Sukanya, Royal Festival Hall, London, review: This is clearly still a work in progress, with much to be done before it can take off as it deserves to

Ravi Shankar, who died aged 92 in 2012, casts a very long shadow. It’s hard to remember today just how revolutionary was the LP that he released with Yehudi Menuhin in 1967, West Meets East. This was the first time leading classical musicians from different cultures had collaborated on an equal footing. Ravi went on to compose three concertos for sitar and orchestra plus a symphony, but Sukanya – the opera which he left unfinished, and which the British violinist-conductor David Murphy, with help from his wife Sukanya and daughter Anoushka, has now heroically completed – reflects his boldest stroke of all.

It germinated in 1995 when Ravi’s mother-in-law came to stay, and it hinged on the fact that her daughter Sukanya – Ravi’s wife – was three decades younger than him. Her mother commented that she had named her daughter right, and when Ravi asked why, she replied that their situation was like that of a story in the ancient Sanskrit Mahabharata epic. Since he didn’t know the story, he was told it: a young princess named Sukanya marries an older man, who is a sage; twin demi-gods try to tempt her away from her new husband by making themselves identical to him; the gods ask Sukanya to choose the one who is her real husband, and she chooses correctly. Thus was the idea of the opera born in Ravi’s mind.

Presented jointly by the London Philharmonic Orchestra, the Royal Opera House and Leicester Curve, directed by Suba Das and featuring baritone Keel Watson, the BBC Singers, and the Aakash Odedra Company, the result is a meld of music, dance and theatre which in many ways works well. There’s a formidable array of talent on stage, from brilliant solo Indian instrumentalists, to top-flight Indian dancers, to konnakol singers who purvey an energising kind of Indian scat, to a group of opera singers – led with shining conviction by Susanna Hurrell in the title role – who negotiate the gulf between Western and Eastern scales as though nothing could be more natural.

But this is clearly still a work in progress, with much to be done before it can take off as it deserves to. The libretto, which is by turns risible, tasteless and leaden, should be junked forthwith. Equally problematic is the weakness of the dramatic pulse, and the clumsiness of the autobiographical elements. But the most important element in any opera is the musical sound-world, and David Murphy’s orchestration scores top marks: it’s a triumphantly felicitous success. This alone should persuade the producers that it’s worth going back to the drawing board.