A Night at the Opera:Luisa Miller.

A clown faced, bright red haired, besuited (with red tie, perhaps, a nod to America's chief clown, Donald Trump) figure attached to a cross hangs upside down from the rotating frame of a house while strange little men dressed in black perforate his torso like a pinata gone hideously wrong.

Am I viewing a Chapman Brothers diorama? Taking in some of Goya's Disasters of War (which, infamously, the Chapmans later defaced)? Could I be watching a 1980s style video nasty like Driller Killer or Cannibal Holocaust? No. I'm at the opera. Watching Giuseppe Verdi's 1849 Luisa Miller, and if I'm not quite as confused as I thought I'd be (I've been to the opera twice before and both times I left fairly baffled) then I'm still a little perplexed as to what exactly is going on.

I shouldn't be because the ENO (English National Opera) perform their operas in English and there's even a screen, high up (like me) in the Coliseum, with surtitles for those who can't decipher some of the very high, and very low, registers. I also shouldn't be confused because with opera if something's happening the cast tell you what that is. Often very very slowly, hugely overdramatically, and repeatedly.

It can get, whisper it, a little boring. If you're watching a film and someone is sad or in love they act sad or act as if they're in love. If you're at the opera somebody sings "I AM SO VERY SAD" or "I AM SO VERY MUCH IN LOVE" at the top of their voice. You could never accuse opera performers of holding back on their emotions.

Luisa Miller, not one of Verdi's most famed it should be said, tells the story of star crossed lovers in the Tyrol. Luisa (played, in this production, by Elizabeth Llewellyn) and Carlo (David Junghoon Kim) are professing their love in a way only the young and naive can, "I saw him and my heart felt its first thrill of love", with balloons, hearts, and pronouncements of a bond so strong that it will survive death.

It's an opera so, predictably, those assertions and promises will be severely tested. Carlo is really Rodolfo and his father Count Walter (James Cresswell) is the cruel master of Luisa's dad, named simply Miller (Olafur Sigurdarson). Rodolfo has lied to Luisa, Miller defends his daughter's honour by sword, and Count Walter vows deadly revenge on Miller. All aided by the shit stirring Wurm (Soloman Howard), an aide of Walter whose voice is so deep that it'll make your bum vibrate.

The twists and turns of the lives of the young lovers are always forced upon them by familial loyalties, the vanities of the elder men, and the machinations of Wurm. How it ends I shall not tell you but it's safe to say blood will be spilt, poison will be consumed, and hearts will be, almost continuously, broken.

As well as pinatas being stabbed, huge crowds prancing around with balloons, and one or two scenes that came very close to moving me. Yes. I nearly, nearly, cared what happened to some of the characters and that, for me, is where opera fails. Despite being astounded by the sheer technical brilliance of the production, awed by the architecture of the Coliseum, and flabbergasted by performers whose voices could fill the large space with such ease I remained, mostly, unmoved.

Films move me, television moves me, art moves me, theatre moves me, and music moves me most of all. Opera pulls together at least three of these strands but yet I always feel the experience to be more of an 'improving' or 'edifying' one than one that speaks deeply to my soul. Maybe it's just me. Others there were in rapt applause at any given opportunity (though one guy appeared to be reading a book at the same time as watching the show) whereas my claps felt, if not purely perfunctory, polite.

I'd only paid £10 for a ticket and the view I had, although ever so slightly restricted, was still good. The music was enjoyable, the singing was technically impressive, and the story made sense but when I went home and watched a documentary about Eric Burdon from The Animals (not even a band I've ever thought much about) it spoke to me in a much more direct, and meaningful, way.

I joked before I attended the opera that I was cementing my position in the metropolitan elite by going but, to be honest, I think it just confirmed that that's an elite I don't really belong in despite the bullshit claims of populist politicians who are far richer than I will ever be.

Luisa Miller told a tender story of young love and attempts to thwart young love. It would be impossible to remain completely unmoved by such a romantic tale but I couldn't help thinking it really didn't need to be over two and half hours long. Maybe I'm a philistine but I'm still a philistine who goes to the opera and drinks red wine. Not all is lost.