WHATEVER reservations there may be about a particular production, it is always satisfying to have English Touring Opera (ETO) back in town. Keen young voices, a crack orchestra and guaranteed production values are always worth the money. A packed house for both evenings proved that York cared.

Blanche McIntyre’s neatly contained new production of The Marriage Of Figaro was sung in a witty paraphrase by Jeremy Sams: the side-titles were rendered superfluous by excellent diction. Musically, there were no weak links in the cast. What the evening ultimately lacked was an edge.

The Count, on whose guilt and gullibility it all hangs, was rather harmless, lacking an air of hereditary superiority and presenting little danger to the womenfolk. Figaro was genial enough but not much of a schemer, and the charming Susanna remained more or less equable throughout, her emotions changing little. Neil Irish’s permanent blue set reflected this relatively settled, period household.

Musical levels were high. Ross Ramgobin was an agile Figaro, vocally and physically, his baritone flowing easily. Rachel Redmond’s pert Susanna was tirelessly fresh-voiced, while Nadine Benjamin’s Countess delivered a beautifully liquid second aria, despite some tightness near the top of her range. Dawid Kimberg’s Count carried vocal, if not visual, authority; similarly, Katherine Aitken’s lively Cherubino was visually inexpressive. Christopher Stark conducted with plenty of momentum, but his orchestra, especially the horns, was on the loud side of comfortable.

ETO celebrated the centenary of Puccini’s Il Trittico with two of its three parts. Il Tabarro (The Cloak) was turned the darkest "noir" by the looming menace of Irish’s metal-plated barge and the selective gloom of Rory Beaton’s lighting. James Conway’s production neatly followed suit, generating tension throughout.

Even the pipe-puffing Michele of Craig Smith, gaunt and resonant, seemed to sense the unease. Sarah-Jane Lewis made gut-wrenching use of her splendid chest tone as Giorgetta, cutting a dominant figure. There was no mistaking the frustration, either, in Charne Rochford’s impetuous Luigi, his tenor ripe with anger. Excellent contrast came from the warm-hearted Frugola of Clarissa Meek, turning her shoplifting to good account. Michael Rosewell’s orchestra coloured Puccini’s mood changes vividly.

Gianni Schicchi, Puccini’s only comedy, made an ideal antidote. What made it doubly amusing was Schicchi himself, played with understated slickness, even nobility, by the experienced Andrew Slater. The knockabout humour in Liam Steel’s production was largely left to the relatives of the unfortunate Buoso, weeping crocodile tears and often moving en bloc in their stereotyped grief. They were distinguished by their whitened faces, in commedia dell’arte style. The search for the will was delightfully anarchic.

Galina Averina’s Lauretta milked every last drop of pathos from O Mio Babbino Caro; her Rinuccio was the sprightly Luciano Botelho. Rosewell again kept the orchestra bubbling nicely. It was a clever touch to have Schicchi’s final message in English.