You know there’s something a bit rum about a performance of Onegin when the most vivid characters on stage are Tatyana’s mum and the fop who sings the birthday ode in Act II. All credit to two evergreen stalwarts, Marie McLaughlin and Adrian Thompson, for that, at least.

But is there some manic medic lurking in the Glyndebourne shrubbery who leaps out and inflicts passion-bypass surgery on its leading singers? Looking at the names of this cast and conductor, you expect a night of searing Slavic intensity. Instead, all is limpid and languid. Much is also very beautiful. But does it tug the heartstrings? Is it true to Tchaikovsky? Not in my book.

Graham Vick’s 1994 production – pastel in shade and mood – is partly the reason. There’s clearly an acute theatrical intelligence at work. That’s evident in the way Tatyana’s rejection of Onegin is made to mirror exactly his earlier rejection of her; and the splendidly caricatured St Petersburg dilettantes; and the minutely observed bustle (and authentic dance steps) of the party scene; and the daring of placing the duel offstage. But this sparse, symbolic staging needs filling with believable flesh-and-blood creations. That’s what this young cast don’t supply.

Maija Kovalevska’s Tatyana is gloriously sung, the tone lustrous from top to toe. But her acting is mechanical. Never did she suggest any awakening of sexuality in the Letter Scene. Ales Jenis’s Onegin barely registers as a personality. He’s self-effacing when he should be having a blazing row with Lensky, and unable to muster sufficient vocal fire to make his final distress sound like more than a passing tantrum.

I liked the musical way that Massimo Giordano phrased Lensky’s arias, but his basic tone is oddly snuffly. And Maria Gortsevskaya’s Olga is little more than a blonde doll.

They aren’t helped by Vladimir Jurowski’s cool approach. Nothing this conductor does is uninteresting, and here the London Philharmonic produces some admirably delineated textures (though its strings don’t dig deeply enough, and its first oboe needs a much richer sound). But his interpretation is too measured, too intellectualised. Some pauses and pull-ups verge on the mannered.

And the chorus doesn’t produce anything like enough Russianate weight in the big ensembles. Perhaps they need a few square meals of borscht and vodka.

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