THE first complete staging of Covent Garden's new Ring cycle is a statement of profound musical passion and integrity. Bernard Haitink's wholly committed reading of seamless tapestry, and the entire production is cast from almost impregnable strength.

John Tomlinson is now a Wotan of immense and subtle vocal resource, while Deborah Polaski's Brunnhilde is a breathtaking achievement of sustained power and bright, true tone. Siegfried Jerusalum still brings plenty of youthful vigour to Siegfried's music, and there is a formidable, low-keyed Hagen from Kurt Rydl.

Though Poul Elming and Ulta Gustafsson seemed over-stretched on their opening night, their studies of Siegmund and Sieglinde are; basically sound, and there are consistently fine performances from Ekkehard Wlashiha and Graham Clark as Alberich and Mime: from Alan Held and Vivian Tierney as Gunther and Gutrune, and from Philip Langridge and Ann Murray - both new to their roles at Covent Garden - a Loge of memorable, laconic cynicism, and a Waltraute of intense, strong singing.

The stage production, however, remains gravely at odds with this magnificent musical accomplishment, for while it is now fashionable to deride the gods, Richard Jones's concept of them as mere feeble-minded idiots makes it difficult to believe that they could work any mischief, let along wreak havoc on the world. The immortals pile into a Portakabin while Siegfried and Hunding fight: paper bags over the heads indicate, the subjugation of the Nibelungs and Brunnhilde: there is much playing with dolls, and always a constant and comic striving for effect. The knockabout clowning between Siegfried and Mime is in fact very funny but it deprives the forging of the sword, of its inherent grandeur, while it is surely the height of cruelty to have Brunnhilde survive the final holocaust represented by the spectacular collapse of a tall wall of cardboard boxes and trudge wearily back to her rock as the curtain falls.