This documentary, made for television in 1995, is subtitled ‘A Self-Portrait’, so one assumes that Schwarzkopf herself had at least some say in which items were chosen. Towards the end of the sequence, she explains that now she prefers to be heard and not seen, so although there are many clips from films and television programmes from the late 1930s through to the ’80s, the ‘present’ is evoked by her voice on the soundtrack, and some discreet shots of flowers in her garden. ‘Addio del passato’ from La traviata is the first thing one hears, the mood is established, nostalgia mixed with the characteristic Schwarzkopf no-nonsense professionalism.

Even now film-makers have yet to find a really convincing way of showing singers in action that doesn’t sometimes render them overwhelming on the screen. Since she made only one film of a complete opera (the famous Salzburg Der Rosenkavalier), it’s interesting to see some early television extracts, showing her as the Countess in Figaro, Donna Elvira in Don Giovanni and the Marschallin. One is conscious of the attempt to match the lips to the soundtrack, and of Schwarzkopf’s attempts to scale down her facial gestures for the close-ups. She wasn’t a film star, though, but a real creature of the theatre. About 20 minutes into the film there came a moment that made me sit up and brought a thrill of recognition: ‘Yes – that’s what she was like.’ She is accompanied by Gerald Moore in a black and white live broadcast from, I would guess, around 1960, singing one of her folksong encores about the girl who has three loves. There is the communication, the charm, the beauty – the mixture of reticence and individuality that made every Schwarzkopf recital an extraordinary event.

Throughout the film, she discusses the difficulties of the singer’s life: ‘You have to do it when you have the voice, not later’. There are brief extracts showing Schwarzkopf in rehearsal with Aldo Ciccolini for a recital in Versailles, some light-hearted arguments with her husband, Walter Legge, and a lovely moment with Willi Boskovsky, playing violin obbligato for ‘Wien, Wien’. At the very end she accompanies herself on guitar in that sometimes parodied Swiss folksong Gsätzli. The most extraordinary extract is from Werner Hochbaum’s film Drei Unteroffiziere, which starred Peter Anders, and in which Schwarzkopf appeared briefly as Carmen.

The accompanying booklet with the DVD has part of an essay by John Steane, but printed in minute type, blue on blue, so it is almost illegible. Nowhere on the menu could I find details of what the music is, or where it was recorded. While I could identify all but one of the songs (the above-mentioned extract with Gerald Moore), this isn’t very helpful.

Nevertheless, don’t be put off. Schwarzkopf’s last concerts were over 23 years ago, so those born later may catch a glimpse here of what made her so unique. As she explains, she wasn’t worrying about the audience, she was trying to give each song as perfectly as she could, ‘at that moment’.