings my doorbell on a mission to save my soul. When it comes to opera, however, I'm not so sure. In foreign climes, the good doctor's sunset years may indeed be his most brilliant. Back home, Tamerlano (Sadler's Wells, 2002) and L'Orfeo (Queen Elizabeth Hall, 2003) would indicate otherwise. But what of Don Pasquale?

The applause for Miller's first night curtain call was exceedingly warm. But why wouldn't it be? To the majority of British opera lovers, his most celebrated productions remain the mafioso Rigoletto, the monochrome Mikado, the fin-de-siecle Rosenkavalier, and the Armani Cosí: a handsome backlist of wittily detailed productions that are easy on the eye and wear their intellect lightly. Don Pasquale follows this model. The big idea? A giant doll's house. The unexpected era? The 18th century. (Unusually for a 19th-century composer, Donizetti insisted on contemporary dress.) The post-modern detail? Carrier bags from Gucci and Prada. The designer label? See above.

Isabella Bywater's three-storey set is pretty. Much of what happens inside it is deftly choreographed and relatively uninhibited by the acoustic handicap, though Act III's garden scene, which takes place in front of the doll's house, has significantly greater auditory clarity. But aside from Miller's odd decision to show a pinkly post-coital Norina (Tatiana Lisnic) emerge from a pre-marital romp with Ernesto (Juan Diego Florez) in the first scene, the most revolutionary aspect to this over-populated production is its cruelty to those in the stalls. Extras notwithstanding (there is a lot of below-stairs business with teapots), most of the action takes place on the piano nobile and the surtitles have been raised accordingly. Anyone considering a ticket should plump for the circle or find a good chiropractor.

Somewhat ironically, Donizetti's comedy is as ageist as Miller claims the British opera houses to be. Which might explain why Simone Alaimo's impersonation of the hapless Don is so sympathetically drawn. If the moral is coarse - pensionable bridegrooms are fools - Alaimo's characterisation is not. Bathos and pathos merge, sometimes in a single line. And though conductor Bruno Campanella drew some surprisingly scruffy sounds from the orchestra, I was left with the impression of a subtle composer frustrated by the operatic conventions of his time. Donizetti's famously demanding vocal lines are actually the least interesting aspect of the score, but bel canto fanatics are unlikely to be disappointed by Florez's liquid vocal charm (despite the Ginger Rogers wig) or Lisnic's spirited coloratura. Alessandro Corbelli's nasal Malatesta is a different matter. The moment when Norina bitch-slaps Don Pasquale is properly shocking - perhaps all the more so for the chocolate box frippery surrounding it. But Donizetti's instinct was right: Norina's gold-digging, bride-from-hell alter-ego is an eternally contemporary archetype. And I wonder how many unhappily married men with much younger, shopaholic wives will experience an epiphany while watching Don Pasquale. If I was Ernesto, I'd run for my life. Or a decent haircut, at the very least.

Donizetti's interminable sequence of V-I cadences stuck in my head for several days after Don Pasquale. I tried shaking it. I tried slapping it. But people began to stare, so I stopped. Now, I've nothing against the perfect cadence per se. But V-I, V-I, V-I, V-I ad infinitum is classical music's answer to The Birdy Song. Listen to it once and it's with you forever. Hence it was with some trepidation that I pitched up to the Academy of Ancient Music's programme of Biber, Vivaldi and, yes, Maxwell Davies.

When eight natural trumpets are gathered together, you can bet your bottom dollar that there will be several hundred V-I cadences. Like bel canto, one suspects that the thrill of listening to people attempt the physically impossible takes precedence over musical invention in this repertoire. Trumpeters David Blackadder and Philip Bainbridge coped manfully with Biber's vertiginous divisions and Maxwell Davies's Telos 135 (a chromatic car-alarm in four movements). But I have to say that their backing band, most of whom play principal trumpet for other baroque bands, were more interesting. More interesting still were AAM's strings. From the audacious concitato of Biber's Battaglia to the frigid dissonance of Vivaldi's L'inverno, they offered a succulent transparency of sound. Pavlo Beznosiuk's direction was dramatic and intelligent, the playing of the strings - most especially the marinaded meatiness of the viola section - dynamic. In a country whose baroque orchestras are seemingly interchangeable, AAM have a distinct and very special sonority.

Finally, a brief tribute to Semyon Bychkov and the WDR Symphony Orchestra of Cologne. Regular readers will know my regard for Bychkov's musicianship. Those who are new to this column should grab the next opportunity to hear him conduct. Now in their sixth year under Bychkov, the WDRSO play with absolute commitment. I don't believe I've seen another orchestra take such pleasure in the role of accompanist - to Sayaka Shoji's dark, focused account of Bruch's First Violin Concerto - or show such confidence in their conductor's vision. The first muted section of the invasion theme in Shostakovich's Leningrad Symphony was so chillingly precise that one almost regretted the subsequent climax. A stunning performance, and one that more than merited the whistles and cheers at its conclusion.

a.picard@independent.co.uk

'Don Pasquale': Royal Opera House, London WC2 (020 7304 4000), to 17 Dec