The Cunning Little Vixen, Royal Opera House, London

A timely debut for a foxy lady

There's a lot of conspicuous recycling in Bill Bryden's environmentally friendly, cleverly emblematic staging of Janacek's The Cunning Little Vixen. Time turns on an outsized bicycle wheel, dwarfing animals and humans alike. The rust tells you that it's been a long time turning. Almost as long as the wait for the American soprano Dawn Upshaw's Covent Garden debut. Quite why that is, I cannot say, though in times past, the Royal Opera has often been slow to take up the rising stars of the day, often missing the boat in the process.

Then again, Upshaw is extremely choosy about what she sings and where and with whom, favouring new work over old, preferring to create something fresh and personal from scratch. All of which begs the question, why choose Vixen – not anyway the showiest of roles – in a production well over a decade old?

The answer is undoubtedly to be found in the simple truths contained at the heart of Janacek's wonderful piece. The text has always interested Upshaw more than the noise it makes. Hers is one of the most distinctive voices in the world today – but that's not to say it's a great or even special voice. No, it's the whole Upshaw package, the delivery, the intensity and engagement that characterises all her work. Here, she was gamely throwing herself into the physicality of the role (movement: the aptly named Stuart Hopps), animating the words, telling the story. She was somewhat defeated by the size of the house, it has to be said (Janacek himself was over-optimistic about word audibility in this piece), but in a single phrase such as, "Can it be that I am lovely?", she could send out tingling lines of communication, drawing us instantly into her confidence. That's a different kind of artistry.

The foxy lady was wooed here by her compatriot, Joyce DiDonato, as the foxy gentleman, a performance of real spirit in a mezzo role written impossibly high; and there was Gerald Finley bringing warmth and authority to "Spring's hymn of love" in the closing scene. But this is essentially an ensemble piece, an intimidating collection of children and animals (and we all know the old Hollywood maxim), wittily characterised by the designer William Dudley. They wear surprisingly well, the dragonfly aviator, magnificent in his flying-machine, the battery-hen dinnerladies, the dancing beer bottles ushering in the tavern in a rolling barrel. The whole show seems to have been recycled from scrap, which is a wonderfully clear metaphor for continuity in nature. Clear, too, are the intricate parallels between man and beast so key to the piece.

Presiding over all of this is the conductor, John Eliot Gardiner, bringing to bear his baroque bounce, his insistence upon keen, viable rhythm to keep the inner workings of Janacek's intricate score alive and kicking. But those deeply affecting kernels of lyricism are given room to breathe, too – none more so than the glorious Act I, scene 2 interlude in which Vixen, captured and chained up by the Gamekeeper, dreams that she is free again. In the production's most inspired coup, Bryden imagines Vixen's other self as a trapeze artist soaring against a night sky. Theatre meets circus. How much more apt can you get in this of all pieces?

To 5 March (020-7304 4000)