For the audience watching, however well disposed - and I suspect we all were - this brave optimism was not enough to make good theatre. The beauty of Stravinsky's 1918 original, a tight, nervy, ice-cold piece for seven instruments and narrator, is its economy. By at once shaving and adding, melding and expanding, here it has grown diffuse and confused. Verbosity replaces rigour and the familiar story is almost lost in the telling.