The Nose (ROH, 1 November)

A headache. A lot of my excitement about twentieth-century opera comes from Alex Ross' book; and in theory this is the sort of thing I really like. And I'm absolutely, absolutely convinced that this was performed to within an inch of its life. But, again: a headache. I'm not entirely sure how you write satire in the early years of a totalitarian state, as Russia of the 1930s was. I mean A for effort, really. But this was all one anxious, clenched satirical muscle without anything to sort of hurl itself against, accompanied by music that gave me an actual near panic attack. (Career-related, incidentally.) Some of the images will stick with me for a while, particularly the ring of noses on legs. But this was the sort of thing I find I appreciate more than like; and this turned out to be the wrong night for appreciating things.