From the moment the timpani tap out their sinister little tattoo in the overture, you know things will go badly for Katya Kabanova. Those eight faint heartbeats, ever more insistent as Janacek's opera progresses, seal her fate.

In Trevor Nunn's 1994 production (revived by Andrew Sinclair), Maria Bjornson's single set vividly represents the emotional whirlpool that sucks Katya to her death. Despite moments of quaint pictorialism, the staging delivers a sense of a community engulfed as archaic superstition gives way to indifferent modernity: the opera premiered in 1921 but is set in 1860s Russia.

No conductor knows Janacek better than Charles Mackerras, and, at 81, he rides the waves of the orchestral storm like a surfer. His account is muscular, flexible, sometimes savage, yet there is also tenderness, a willingness to take time. He is blessed with a fine cast, all apparently at home with the Czech language.

The women are stronger than the men, which is how Janacek saw things. As Katya's sister-in-law Varvara, Linda Tuvås has the right degree of flighty innocence, the perfect counterpoint to Felicity Palmer's Kabanicha, Katya's mother-in-law from hell. Palmer never descends into caricature, so her tight-lipped venom is all the more terrifying, every note wrenched from somewhere dark and cavernous.

Then there is Janice Watson's superb Katya. Occasional traces of raw timbre suit the role: this Katya has backbone as well as sweet innocence. As she tries to fantasise her way out of a brutal marriage, every broken hope registers in her voice and face. In a remarkable opera, hers is a remarkable performance.

• Until 5 July (020 7304 4000).