At the beginning of the National Theatre's production for young audiences, the young audience was asked to write down their associations with such words as "queen'' and "opera''. "We have associations with everything, and we can't help that,'' explained one of the friendly actors. "That's part of being human.'' Next, another nice man divided the audience into sections and gave each a line, such as "It's selfishness that keeps a man alive'', to shout in turn or together. One voice's unauthorised solo went unheard: "So this is why it lasts three hours.''

Produced by NT Education, this Threepenny Opera is part of a mission to develop "aesthetic appreciation, creativity, communication skills and self-esteem", but seems a poor choice for addressing the first aim. Not only the sickeningly patronising prologue, but direction so feeble it must have been phoned in on a very bad line make the show long and limp. Tim Baker's cast of nine has no performer who exhibits the crackling energy, sensuality, earthy humour, or casually lethal chill without which there is no point in staging this classic of venality.

The only unusual point is the awesomely terrible idea of having the performers play musical instruments. This may seem brilliant to the accounting department, but it means that the actress who plays sweet Polly Peachum, and whose range has only three settings (sulk, squawk, air-raid siren), is even more unconvincing when she picks up a slide trombone.

Nor can the aesthetically inclined concentrate on the words and music. A new book, by Anthony Meech, that sets the story of East End crime and passion in the present, is as devoid of wit as it is crammed with tin-eared coarseness. "You cost us the same as a battleship,'' Mrs Peachum scolds Polly, "and you throw yourself away like a piece of shit!'' The lovemaking scenes are unenthusiastic, and the quarrels of the criminals mere sour, enervated wrangling. Kurt Weill's beautiful melodies, which should either grind away powerfully with the play's nihilism or offer a poignant contrast of hopeless longing, are diminished by weak playing and shrill, hollow voices.

Jeremy Sams's new lyrics are amusingly harsh in the vicious Army song ("We'll help the foreigner/ To meet the coroner./ Brown or black or khaki,/ A darkie is still a darkie") and the spat between Polly and her rival, Lucy (the latter sings, of Polly's legs: "I reckon half the town has seen them,/ And the other half has been between them"). But elsewhere his rewrite of the Brecht lyrics only highlights the superiority of the originals. The great "Mack the Knife" is now, instead of subtle and sinister, as blunt as a knife shouldn't be ("He's a sadist, he's a rapist"); at times it doesn't even scan.

One young listener had anticipated the flavour of his educational experience. His association with "queen'', we were told, was "up shit creek'', showing a skill in communication well up to the level of the creators of this show.

To 23 Nov (0208-692 4446), then touring