Parsifal, Royal Opera House, London

I'm ready for my twin set and pearls now

Last month, during the interval of a performance at the Coliseum, I realised I had accidentally become a member of the Establishment. The exact point of entry is clear: I was twirling a glass of Chardonnay when a senior political commentator to whom I just had been introduced suggested I write a piece about how dreadful Wagner is. I looked around at the foyer full of industry and political types and realised the awful truth. "Actually," I murmured, reddening slightly as I stuck my chewing gum behind my ear, "I think I'm coming round to Wagner."

This was before I sat through the Royal Opera House's nearly-new production of Wagner's last opera, Parsifal. Over the course of the past one hundred and twenty years, Parsifal has gone from being an opera about the Holy Grail to being the Holy Grail of opera, and in many ways it perfectly sums up the difficulties I have with all of Wagner's operas; firstly, that it brings out the best and worst in everyone it touches; secondly, that however beautiful the score might be, the libretto is tosh.

Setting aside the absurdity of a piece that purports to be about self-abnegation – ie not having sex with a variety of beautiful, interesting and willing women – while involving a depth of navel-gazing that only a true egomaniac could devise, it's tempting to mock Parsifal's effect on its core audience. The usual contingent of rapt, heavy-breathing pilgrims was out in force, but I will forfend from questioning how many propositions they are likely to have turned down themselves. Indeed I think we could all learn something from them. You see, true Wagnerites – as opposed to those who slaver over the singers whose careers are solely associated with his music – tend to shut their eyes while listening. Blind faith? Perhaps not. Having kept my eyes wide open throughout, I can safely say that the pilgrims' way is the best method of enjoying this production. If Parsifal has brought out the best in Violeta Urmana (Kundry), Thomas Hampson (Amfortas), Willard White (Klingsor), the knights, the flower maidens and Sir Simon Rattle, it has brought out the worst in director Klaus Michael Grüber, whose nutty 1990 Amsterdam staging has been recycled here.

It takes a lot of directorial daftness to distract from musicianship of this calibre but Grüber has managed it. Act I starts cleanly enough with a forest of telegraph pole rectitude and some intriguing revolves, but any intensity achieved through the beautifully static interior compositions is thrown away once Act II begins. Poor Willard White! As if singing in a crushed velvet dressing-gown and P Diddy's jewellery collection weren't enough, he is forced to duck under floating splots of mouse-mat Matisse and a stuffed and mounted giant fish (a reference, I assume, to Klingsor's self-castration). What with this and the Play-Doh ramparts, you can see how the erotic charge between Kundry and Parsifal (a turkey-necked and turkey-voiced Stig Andersen) might fail to ignite. Add in Act III's Fuzzy-Felt snow, the wheeled crutch of Amfortas, the prone flower maidens (just lying down doesn't count as a chat-up line in my book), and the legions of armoured knights in the sanctuary (oh, come on) and I suppose we should be grateful that Klingsor's fish didn't sing Take me to the River like Big Mouth Billy Bass.

It's a shame that Urmana and Hampson in particular were subjected to this toy store nonsense. Both performances had a revelatory vulnerability. Having heard Urmana's Kundry, I want no one else's. And though John Tomlinson cruised sulkily through Gurnemanz and Andersen's acting matched that of the fish, this is a superb cast under a conductor whose lack of histrionics and sense of translucency and proportion can persuade even the most sceptical listener. How can you rebel against a performance of such ravishing calm? You can't. Which is why I still can't bring myself to write that piece about how dreadful Wagner is, and why I might just have to go out and buy a twin set and pearls.

a.picard@independent.co.uk

'Parsifal', Royal Opera House, London, WC1 (020 7304 4000) to 22 Dec.