Macbeth, Royal Opera House, London<br></br>Zaide, St John's Smith Square, London<br></br>The Queen of Spades, Royal Opera House, London

As Shakespearean operatic adaptations go, Verdi's Macbeth is no Falstaff or Otello.

Even in his 1865 Paris revision, Verdi had yet to develop the skill to translate and reinvent the complex cadences of Shakespeare's characterisations without losing crucial subtleties. But though Macbeth the opera is perhaps still best enjoyed by those who have not seen Macbeth the play (those who have will be annoyed by the cartoonish idiom and puzzled by the massed chorus of witches), Phyllida Lloyd's long delayed Covent Garden production does much to restore a psychological subtext to this drama-turned-melodrama.

Lloyd's production has taken five years to reach the stage of the Royal Opera House. Was it worth the wait? Most certainly, but you'll need a strong stomach. Facing the most obvious of the opera's problems head on, she makes Verdi's super-coven omnipresent; an untouchable but integral sect in a rigid and fearful feudal society. It's a radical gesture – highlighting the cultish formality of Tre volta miagola, displaying a passionate physicality otherwise restricted to the extremely graphic (male) acts of violence, and ingeniously revealing the fracture at the heart of the Macbeths' frustrated union – but one that binds the sensibilities of three eras: Shakespeare's, Verdi's and our own.

With one glaring exception, Lloyd's is a superb and cohesive cast too, outshone only by the chorus's moving performance in Patria oppressa. In the title role, Anthony Michaels-Moore captures the irresolvable regret at the centre of Lloyd's argument. His lean legato cuts through the textures like a warm knife through butter, his top notes burning like a brazier. More significantly, his vulnerability surprises; adding suspense to the inevitable, brutal tragedy. Alistair Miles (Banquo), Peter Auty (Malcolm), and, in particular, Will Hartmann (Macduff), all support beautifully, which, of the major players, leaves only Maria Guleghina's eye-rolling, ear-splitting Lady Macbeth. Sadly, acting is not Guleghina's forte – though everything else certainly is.

Despite Guleghina's headache-inducing fortississimo and some abrupt tempi from conductor Simone Young, I wouldn't hesitate to recommend this production. The designs (Anthony Ward) and lighting (Paule Constable) are excellent; incorporating samurai tunics, Tuareg head-dresses, Frieda Kahlo-esque monobrows, Janissary emblems, Hermetic gilding, sliding galvanised rubber, and a caged throne room fit for Hannibal Lecter.

Lloyd's Macbeth seems to have everything: splendour, sadness, imagination, intelligence, daring and a great deal of gore. This is a first-rate account of a second-rate opera.

Which could also be said of Freiburg Baroque's deliciously characterised concert performance of Mozart's Zaide at the Lufthansa Festival. Among a lively stylish cast, last-minute stand-in Veronica Cangemi was a radiant lead. Rufus Müller's creamily virile tenor cut a swathe through Soliman's bravura arias and coaxed the Chief Slave's peasant pleasantries into a state of near-elegance, while Tomas Tomasson got the last laugh in his cleverly executed comic aria. Putting aside the thought that this was an odd programme for an orchestra who play magnificently without direction, it was a lovely evening. But not all the gut strings in Freiburg can persuade me that this fragmentary singspiel stands a repeat hearing without sets, costumes and a new book.

Back at Covent Garden for the revival of Francesca Zambello's production of The Queen of Spades, Hollywood's peculiar tradition of casting its senior leading men opposite actresses young enough to be their daughters (or, in the case of Harrison Ford, girlfriends) sprang to mind.

OK, I realise that opera's lack of realism is acceptable to many music-lovers and that substantial non-romantic tenor roles are something of a rarity. But is it not stretching the suspension of disbelief just a tad too far to have Plàcido Domingo (b. 1941) recoil in sexual disgust from the "elderly" Josephine Barstow (b. 1940), before slowly deflating on top of the lissom Susan Chilcott (b. 1964) like a carnivorous silk parachute? Gherman is a young man's role, calling for a young man's ardour, a young man's physique, and – crucially – a young man's tonal quality.

This cast could be sponsored by L'Oréal for the amount of slap involved in persuading their audience that the age gap that does not exisit between Domingo and Barstow exists and that the age gap that does exist between Domingo and Chilcott does not. Barstow, who has been playing old ladies since the Eighties, is utterly convincing as the ruined, ruinous Countess – giving a chilling pianissimo account of the Grétry melody – but Gherman's obsessive pursuit of her secret – and of her ward – comes across as a (late) mid-life crisis. Domingo is still a great musician but his top notes are poised and effortful rather than spontaneous, his behaviour unconvincing.

Chilcott's youthful Liza – passionately sung, coolly acted – therefore has nowhere to go, making her rejection of Prince Yeletsky (an elegant Thomas Allen) almost random.

Unfortunately this lack of engagement is echoed in the pit. Valery Gergiev, who grapples with the innards of Tchaikovsky's fey, glutinous score like a vet delivering a breech-presented calf, pulls extraordinary timbres from the orchestra but fails to maintain order in the ensembles. Like most operas, The Queen of Spades depends on chemistry and conviction. In this cast of superstars both are lacking.

a.picard@independent.co.uk

'Macbeth': Royal Opera House, London WC2 (020 7304 4000), to 5 July; 'The Queen of Spades': ROH, to Sat